1 June Returning home from months at sea is like waking up from one dream right into another. Charter season is four months of sunshine, the bluest water that ever existed, and lots and lots of money. But it's also sixteen-hour shifts, sleep deprivation, and late nights scrubbing the vomit of hungover billionaires from white carpet. At the end of the season, we always come to Mitch's, an Irish pub that puts the dive in dive bar. Mitch's is dirtier than someone who cleans a twenty-million-dollar yacht for a living would like, and the dust on the bookcase beside our table is likely a health violation, but seeing as it's the first mess in months that isn't my responsibility to clean, I couldn't care less. Some people never experience déjà vu, but I feel it all the time. More and more as the years pass. Every time I slip into this booth at Mitch's, for instance. Jo, the Serendipity's second stew and my soon-to-be former best friend, says I'm just bored. But I disagree. How can I be bored when I work on a giant boat and run away to the Caribbean four months a year? How can I be bored when I get paid to see the places most people only dream of? As Jo's nieces would say, I am living the dream. Usually, I don't disagree. Usually. But as I stare across the table at Jo, nightmare is the word that comes to mind. I can see her mouth moving, but I don't hear a word. I'm distracted by the ache in my bad knee, which, after the last four months working barefoot, is aggravated by even the lowest of low-heeled wedges. In a few days, my knee will adjust to life on land along with the rest of me. All I have to do is ignore the pain until it fades. But what Jo's just told me? I won't adjust to it. I refuse. "Nina?" Jo's voice comes back into focus, and the feeling of déjà vu slips away. Her gaze darts from me to her fiancé, Alex, beside her. "It's an awful idea." It's all I can manage, because this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Jo quitting the yacht? To help Alex run a restaurant? Jo frowns into her drink. "That's all you have to say?" "You can't even cook, Josephine. They don't pass out Michelin stars for knowing how to operate a microwave. How are you going to help this man run a restaurant? Sure, he makes a good cheese Danish, but the sex can't be that good." "I'll try to focus on the part where you compliment my cooking," Alex says. I shoot him a glare. "Don't." Jo twirls the straw in her glass. "I won't be cooking. I'll help manage the place," she says. Alex puts an arm around Jo's shoulders, and though I love him for loving Jo, I also want to punch him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break one, but enough for him to understand how all this is making me feel. A better friend would smile, buy a round of shots, celebrate this new phase of her friend's life. But I am not Jo's better friend. I'm her best friend. And as such, I can't help but think of all the things I'm losing. You're upset because she's choosing him over you, the voice in my head says. The voice isn't wrong. Of course Jo is choosing Alex over me. He's the fiancé. I'm the best friend. That's what happens when people get engaged, or land their dream job, or find something else they can't resist. "This is worse than a secret fetus," I whisper into my drink. Alex tenses. "A what?" I wave a hand at Jo. "I thought you may have impregnated her. She's been acting weird all week." Beer dribbles down Alex's chin when turns to look at her. "I'm not pregnant," she says. "You've seen me drinking all season, Nina. We shared a fishbowl at that weird pirate bar-" "Davy Jones's Locker is festive, not weird." I fiddle with one of the dangling unicorn earrings I take off only to shower and sleep. "You could've been pregnant. I don't know your life. How am I supposed to know if you adhere to CDC guidelines?" "You do know my life," Jo says. "Which means you also know I never planned to work in yachting forever. I never planned to work in yachting at all." The three of us fall silent. Mitch's walls are littered with photographs, and ticket stubs, and dollar bills, making me feel as if I've stepped into a stripper's scrapbook. I glance at the wall beside us, my heart cartwheeling in my chest when I spot the Polaroid of me, Jo, and Ollie, the Serendipity's chef before Alex. I decide that our current chef, Amir, is my new favorite. His food isn't as good as Ollie's or Alex's, but at least Amir has never broken my heart. Ollie and I started on the Serendipity