Shipped(5)

“Graeme,” I grate.

Who is he to infer that my marketing plan for social media won’t net a few more bookings over the next week? That’s just so… presumptuous. And rude. And so totally wrong.

I snatch my quinoa salad off the coffee table and stuff a bite into my mouth. It tastes like sawdust. Shoving my laptop away, I stomp to the kitchen, toss the quinoa into the trash, and riffle around my fridge. It’s slim pickings: three containers of vanilla yogurt, various condiments, and a single mini Babybel cheese. Mental note: add grocery shopping to my weekend task list.

I grab a jar of grape jelly and my last two pieces of bread from an upper cabinet and make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I slap on the jelly with a bit too much gusto and it splatters across my gray laminate countertop. Graeme’s words niggle at my brain. Not that it will make much difference. With a huff, I brace my hips against the counter and tear into my PB and J like a bear eating a salmon.

I should start my paper, but Graeme’s parting shot has my stomach contracting and my skin itching. There’s something I need to do. Polishing off my sandwich in four more bites, I return to my laptop and dig up last year’s numbers for British Columbia and cross-reference them with our social media activity.

There was barely an increase in bookings. My social media marketing for these voyages last September hadn’t worked as well as I remembered. Even with the airfare promotion, which was my idea, we needed to do something different to get the word out. Something outside the box.

I open a blank Google Doc. After a minute, the ideas trickle in. I start typing. It’s after ten when I finish, and I haven’t even started outlining my paper yet. If I want to stay on track to meet Monday’s due date, I need to at least get that done tonight. I silently curse Graeme as I flop my textbook open on the coffee table and begin brainstorming.



* * *



“Rough night?” Christina pops her head over the gray cubicle wall between our desks, catching me rubbing my eyes. It’s 9:15 on a Friday morning, and in the hour since I’ve been here, a gentle murmur of conversation has slowly overtaken the early-morning silence.

As far as offices go, ours is pretty clutch. It takes up the entire top floor of a historic building downtown, and it has high ceilings, exposed brick, and tons of light streaming in from wide, arched windows. Thanks to our proximity to Puget Sound, the scent of clean ocean brine is a permanent fixture in the building, bringing to life the framed cruise ship photos that line the inner hallways.

I tear my gaze away from the email I’m drafting to James’s assistant to discuss my idea for a last-minute British Columbia direct call campaign.

“Just busy,” I say. “And sleep-deprived. How about you?”

Hopping up to perch on the edge of my desk, Christina crosses her legs, emerald capris hiking higher up her slender calves. “Awful,” she says with her usual flair. She flips her long sheet of straight black hair over one shoulder. It stands out starkly against her white eyelet shirt.

Rereading my email one more time, I hit send before settling in to listen to what will likely be a very long-winded, very dramatic story.

“So remember how I was going on a date with that guy from Bumble last night?” she begins.

Only vaguely, but I nod anyway.

“Well it was all going fine until we left the restaurant. There we were, standing on the sidewalk, talking about what to do next, when a cop drives by. And you know what this guy does? Leaps behind the nearest trash can like he’s Batman or something. It turned out my date has a warrant out for his arrest.”

I sit up straighter. “What did you do?”

She shrugs. “Went home with him. He was pretty cute.”

My jaw pops open.

She laughs. “I’m kidding, Henley, geez! I told him I got a migraine and ditched him, of course. But then I met this other cute guy…”

“All right, well, I’m going to need the full debrief.” I prop my elbow on the desk, chin in hand. Not having much of a dating life of my own, I live vicariously through Christina’s adventures in dating land.

She slides off my desk. “How about lunch? Waterfront Park?”

I bite my lower lip. I have a lot I need to accomplish today.

“I know you’re always ‘so busy,’?” she says, complete with air quotes. “But come on. We haven’t done lunch in weeks.”

“I know,” I groan. “I’m terrible. Happy hour instead?” I can’t remember the last time I went for drinks after work that didn’t involve a business school networking event.

“Don’t you have class?”

“Not on Fridays. Besides, the summer term ended yesterday and I’m off for the next month before fall classes start.”

“Okay, happy hour it is,” she says with a grin. “Miller Room?”

“Yes, please.”

Catching sight of someone over her shoulder, she turns. “Tory!” she calls with a wave.

Footsteps approach, and a moment later our coworker Tory Hageman appears. Her platinum pixie cut catches the light and I practically squint at its radiance.

Whereas Christina is a year younger than me, Tory is four years older. But unlike Christina and me, Tory actually has her life together in ways that make ours seem hopelessly childish. She’s married, for one. And second, she lives in a house. Not an apartment or a condo, but an actual house with grass and a fence and designated guest towels and everything.