“Why do that when we both know we look good?”
I rolled my eyes and turned my head down. “Noah, where’s your ankle wrap?”
He brushed it off. “I’m fine.”
As the boat set sail, the crew distributed hors d’oeuvres, including fresh seafood and artisan cheeses.
I shoved a piece of shrimp into my mouth. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me if you’re in pain later.”
“Me and my ankle were doing fine before you inserted yourself into the healing process.” He snapped a piece of cheese in half, crumbs falling to the floor. “Let’s get drinks.”
By the bar, the sky had begun to paint itself in shades of orange and pink. The tranquil water around us reflected the vibrant colors, creating a mirror image. I took a few minutes to grab photos and videos. After snapping a few, I noticed everyone else on board doing the same.
If there was one thing writers and influencers had in common, it was that we recognized a photo opportunity when we saw one.
“I’ll have a Coke, please,” I said to the bartender, a woman around my age with a button nose.
“Two,” said Noah.
I paused, fingers drumming on the top of the bar. The bartender cracked open two Cokes and poured them into glasses with ice and slices of lemon. She handed them over, and I took them both. I thanked her and she moved on to the next guest.
At Noah’s raised brow, I brought the glasses closer to my chest. “I don’t care if you want to get a cocktail. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Good,” he said and took one of the glasses from me. Our fingers brushed. Such a small touch shouldn’t make me nearly keel over, but here we were. “Sometimes I want to have analcoholic beverage, and sometimes I don’t. Not everything is about you, Scribbles.”
Warmth flickered to life in my chest as we walked toward the edge of the ship. Maybe things were okay between us, despite the awkward pool kiss. “I guess it will be nice not to be the only sober person by the end of the night.”
We found spare seats near the railing, watching as someone insisted on initiating a game of limbo on the deck. My phone vibrated. We must not be that far away from land if I still had service.
Glass in one hand, I checked my texts.
Mom: So proud (and jealous!) of you, Macey. A press trip in Aruba, so cool! Bring me back a souvenir and let me know what you’re going to write for the magazine.
I dropped my phone back into my bag. Later, I’d respond, but right now I didn’t want to think about the magazine.
“Who died?” Noah asked. “Besides that man who just died of embarrassment slipping on the deck.”
“No one.” True to his words, there was a man on the deck trying to brush off the fact he’d tripped over his own feet. “It was just a text from my mom.”
“Really?” He waited for my nod. “Then why do you look so troubled by it?”
I tapped my foot against the floor, trying to find the best words. “Sometimes I think my mom loves my job more than I do. It had always been her dream to work at a magazine, but she and Dad had me when they were sixteen, so she never really had the chance to chase that dream. She texted to ask what I’m writing about this weekend.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Love your job,” he clarified.
“Oh,” I considered the question. I loved my paychecks and financial security. I loved having insurance that covered my inhalers and annual doctor’s appointments. “It’s a job. It’s something I’m meant to do, not love.”
“There’s nothing else you’d rather be doing?”
“I used to want a travel blog of my own, but that’s not in the cards for me right now. My column is doing really well, and I should focus on that.”
Noah responded, “Maybe you should focus on doing what you love, instead of what you feel obligated to do. Even if it’s scary to start something new.”
“That sounds like something a rich person would say.”