the same year, when both of us were new to yachting. We worked together for eight charter seasons, and it was in this very bar, almost a year ago to the day, that I'd found out he was leaving to become sous chef at Miami's illustrious Il Gabbiano. Don't think about him, the voice in my head chides. But how can I avoid it when he's staring right at me from that damn Polaroid? I lean over and grab the photo, yanking it free from the wall with one sure pull. "Nina," Jo says. "What are you doing?" I shove the photo into my bra. "Souvenir," I say. I'm not sure what I'll do with it: burn it, tuck it into a book, sneak back here in a week and staple it to the wall again. "Shots!" Britt, the Serendipity's third stew, appears beside the table with four shot glasses crowded in her hands. She grins at us, completely oblivious to the tension she's walked into. I take two of the shot glasses and glare at Jo. "I need this more than you." I tip Jo's shot down my throat before chasing it with mine. Britt scoots into the booth energetically, nudging me against the wall and blocking me into this hellscape. "Leave some room for the Holy Spirit, won't you?" I shove Britt over until half her ass hangs out of the booth. "Lord help me sitting next to you all night. Where's RJ? He'd let a girl have some peace and quiet." Britt snorts. "I doubt it." I've never heard RJ, the Serendipity's bosun, string more than one sentence together at a time, and I've known him for as long as I've been in yachting. Jo and I exchange a look that says, What's that supposed to mean? But I look away when I remember she is now my former best friend. "Shouldn't you be somewhere mooning over Amir anyway?" I ask Britt. Their love affair had done nothing positive for the efficiency of the interior crew this season. "I'm letting him miss me," Britt says. Her gaze is unfocused, and I wonder how many shots she's had already. "What is it with stews and chefs?" she muses. "Is it the knives? I mean, it's got to be more than a coincidence. Me and Amir, Jo and Alex, you and-" I raise an eyebrow. She mimics my expression and realizes her mistake. "Uh, Chrissy Teigen." I twirl the two empty shot glasses before me on the table. "Is Chrissy technically a chef? There was a robust debate about it on Twitter a few weeks ago, and I don't remember what the consensus was." Alex opens his mouth to answer, but I cut him off. "Rhetorical question, Alex. I don't want to hear anything from you. It's bad enough you've stolen away my former best friend." Jo looks stricken. "Former?" Britt sighs unsteadily against the table and nearly topples out of the booth. "They told you, huh?" "You knew about this?" I say. "Britt!" Jo hisses. Britt flashes drunken jazz hands at me and shouts, "Surprise!" "She's taking over for me," Jo explains. Which means Xav, our captain, already knows too. "Next you'll tell me RJ found out before me." "That may be my fault," Britt slurs. She grabs Jo's unfinished margarita, but I pry it from her hands and pass her my water instead. "She wasn't supposed to tell anyone," Jo says. "RJ made me tell him." Britt leans forward to catch the water's straw in her mouth and misses. I ignore the revelation that RJ actually converses with someone and turn to Jo. "When?" "Why would I know when she told him?" "When are you leaving me?" I say. Jo bites her lip but doesn't answer. "Two weeks," Alex says, putting Jo out of her misery. Two weeks? No, no. Clearly, she hasn't thought this through. "Britt can't take over for you," I say. "She always does Med season." Almost every photo Britt posts is of her on either the Serendipity or the Talisman, the superyacht she works on in the Mediterranean Sea after we finish charter season in the Caribbean. The woman is only on land four months a year. I nudge her with my elbow. "Tell them," I say. Britt rests her head on the table and mumbles, "Screw Med season." As I look from Britt to Jo, the cartwheels in my chest become back handsprings. "You're drunk," I tell her. "You're all drunk!" I look at Britt and sigh. "But she's the drunkest. Seriously, she needs to hydrate." I make her sit up so I can shove the straw in her mouth. Jo worries her bottom lip, and I realize my reaction is hurting her. I take a slow breath and tell myself I can walk this back. I can still save the post-charter-season celebration and Jo and Alex's big announcement. I can be Jo's better friend and her best friend. "I'm just teasing," I say. I force a smile on my face