Shipped(16)

“Dwight started as a patient. Now he is friend. Only friend,” says Nikolai. I’m not sure if he means their relationship is strictly platonic or if Dwight is literally his one and only friend.

“So… buddy vacation?” Walsh asks.

Nikolai shrugs. “This was supposed to be my honeymoon. But, wedding didn’t happen. I bring Dwight instead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “About your wedding, I mean. It’s nice you brought a friend.” Poor guy. Ending an engagement then going on your honeymoon with another dude instead of your wife? Rough.

“Is okay. I, how do you say, dodged a bullet? My girlfriend, she was too demanding. I called off wedding before making big mistake. Now I am here and free as a bird of paradise.”

Dwight opens his mouth, but swallows whatever he was going to say with an exasperated shake of his head.

Pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead, Nikolai twists to face me more fully. The intense way he studies my face has me squirming in my seat. “Do you have boyfriend?” he finally asks.

I hoist a tight smile on my face. “Not at the moment.”

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

I suppress a groan. This guy seems nice enough, but the last thing I need is to be dealing with unwanted attention from an amorous guest. “Um, dinner is on the ship. So, we’re all having dinner together…”

“I mean sit with me. And Dwight,” he adds with a wave. “I would like to know you better, Ms. Shirt. Your friend can come too.”

“Sister. I’m her sister,” she wheezes through barely contained laughter.

I surreptitiously dig my elbow into her side.

Nikolai stares at me expectantly.

“Ahhh…” I’m saved from having to answer when the driver cuts the engine and promptly starts a lesson on how to properly exit the Zodiac with crew members’ help—wrist to wrist grip, both hands. A strong breeze chafes my bare legs and I shiver.

Above us, Discovery’s five decks loom. It might be a smaller, expedition-style ship, but from this vantage it looks enormous, like a towering monolith of red and white metal dotted with portholes and exposed deck. Metal scaffolding containing a staircase abuts the ship. At the bottom, two crew members wearing crisp white uniforms tie off the Zodiac, anchoring it in place.

We bob like a cork in the wind-whipped waves as passengers begin climbing off the craft, sliding toward the middle to step off a stool and onto a metal platform with help from the crew. Nikolai and his friend get off before me, thank God, and then an older couple goes, so at least there’s some distance between us.

Of course, the one time a guy directs his attention at me rather than Walsh, it’s a passenger looking for a rebound lay. This cruise is going to be fun.

“You have an admirer,” says Walsh with a snort.

“I noticed.” Why he hasn’t spared Walsh a second glance, I have no idea. Maybe he doesn’t go for blondes.

It’s my turn to get off. A wave catches the Zodiac just as I step and I’m propelled upward like a giant, invisible hand is giving me a lift. I swallow back a swell of nausea and stumble as my feet connect with the metal platform. The crew member on my right guides me toward the handrail and I grasp its slick surface.

“Thanks,” I choke. Walsh follows, and we ascend the stairs to embark the vessel.

With every step we climb, my stomach knots tighter and tighter. I eye the line of passengers waiting to filter into the ship through the door at the top. None of them are Graeme. After our Zodiac is emptied, another one full of passengers pulls up. I scan each face. No Graeme.

Where is he?

When it’s our turn to enter and we cross the threshold, I immediately feel the pitch of the ship. I widen my stance to gain balance as a busy scene greets us. An entourage of smiling Ecuadoran crew members line what’s essentially a lobby, funneling us toward a semicircular central reception desk.

We complete check-in, drop our life jackets and backpacks in our cabin—a cozy, nicely appointed space in creams and teals with a large picture window—and head upstairs to the lounge for the mandatory safety briefing scheduled to start in twenty minutes.

The swirling pattern of sapphire-stained wood inlays on the floor and the seating in shades of blues and greens make me feel like we’re in an underwater grotto. Or at least it would, if the room wasn’t lined with two solid walls of windows. Light bounces off the shimmering water outside and floods the room.

Guests mill around, either gazing out the windows, ordering drinks at the bar, or gathering in clumps, chatting. My palms sweat and my breath quickens as I scan each face, each form. No sweep of dark brown hair, strong jaw, or deep-set eyes.

“Open bar, right?” asks Walsh.

Unlimited drinks are included on this departure as a special booking incentive, but she shouldn’t be getting slammed right out of the gate. “Moderation,” I remind her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Want anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m feeling yuck.”

“I told you that roast beef sandwich on the plane wasn’t a good idea. The mayo on there was fun-kay.”

My gut burbles in response, and I clutch my stomach.

When I was eleven, one of our dogs, a Lab retriever mutt named Daisy, got into a box of doughnuts and wolfed down a full dozen before my dad came downstairs and discovered the explosion of powdered sugar and cardboard remains scattered across the kitchen. Daisy spent the rest of the morning outside. Feeling sorry for her, I kept her company as she toddled around our sweeping field of a backyard and chomped mournfully on mouthfuls of grass, gait shaky, eyes glassy.