Shipped(73)

Graeme’s shoulders slump as his chin falls into a heavy nod. “Okay then.” He walks out.

And I’m alone.



* * *



I’m still awake when Walsh stumbles into our cabin two hours later.

The tears have dried on my cheeks, leaving salty tracks in their wake. I roll over when she clicks on the desk lamp.

“Why are you here?” she asks. “Scratch that—why are you here alone? Where’s Graeme?”

“He left.” My voice is rougher than a nettle patch.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“It was never paradise. It was a mistake.”

“Please. Any straight man who can sing ABBA is a keeper,” she slurs. Something rattles in her hand—a glass filled with ice and clear liquid. Lurching as the ship pitches, she takes a swig before setting it on the edge of the desk along with her cell phone, which she fishes out of her cleavage. Fumbling with the cord, she plugs it in to charge.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to work it out when we get back.” Grasping handfuls of her dress, she pulls it up and over her head and lets it fall on the floor on her way to the closet.

“How do you figure that?”

She exhales, her shoulders sinking. “I’m not going to live with you.”

I sit up higher in bed. “Where will you go?”

“Back to Boulder,” she says, pulling on an oversized T-shirt.

“I thought you were done with Boulder.”

“It’s like a velvet-lined pit. I try to climb out, but I slide back in.”

A warning buzzes in my brain, cutting through the tumbling grief. “What’s this about?”

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she disappears into the bathroom.

I swing my legs out of bed. “Walsh,” I call. When I pass the desk, I pause. I can smell the booze from here. Lifting the glass, I sniff and take a tiny sip. Fire burns my throat and my face scrunches. “Holy shit.” It’s straight-up gin with maybe a splash of tonic. How much did she drink tonight?

Her phone lights up with a new text. Two more pop up in quick succession. All of them are from Bad News Bears. I pick up her phone with unsteady fingers.

Come on, baby. You know I’m the only one who appreciates you. I’ll always take care of you.



You just have to be nice to me. No more talking back and no more sneaking off to Seattle.



Come back and all will be forgiven. I promise.





I reread the texts three times, my stomach hollowing out. I try to swipe open her phone, but there’s a pass code. I tap out the code she set years ago, but it doesn’t work. She’s changed it.

Unplugging her phone and grasping it in my trembling fist, I swing open the bathroom door. Walsh jolts as she wipes her mouth with a towel, her toothbrush and open tube of toothpaste sprawled on the vanity next to the sink.

“You lied to me. Bad News Bears is Keith, isn’t it? You’re still together.”

She spots her phone and tries to snatch it from me. I hold it away from her.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Tell me.”

“Give it back.”

“Walsh,” I plead.

“Yes, it’s Keith, okay?” She grabs her phone from my slack grip. Swiping it open, she shoulders past me into the cabin as she reads the new texts. Her flushed cheeks pale. “It—it’s not what it looks like.”

I hug my arms to my chest. “Oh no? So what is it then?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?”

“I’m hard to live with.”

“You don’t think I get that?”

“I—I don’t have anything going for me. I dropped out of college. I can’t keep a job or even get one now, and I’m broke. Keith… he doesn’t care about all that. He’s there for me.”

“He condescends to you. ‘Don’t talk back to me’? ‘Don’t sneak off to Seattle’? Who the hell does he think he is? He acts like he owns you. Is that how he talks to you all the time?”

Sinking onto the bed, Walsh pulls her knees up to her chest. “He doesn’t mean it. He’s not a bad guy, he just gets angry sometimes…”

Ice fills my veins. “What does he do when he gets angry?”

She turns her face away.

I sink onto the floor in front of her and grip her knees. “What did he do, Walsh?”

She lifts and lowers one shoulder. “He threw something at me. It was the first time he lost control like that. Usually, he just yells.”

“What did he throw?”

“A dinner plate. It smashed against the wall,” she mumbles.

My chest tightens and I can barely breathe. “Walsh, that is a very big deal.”

She shifts as though she’s going to stand, but I duck my face, forcing myself into her field of vision.

“Talk to me. Please. What happened?”

“I cut my hair.” A tear spills down her cheek and she dashes it away. “He doesn’t like it when I make big changes and don’t consult him first. I knew that, and I still got the haircut anyway. And when I got home, he got mad. Honestly, I should have known better.”