Shipped(25)

“I see you are better today,” says Nikolai. “No more—” He opens his mouth and pantomimes vomiting with his hand.

“Not yet.” Not with the preventative Dramamine I’ve been taking.

“Good, I am glad. And you”—he wags a finger at Graeme—“you had me going for a second. You are not her boyfriend. You two work together.” Nikolai punches Graeme lightly on the arm. A frown flickers across Graeme’s face before he smooths it away.

“Perhaps we can get to know each other better this evening over dinner?” Nikolai asks me, pursing his lips in a puckered grin.

Really? I thought after I puked on him, I was permanently off the hook. Apparently not. I desperately want to tell this guy to bark up some other tree, but then I recall the second principle in our company’s mission statement: prioritize the passenger experience above everything except safety. Nikolai is a guest. Politeness is required.

I force a weak smile. “Sure.”

“You can’t today,” interjects Graeme. “Remember? We have that work thing, that meeting,” he says meaningfully.

“Oh, right. Yes. We need to discuss—”

“Website optimization,” he finishes.

“Yes, website optimization. Sorry, I completely forgot,” I say to Nikolai with an apologetic shrug.

“I understand. You are career-minded woman. I like that. Some other time then.” He slouches off to a chair across the deck, gut sagging.

I swivel to face Graeme. Did he just save me from unwanted male attention? This does not square with the Graeme I’ve known for a year. He’s being… nice. And Graeme isn’t nice. Graeme argues. He connives. He doesn’t say please or thank you, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be helpful.

Is this all part of the act? Some trick to get me to lower my guard?

“That was thoughtful of you,” I say once Nikolai is out of earshot.

“Was it?” he drawls. “You know this means we have to sit together at dinner, right? And, gasp, actually have a conversation?”

“The conversation part’s debatable.”

“Come on, don’t you think we should get to know each other at least a little? We’ve worked together for a year and I hardly know anything about you. Except the fact that you don’t seem to like me very much. Why is that, exactly?”

“You know why.”

“Can’t say that I do.”

I’m prepared to scoff. To laugh in his face and call him a liar. Except I don’t see any trace of a lie in his guileless expression. His mouth is a thin line and his jaw could cut glass, but there’s a hint of actual confusion behind his eyes.

I gape at him. Is he for real?

Viral video, constant rudeness—does that ring a bell?

I’m saved from responding when a staff member calls me forward to receive my wet suit. Thank God. If this is a new level of manipulation from Graeme, I cannot deal with it right now.

“How are you today?” the naturalist—her name tag says Xiavera—asks with a sunny smile. She’s a compact young woman with dark brown hair framing an angular face. Like the rest of the crew and staff on board, she’s Ecuadoran.

“Fine, thanks.”

“Excited for the hike this morning?”

“I’m doing the photo walk, and yeah, it should be great.”

She eyes me up and down. “Really? Why not the long hike?”

“I have to check in with the office. Work stuff.”

“Too bad. The hike takes us through magnificent seabird colonies to a cliff overlooking the ocean. It is one of the most beautiful sights in the Galápagos. You will miss out.”

With a tut, she riffles through a row of hanging wet suits and pulls one down that’s edged in pink, size medium. After asking my shoe size, she hands me a pair of fins, a snorkel, a mask, and a long mesh bag for storage. I request a second set of everything for Walsh—she might be out of commission for the day, but I know she’ll want to snorkel at some point during the trip once she’s feeling better.

Beside me, a different naturalist equips Graeme. I can’t help but notice his easy smile with everyone he encounters. It’s just so at odds with the obnoxious coworker I’ve been dealing with for the last year. What’s his deal?

“Take a minute to try everything on and make sure it fits,” says Xiavera. “You’ll be able to exchange items during lunch, but—”

“Excuse me. Ex-c-use me!” An elbow jabs into my side and I automatically move out of the way.

It’s a red-faced passenger. She looks to be in her sixties and she’s holding a pair of snorkeling fins that she plops unceremoniously on the table. “These don’t fit. Just like the last pair didn’t fit. I said size eight, and these are obviously not an eight. They’re too small.”

I notice the man behind her for the first time. He’s about her age with a sizeable bald spot—probably her husband, if their matching rings and the utterly defeated look in his eyes are any indication. He sidles up next to her with his finger in the air. “Donna, dear, are you sure they don’t fit? Did you—”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t you try on your wet suit, Charles.”

Charles nods mutely and shuffles away. Clearly, he’s been worn down after decades with this woman.