Shipped(79)

My phone buzzes from my pocket. Walsh is calling. I answer. “Hey—”

“Hey yourself! What’s going on? What happened to lunch?”

“I found out about the promotion. I didn’t get it, but I’m moving to plan B. Christina, Tory, and some others are coming over later to help me prepare a presentation for our CEO.”

“Are you okay?”

With my sister by my side and my friends at my back…

“You know what? I am.”





26




My tiny apartment has never been so full of people. Noodles has claimed a spot on Michelle’s lap, snuggling against her adorable little baby bump as she points over Tory’s shoulder at something on her laptop. Walsh is in the kitchen refilling water glasses, Christina is sprawled in my armchair, flipping through a legal pad, and Barbara is sitting at the bistro table in my kitchen, entering notes into my PowerPoint presentation. Her phone rings, and she answers it.

Pressing my fists into my lower back, I arch my spine from where I’m sitting on the floor. In front of me, a notebook filled with highlighted scribbles fans across the coffee table next to two mostly empty pizza boxes. We’ve been at it for three hours, but I feel like we’ve barely scratched the surface of my idea. Panic threatens to claw up my throat, but I shove it down.

I got this. We got this.

Barbara pushes back from the kitchen table, chair legs screeching against linoleum, and stands. She hitches her tote bag over one shoulder. “I’ve got to run.”

I furrow my eyebrows at her harried expression. “Is everything okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s Maya, my youngest. She was supposed to catch a ride home with another player after her volleyball game tonight, but she forgot to tell me that her ride was out sick so now I have to pick her up.”

Standing, I force the tension from my shoulders and give her a quick hug. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“No problem. This is what you have to look forward to with teenagers, by the way,” she adds to Tory and Michelle. “Enjoy those baby years while you can.”

“Oh, we will,” says Tory, gazing lovingly at her wife as she caresses her rounded tummy.

Barbara’s footsteps retreat from my apartment and the door closes with a click behind her.

“So, these numbers look good,” says Tory, returning her attention to her computer. “Especially if you propose piloting your program in the Galápagos, British Columbia, and Hawaii first, then scaling up over the course of two years.”

Christina flips her head upside down, and when she rights herself, gathers her long sheet of hair into a high ponytail. “This could be revolutionary, you know. There aren’t many other cruise companies our size doing anything like this.”

“Not to mention it has the potential to make a wide-scale impact. If even half of our travelers choose to contribute modest amounts, that can make a big difference,” Tory adds.

A knock reverberates from my front door. Frowning, I stride down the short hallway to answer it. It’s Barb.

“I forgot my phone,” she croons, squeezing past me to bustle into my kitchen.

“So why didn’t Henley’s gremlin of a boss go for her idea?” Walsh asks. She carries two glasses of ice water into the living room, setting one on the trunk beside Christina and handing the other to Michelle.

I shrug. That’s the million-dollar question.

“Because he didn’t think of it first,” Barbara calls before hustling out of my apartment again.

“He’s definitely threatened by Henley,” says Tory, her normally cheery voice flattening.

Christina nods emphatically.

“When it comes to smart, ambitious women, mediocre men usually are,” says Michelle.

Before I can sit, someone knocks on my door again. Barbara.

“Coat,” she says, smacking her palm against her forehead. I scramble into the kitchen, pluck her navy trench coat off the back of the chair, and hand it to her. With a thanks and another round of goodbyes, she leaves.

I carry my laptop over to the coffee table and resume my seat on the floor. My phone buzzes from somewhere by my slippered feet. Patting around, I find it and swipe it open. Three missed calls from Graeme. I sigh. Nothing new—those are from earlier. He and I have been playing phone tag today, and the last time I tried him a few hours ago it went straight to voice mail. I wince, remembering the bumbling message I left him full of “congratulations” and “I’m happy for you.”

And I am happy for him. My stomach fills with warmth at the thought of working alongside him, hearing his voice, seeing him every day…

Too bad he wants nothing to do with me. At least not in the way I want.

I scan my apps to find a new notification—it’s from Instagram. One new follower. I gasp when I open it.

Graeme Cracker_Collins has followed me. Graham Cracker. My own private nickname for him. My heart gallops and my chest aches.

I click on the tiny photo of Graeme, his face smiling at me from underneath his windswept hair. He’s posted three photos from the Galápagos, and one of them is of me, although you can’t exactly tell. It’s the one he snapped in the highlands. A sunburst obscures most of my face, casting it in shadow, but the outline of my profile cuts a dramatic figure against the trees. I tap on the photo to read the caption.