by Vivian Wood
You have everything else you could ever want.
Not everything in life is fair, is it?
Life is definitely unfair. I breathe in, blotting at my eyes. Harper pops her head outside of the shop.
“Luna? Are you okay, hon?”
I stand straight, nodding but not looking at her.
“Totally,” I say, my voice watery. This is far from the first time that I’ve cried over a child or a baby in public. My friends know that this is something I struggle with. “Get me a mystery scoop, okay?”
She watches me for a moment then nods. “Sure. Why don’t you walk around the block? We’ll meet you in a few.”
Swallowing hard, I nod. “Okay.”
I turn away from the shops, making a right turn as I walk down the sidewalk. I know all the usual things that people say now.
There’s still a chance for you to have your own child.
Have you thought of IVF?
What about adoption?
I think all those are good options. None of them are ruled out in my future.
It’s just… when I was a little girl, I always imagined myself with a loving husband and a few kids. The image was crystal clear. The kids had my fine blonde hair and looked cute as matching buttons.
And then suddenly this endometriosis thing happened… now the future is uncertain. The image that I’ve held in my head for so long is milky and blurred.
Steeling myself and taking a deep breath, I repeat my mantra to myself.
I have everything I want.
I have money. I have a career. I have guys.
That should be enough.
Blowing a breath out, I lift my head and continue on my way around the block.
Chapter Three
Gabe
Michelle would have done better. If she was here, this whole yacht would be sparklingly clean.
I make a face at that. Michelle chose to not be here. She doesn’t deserve to be in my thoughts.
And yet, she still looms large.
Shading my eyes against the midmorning sun, I back away from the hull of the yacht I’m working on. The marina has no protection from the sun; the planks under my feet are scarred and warped from the coolness of the water below and the scorching heat of the sun.
For some reason I’m unusually brooding today, the name of my would-be fiancée running through my thoughts again and again.
Michelle would have done it better.
But she didn’t stick around to do it herself, did she? And even when she was still here, she was a magnet for trouble.
My fists tighten, nails digging into the flesh of my palms.
That’s enough feeling sorry for myself, I think. That’s enough anger. Just because your ex-fiancée turned out to be a liar and a cheater doesn’t mean that you have to walk around angry all the damn time.
Then again, there is a well deep inside of me that is so full of fury and sadness and angst about what happened… there doesn’t seem to be a saturation point for me. All I can do is think about something else.
Eyeing the mast, I drop the scrub brush into the bucket with a sigh. The mast casts a long shadow, standing proudly against the sun. I’ve been here since it was dark and I’ve scrubbed most of the hull until it shines.
And yet, that’s only the beginning.
There are only eight weeks left until the Harbor Pointe Regatta. Only eight weeks left until I’m under the spotlight, sailing toward the finish line as fast as this boat will carry me. It seems like there are an endless number of repairs to be done on the Ethereal Grace before she’s seaworthy.
I exhale.
I hear Malkia walking across the sun-bleached wood of the dock before I actually see her. For someone that is tall and skinny, her footsteps sound like a bridge troll’s. My sister has a heavy gait, so much so that the crew usually teases her about it. Luckily, she gives that teasing exactly zero thought, handling it as smoothly as she does everything else.
Squinting hard, I look at her as she comes to stand next to me. She holds a tube of sunblock, rubbing the creamy white lotion into her rich ebony skin.
“Gabe. It’s hot out,” she says simply. She has a surprisingly deep voice, her speech tinged with the remnants of her early Tanzanian upbringing. Handing me the sunblock, she pushes her dark sunglasses up her nose.
“Thanks.” I accept the sunblock, squeezing a good amount into my hand. I start slathering my suntanned forearms, looking at Malkia.
We couldn’t be more physically different. Her hair is buzzed close to her scalp, a baseball cap covering most of her skull. My dark mop is buzzed on the sides and left to grow up a bit on top, with just a hint of natural curl showing up. Mal wears her usual, loose white cotton pants and a matching long sleeve cotton shirt.
One thing Malkia and I both have are high cheekbones and brooding looks almost built in… Mal smiles a hell of a lot more than I do though, her dazzling grin lighting up a room.
I guess her parents, wherever they are now, had good genetics in that department.
I’m in my trademark tight white t-shirt and low-slung jeans. I own five versions of just this outfit and five dark gray t-shirts too. That’s about the sum of my day-to-day wear when I’m not actively working on the boat.
My gaze wanders behind us.
Another boat my family owns is docked there, though that one is large enough that it can sleep twenty people. The High Hopes is a huge luxury yacht meant for entertaining; the Arctic Light is a racing rig, pure and simple.
“The new rigging fits on the High Hopes, I’m assuming.”
Malkia nods, looking over her shoulder at the mega yacht. Her face is thrown into shadow for a moment. “Yes. We should be ready to sail up to Alaska next week. I am just running over everything again to be safe.”
I turn back to the smaller vessel, a sigh on my lips. “Good. Since we got the High Hopes back from the maintenance crew, I’m worried about her. I want to make sure she’s seaworthy. Our company can’t afford any more cracks in the hull.”