I'm not sure Jo buys. "You're my past, present, and future best friend. I'm happy for you, Jo. Really." It's true. I'm happy for Jo, even if I'm not happy. Jo grabs my hand from across the table. "You don't have to worry about you and me, you know. Just because I won't be around at work doesn't mean-" "I'm not worried!" I squeeze her hand before letting it go to fidget with my empty shot glass. "I never worry. I don't know how. We're on land, and on land, I only know how to have fun." "And are you happy for me?" Alex says. "Getting my own place. Lifelong dream coming true and all." I squint at him. "Depends on how many cheese Danish I get out of it." Alex tilts his head as if lost in thought. "How about two dozen?" "Make it three and you've got yourself a deal," I say. "Done." Jo rolls her eyes. "Three dozen cheese Danish? That's all I'm worth to you?" I shrug. "They're really good cheese Danish." Jo drops her gaze to her drink. "And you're fine with this. Really?" I don't know if I'm fine with it, exactly. It's not like I have any other choice. I don't love the idea of not having Jo at work anymore, but I don't actually expect her to plan her life around me. "I'm not fine now, but I will be." I hope I seem calm on the outside, because inside, I'm freaking out. I have always known my emotions are bigger than most people's. Years of gymnastics training helped me to develop the discipline necessary to keep them in check, a useful skill when your job requires catering to the whims of the wealthy. Normally I do better than this. But Jo and I have been through everything together over the last six years. Now she has Alex and his fourteen-year-old daughter, Greyson-a real family to go through everything with. I know Jo and I will still be best friends, but things are changing, although I was perfectly fine with how they've been. I thought I'd at least have her at work, even if her life outside of it became a bit more complicated. It never crossed my mind that she'd quit, that one change would ripple outward, washing over everything. Too much, I think. I need to step away for a minute. I force Britt to sit up and move out of my way so I can escape the booth. "Where are you going?" Jo says. "I'm getting champagne, of course," I say. "This is a celebration, is it not?" Jo looks at me for a moment, but she must believe me, because the hesitation on her face eases. "Thanks, Nina." "Don't thank me," I say. "I have plenty to celebrate myself. Like the three dozen cheese Danish in my future." When I leave the table, I don't go to the bar right away. Instead, I prowl the perimeter of Mitch's, running a hand over the dozens of dollar bills that jump out at me from the mess of photographs on the walls. What a shame to leave all this money here, stuck but still valuable. I look around the pub and wonder how much money has been left here. I certainly hope Mitch doesn't plan to use it as his retirement fund. It seems a rather risky investment strategy. A corner of the Polaroid of me, Ollie, and Jo jabs into my skin. I face the wall and discreetly adjust the photo inside my bra. As I do, I spot a dollar bill that's been defaced to make George Washington look like a zombie. When I reach out to touch it, the dollar is so worn, it feels like fabric beneath my fingertips. I think of how good it felt to rip that photo from the wall, and without checking to see if anyone is watching, I tug at the thumbtack pinning Zombie George in place, then fold the dollar in half and stuff it into my bra beside the photograph. Maybe I should feel bad, but I don't. It feels good to take something for myself, something that would be useless otherwise. It's what I love about thrifting. One woman's trash is another woman's treasure. I put the thumbtack back in its place and scan the wall again. Perhaps I'll grab a few more. Instead of returning to the table, I'll have the champagne sent over and I'll disappear. I'll go down the street to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes even though I haven't smoked in years. "One charter season without me, and you turn to a life of crime?" a familiar voice says from behind me. Ollie. I didn't know he'd be here, but part of me had hoped. I won't give him the satisfaction of turning to face him, though. I don't want to seem too eager. "What are you doing here? You aren't part of the crew," I say. Excerpted from Luck and Last Resorts by Sarah Grunder Ruiz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
