Reckless Girls(9)

Lux has been sleepwalking ever since—working to pay the rent on a run-down apartment she shares with three other girls, and thinking only as far ahead as the next week, sometimes just the next day.

But as she stares at Nico’s drawings, something in her seems to wake up.

“How long would that take?” she asks, and he shrugs.

“To Hawaii? Three weeks, could be a little longer, little shorter. Depends on a lot of things.”

“You’re going alone?”

Lux tries to imagine how it would feel to be in the middle of all that water, all on her own, the only thing between her and death a fiberglass hull and her own skills. It seems terrifying, but also … exhilarating?

“I guess that depends on a lot of things, too,” Nico replies, smiling up at her, and Lux’s heart does a neat flip in her chest.

The rest of the evening goes by in a haze. She has other tables, but she’s constantly aware of Nico, her eyes repeatedly drawn to his dim corner of the restaurant. When her shift ends and he’s still there, waiting for her, it’s like the sun coming out.

It’s like her entire life is suddenly starting over again.





NOW





FIVE





“Wait, so you don’t actually like boats?”

Brittany and I are in the canned-goods aisle at Foodland, stocking up on supplies. The repairs on the Susannah are nearly finished, and we leave as soon as possible—hence the shopping trip. Amma had decided to stay at the marina, wrinkling her nose at the suggestion of going to the store.

I wonder if something as mundane as grocery shopping doesn’t fit into Amma’s idea of what an adventure should be. I get it, but since I also like not starving, I’m happy to fill the cart with non-perishables—like soup, canned vegetables, nuts and crackers, plus plenty of Hawaii’s beloved Spam. And water. Nico has a purification system on the boat, but we’re still taking gallons, big plastic jugs full that will rest in the boat’s small hold. It’s a three-day sail to Meroe, then they want to spend two weeks on the atoll—Nico had convinced them that after being at sea for seventy-two hours, they’d want a little more time on land before turning around and doing it all over again.

And that’s if everything goes to plan—which, as Nico has reminded me several times, nothing ever does.

So, I grab more soup.

“It’s not that I dislike boats,” I tell Brittany now. “It’s just that they’re Nico’s thing.”

She nods, leaning over the handle of the cart. Her hair is loose today, sweeping her shoulders as she peers down at our haul. “Okay, so what is your thing?” she asks, glancing up at me.

The PA system is playing a Muzak version of “The Greatest Love of All,” and my hairline prickles with sweat as I make a show of studying the cans some more, like I’m suddenly really invested in picking out the right brand of chickpeas.

The million-dollar question, right there. What is my thing?

The truth is, when your world is falling apart, you stop having “a thing.” You get so focused on just making it through each day that “interests” or “ambitions” kind of go out the window. You definitely don’t have time for passions. Getting to nurture a love like Nico has for boats and the sea is an indulgence I haven’t had time for in years. Before Mom got sick, I’d had all kinds of interests: I ran track when I was in high school, I played guitar when I was a little kid, and I’ve always loved reading—from the classics they make you read in school to those true-crime paperbacks with the really lurid covers. I’d decided to major in English, but I picked up a guitar again in college and was thinking about switching to music education when Mom called to tell me about that doctor’s appointment.

Sometimes, I still think about that other Lux, the one who didn’t get her world upended. The one who might be sitting in some music room right now, surrounded by little kids, teaching them scales. It’s a pretty picture, but something about it never sits right with me—I can’t even imagine being that person, not really.

“Travel,” I finally settle on because saying something like “freedom” is too cheesy to bear and “survival” is too honest, too sad.

“What’s your favorite place that you’ve been so far?” As she pushes the cart down the aisle, one wheel squeaks loudly.

“Well, I haven’t been that many places yet,” I say with a shrug, my cheeks hot. Now Brittany is going to realize just how pathetic my life is, and I’ll go from being Nico’s cool girlfriend to some loser chick tagging along while her boyfriend does the cool shit. “To be honest, I’ve mostly just read a lot of travel guides.”

I’d actually collected them for a while, a hobby I’d developed in middle school and carried on into adulthood. My bookshelf—back when I still had one of those—had been full of them, their neat white spines lined up, bold place names in bright colors. Australia. Istanbul. Romania. Thailand.

That last one had been a gift from my mom her last Christmas. It was the only one I still had.

Brittany smiles. “Yeah, that was me before.”

I glance back at her, eyebrows raised. “Before what?”

She blinks, then shakes her head a little. “Before I met Amma.”