She bobs her head. “I know. I’m triple checking every single thing I can think of, to be safe. Being on the open sea with a full passenger manifest and having to radio for help was not the best thing that could’ve happened. Not the worst, but it definitely put us out of commission for almost two months.”
I frown. “Yeah. For a company that makes their money off of booking charters to Alaska, that was definitely costly.” I wince. “We had to refund a ton of money. It was a serious blow to the company’s coffers. I’ll be glad when we’re back to our normal routines.”
Adjusting her baseball cap, Malkia shrugs. “It’ll be okay. You worry too much.” She pulls her phone out, checking the time.
“We should go down to the Harborside Yacht Club now. You can drop off your registration fee and I can flirt with the pretty waitresses at the restaurant. Eh?”
I shake my head, but my lips do curl up into a smile. “Yeah, all right. I’ve done most of the scrubbing that I can do anyway.”
She smiles mischievously. It lights up her whole face. “It is my turn to drive. I cannot wait for those rich pricks to see me pulling up in their driveway.”
Grabbing the bucket that I dropped the scrub brush into, I nod. “Let me just leave this bucket over by the High Hope’s gangplank. I’ll meet you at the car.”
She trots off down the dock, in good spirits. She’s only recently decided to learn how to drive, despite being twenty two. So when I get to our car, an old green Land Rover that is battered all to hell, I’m not surprised to find her in the driver’s seat, grinning like a maniac.
I climb in the passenger side, careful to buckle my seatbelt. When Malkia drives, the experience can be harrowing to say the least.
“Ready?” she asks. Before I can even get a word out either way, she punches the gas and we launch into motion.
“Take it easy,” I caution her as she pulls out onto the road.
“Ohh, go put your worried face in the closet,” s
he says, waving a hand at my concerns. “I am fine.”
I make a face, but I don’t protest. Malkia is starting to be her own person, someone apart from the little brown kid that stuck out like a sore thumb in Seattle public schools. I want to encourage her, not tease her about her shortcomings.
I look at her, so happy to be driving, and I smile. “Once you’ve mastered this, you can focus on moving out of The Hub. Mom and Dad won’t like you moving away from home though, so we’ll have to get you a starter apartment. Somewhere close to them.”
Malkia flushes. “You would like that, Gabe. Let me tell you what.” She holds up a finger. “If I move out, you have the tiniest chance of stealing their hearts back.”
She snickers. I grin. “I don’t think so, sis. I lost that game a long time ago. Our parents went on what I thought was a vacation, and they came back with you. I took one look at you - six years old and with the cutest smile that anyone has ever seen — and I just gave up.”
She smirks. “I was cute, was I not?”
The way she enunciates each word makes me smile.
I nod. “You were so cute. Mom and Dad were already doting on you then.” I roll my eyes. “And they have never stopped.”
“A wise decision if I have ever heard of one.”
“Mm.” I look out the window at the seaside, the beach a mere strip of dark sand. The ocean is unusually calm just now, looking like nothing so much as opaque black glass. Malkia drives the SUV along a winding two lane road, sticking close to the shoreline the whole way.
“Michelle loved it when the ocean was calm like this.” The words are out before I really think about them.
I glance at Malkia with a frown. Her smile dims. “Oh?”
She doesn’t like when I bring up Michelle. No one does, not really. The topic of my dead fiancée stops conversations in their tracks at the very best of times.
I don’t say anything, so Malkia waits a few beats and then speaks.
“I know I have said this all to you before, but Michelle’s death was not your fault.” She looks at me, her expression serious. “All the things you found out after her death… her debt, her infidelity, her secret past… none of that had anything to do with you.”
Looking away out the window, I feel like someone just hit me on the stomach with a two by four. I can’t catch my breath for several beats.
Only Malkia feels close enough to me to be so bold with her words. She’s always been a truth teller, even when the truth hurts. I shift in my seat, reminding myself not to lash out at her for it.
I usually treasure Malkia’s no bullshit attitude. Clearing my throat, I change the subject. “Speaking of Michelle, I really want to win the regatta this year. We tried to win for the last four years, but no dice. We didn’t even place.”
A memory bubbles up, unbidden. For a second, I’m on board the Arctic Light, pulling at the mast rigging. Michelle is right next to me, laughing as her hair tie flies loose in the wind. Her hair splays out, vibrant as a newly minted copper penny.
It may have been eight months since she died, but sometimes it feels like it’s only been a few moments. The grief and anger are right there on the surface, pushing at me, but I just take a cooling breath.
Now is not the time.
Malkia slows as she takes a right. Harborside Yacht Club appears out of nowhere, looking like nothing so much as a shining palace tucked amongst so many docks and boats. It’s crisp white main building looks like somebody scrubbed it clean this morning.
“I think we have a good chance of winning this year.” Malkia looks over at me. “After all, this is the first year you’re sailing on the new, improved Arctic Light. Plus, you’ve got me as your first mate.” She pats my knee. “I am good luck, you know.”
She pulls into the parking lot of the yacht club, passing the first few rows of shiny Mercedes and brand new Audis.
