I don’t spend a moment considering whether or not he’s right. I’d rather not know. “Well, let the record show I never told you what to do. If we don’t have any expectations, we won’t have any disappointments. With the way things are, we have nothing to lose.”
Ollie doesn’t say anything. The sun climbs the sky quickly now, bathing everything in golden light. Moments like this are usually my favorite. They fill me up with enough peace to get through even the worst charter.
But today, with the wordswe have nothing to losehanging between us, I don’t feel at peace. I feel... unsettled.
Because when I look at Ollie beside me, when I think of waking up to find his bunk empty, I know I’m lying not only to him, but to myself too.
10
Nine years earlier
It was strange and terrifying how quickly Ollie and I became friends. Four months in close quarters had a way of intensifying everything. The smoke breaks, late nights talking in each other’s rooms, the bickering in the galley. I’d meant to keep our friendship casual, but somehow, whenever the line between late and early blurred, I’d end up telling him things I’d never told anyone else. I told myself it was because being on charter felt like being in a separate universe, one completely removed from reality. But I couldn’t deny it also had something to do with Ollie himself. He was a good listener. He knew when to laugh and when to keep his mouth shut. When to call someone a motherfucking shitehawk and when to call me on my BS.
Two weeks before the end of our first charter season together, I slipped down into the bilge to find decorations for a casino party we were throwing in the Sky Lounge but discovered Ollie sitting on one of the costume bins with his face buried in his hands.
He didn’t see me at first, and I hesitated, unsure whether I shouldmake myself known or leave before he found out I’d seen him. I thought back to the night we’d become friends and how he’d seen me cry and said exactly what I needed to hear. It was only fair I return the favor if that was what he wanted.
“Ollie?” I said. I pulled the door shut behind me. Whatever was happening here, I didn’t want anyone else walking in on it.
When Ollie dropped his hands and stood, he turned his face from me. “Don’t you have work to do?” he said. He cleared his throat and glanced over at me as if trying to assess how much I’d seen.
“Are you... all right?” I said.
Ollie folded his arms over his chest and paced the bilge but didn’t answer.
“Ollie—”
He halted suddenly and sank back onto the costume bin. “I’m fucked, Neen.”
“What do you mean?” I crossed the bilge and nudged his shoulder until there was enough space for me to sit beside him.
“It’s my visa,” he said.
“What about it?”
“I’m here on my student visa for culinary school,” he said.
“But you graduated from culinary school last year.”
“They authorized twelve months of post-completion practical training. That’s this gig.”
“Okay...”
“And my twelve months are up at the end of July.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, that should be easy enough, right? Don’t most international crew get a B-1/B-2 visa?”
He picked at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. “Yeah, well, not me.”
“Why not? I know you think you’re special, Oliver Dunne, but you’re not.”
He side-eyed me. “You know how I left for a few days in March?”
“Of course I do. They were the best part of the whole season.”
“Smartass,” Ollie said. “I was in Ireland for a few days for my visa interview, but it got denied. I’ve been trying to sort things out since, but...” He shook his head.
“But you’ve got a job already. Why would they deny you?” Despite being the most commonly used visa for yachting, the B-1/B-2 wasn’t designed for it. I’d heard getting one could be tricky. It all came down to the specific person you interviewed with, but Ollie already had a job. He’d studied in the US for years. I’d have thought his getting one would be no problem.