I smile as she pulls into a space, a sigh one my lips. “So I hear, Mal.”
I open the glove compartment and fish out the registration papers and the check. I’m careful not to look at the dollar amount scribbled on it as I get out of the car.
The thousand dollar sign up fee came out of my savings, but after not working for two months, my savings account is all but wiped out.
I make a silent promise to myself. I’m going to place this year. No, I’m going to win.
And the winner gets thirty thousand dollars, not to mention a much sought-after exclusive contract to be the first company on the yacht club’s list when it comes to booking their lavish vacations.
That’s why there are so many other blue-collar entries into this regatta. Everyone wants to be the first charter considered when the yacht club has a trip to take.
Malkia and I walk toward the front doors of the yacht club. “You’re going to stop by the restaurant?”
She nods, smiling again. “That I am. I baited a few hooks when I was here two weeks ago. I want to check my nets and see if I get any nibbles from the ladies that work here.”
As I’m about to open the heavy oak door, it swings open. I back up, my eyes narrowing as I realize who is on the other side.
Fletcher Montgomery. He’s around my age, but he looks like he was born in a Patagonia Outdoors store. Boat shoes, khaki shorts, a light purple short sleeve button up, and a black puffy vest. Not a hair is out of place on his blond head, which irks me for some reason.
My expression immediately sours. “Fletcher.”
He gives me the biggest shit-eating grin. “Well, look who just washed up on shore. It’s Old ‘Woe Is Me’ Gabe and his trusty sidekick, Little Orphan African-nie.”
Malkia fires back immediately, without missing a beat. “You are so unimaginative. It is painful watching you try to come up with the shit that comes out of your mouth, Fletcher. Drop dead.”
She breezes right past him, utterly unconcerned. I however stay for a second, if only to see Fletcher’s cheeks color. He lifts his chin, sneering.
“Someone should send her back to where she came from,” he spits. He looks at me. “Why are you two even here? You’re bringing down the average income level in the club by a couple million.”
I smile, lifting my registration papers. “I’m here to drop off my forms for the regatta.”
He laughs. “You’re kidding, right? You have zero chance of winning without your key player.”
A lump forms in my throat. He means Michelle, who introduced me to yacht racing five years ago.
“Don’t talk about my fiancée,” I growl.
He smirks. “Surely you know by now that I have a far greater knowledge of Michelle’s dirty deeds than you will ever have. I mean, I never stopped fucking her while you two were supposedly in love— “
Just like that, I grab him by the throat. I’m pretty damn tall, having almost a foot on Fletcher, and I am not afraid to use my size to intimidate him. “Learn some fucking manners, you fucking idiot. Don’t speak ill of the dead, especially not in front of me. And especially not about my fiancée.”
He starts turning red, but I push him away forcefully before he starts choking.
I yank the door open and walk inside, dismissing him completely. But I am shaking right now, the anger and grief and bone-deep sadness all stirred up inside me like a hurricane inside a bottle. My fists are clenched tight and my jaw is so tense that it feels like the muscles in my face might snap.
I hurry along the heavy wood-paneled hall, papers still clutched in a hand, already kicking myself for letting Fletcher get to me.
Chapter Four
Luna
I swallow nervously as I climb the steps of the drab little office building. I pause in front of the dark wood front door. Hoisting my medical bag, I smooth my dark gray skirt.
“You’re going to do well,” I tell myself. Moisture pools in my armpits. I normally wouldn’t wear such a formal black top, especially not on this warm Seattle day.
But today is a job interview.
No, not an interview.
The job interview. I really need this internship to put on my resume during this summer internship, while I transition from medical school into my residency. It’s vital for the doctors in charge of assignments to find me impressive, from what I hear.
Of course, my medical school only accepts a few positions as resume-worthy… and I found out about all of this a few days ago. And this is it, the only position remaining.
I look at the building one more time, biting my lip.
Aurora Borealis Charters, the sign above the door reads.
Blowing out a steadying breath, I open the door. A gust of cool air buffets my face as I step into the dreary office. Everything is just shades of brown in here. The faded carpet, the worn drapes, the chipped office furniture.
I swallow again. How is this place still open and making money?
There is a young woman seated at the reception desk. She looks up at me from an ancient PC, her expression puzzled.
“May I help you?” she asks.
I step fully inside the office, closing the door behind me. “Yes. I have an appointment with Daniel Byrne?”
The receptionist’s brow furrows. “In what regard?”
I set down my heavy medical bag with a soft thunk. “It’s a job interview. You’re still looking for someone with medical expertise, right?”
“Ohhhh,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “Sorry. You just look too young to be a nurse.”
I scowl at her words. “I actually just graduated medical school,” I say, keeping my tone as even I as can.
“Oh!” She flushes. “Sorry. Let me just go tell him you’re here.”
I bow my head. “Of course. Thank you.”
She goes through the only doorway, only bothering to partially close the door. “Daniel! The medical attendant is here!”
I fidget with my bracelets. Each one is a silver bangle from Tiffany’s, chosen with great care. One for each year of college.
I graduated with my two best friends, Cate and Harper, and wanted something to commemorate the time.
