I grabbed the cigarette from his mouth and stuck it in my own. “You can’t help me if you aren’t here. And before you ask—no, I don’t have anyone else. As ridiculous as it sounds, you’re the best friend I have. Maybe the only one I have left. It isn’t like I can get help from my parents.”
Ollie looked away from me to rub at the burn mark on the cushion. “What if you meet someone?”
“I’m never getting married,” I said. “For love, anyway. Believe me, I’ve seen what a marriage built on love can do to you. I’m not interested.”
“Yeah,” Ollie said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“So?”
“You really want to go around acting like we’re... married?”
“That’s the best part. We won’t tell anyone. I’ve looked it up. You don’t need a witness to get legally married in Florida. No one has to know. We can fake it all. We’ll take the happy couple pictures. We’ll elope. No one but the immigration officer has to see them. There’s aninterview we’ll have to get through, but we’ll have plenty of time to get our story straight, and since we’ll be roommates, I don’t see why we can’t practice for it. You can get your green card in a year, but it’ll be with conditions. Two years after that, you can apply for citizenship or just stick with permanent residency. Whatever you want. We’ll get divorced as soon as you’re in the clear.”
Ollie paused. “You’d really do this?” he said, the first sign he was actually considering it.
“Yes.” It was ridiculous. Dangerous. Wildly fucked-up and ethically wrong on so many levels. But I pushed all that aside.
“I always expected I’d end up in a loveless marriage,” he said.
“Does that mean you’re in?”
He sighed, a spark of hope in his eyes when they met mine. “I’m in. Let’s do it, Nina Lejeune. Let’s get married.”
11
Present day, March, two and a half months left of charter season
In what comes as a surprise to absolutely no one, the charter season from hell does not improve. Almost halfway through the season, we get a primary who runs a music-streaming start-up and has brought his girlfriend, cousin, and two of his coworkers along for the fun. All the men seem to think they are God’s gift to women. The dinner conversation is appalling. I’m not sure I’ve ever had my ass so openly ogled at a dinner table before, and I have plenty of experience.
By the third night of their six-day charter, I’ve had enough of the primary’s creepy comments to the girls—asking Britt if she can do breakfast service in a bikini, pretending to micromanage Alyssa as she wipes down tables so he can stare at her ass. The final straw was when he grabbed Nekesa by the arm as she was clearing dessert plates and said he bet they’d make beautiful babies.
“I’ve already got two kids, and they’re hideous,” Nekesa deadpanned back.
The primary, too drunk to figure out if she was serious or not, let go of her arm and took a long sip of his mojito, unaware of his girlfriend’s glare from across the table.
I hoped that if the girlfriend married the guy for money, she’d at least take out a good life insurance policy before suffocating him in his sleep.
Sexual harassment is an unfortunately common aspect of the job. Most of our guests are respectful, especially the ones used to chartering yachts. But inevitably we have a few charters that are complete duds. The guests think the money they’ve paid to be here means they can do whatever they like, and nothing gets them off quite like having a bunch of young women catering to their every whim for a few days.
Simply put, these situations are dangerous and complicated. The only times I’ve ever felt truly trapped on this boat were when I was out fending off lewd comments from a drunken asshole in international waters. No cell signal, no escape. How can you tell the difference between an inappropriate joke and an actual threat? When should you risk a thirty-thousand-dollar tip, disappointing the rest of the crew, and the possibility of everyone thinking you’re overreacting to tell the primary he’s a skeevy perv?
It can feel impossible to speak up.
But it’s my responsibility to protect the girls. Nekesa is supposed to work lates, but the guests are still up, still drinking, and the primary is becoming more predatory by the minute. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving any of them to babysit the guests tonight.
Once we’ve given the guests fresh drinks and they’ve wandered up to the hot tub, I pull Britt, Alyssa, and Nekesa into the galley for an emergency meeting and instruct them to avoid the primary as much as possible for the remainder of the charter. I swap shifts with Nekesa and send her to bed, telling Alyssa and Britt to do the same once they’ve pulled everything we’ll need for breakfast tomorrow.
Nekesa slumps onto the counter in relief. “ThankGod. I was really worried I was going to have to pretend I had two ugly kids for the rest of the night. I even found a few pictures on Google just in case. It took methree yearsto get a job in yachting. I’m not letting some creep ruin it for me.”
All her humor aside, I know it can’t be easy for Nekesa to be here. When she says it took her three years to get a job, I believe it. The industry is painfully white.“Don’t worry. I’ve handled more creeps than I can count over the last nine years.”
Once the girls leave the galley, I disappear down into the crew mess and nab one of the deckhands’ Red Bulls from the fridge.
“I thought my coming back meant you’d renounce your life of crime,” Ollie says.
I chug the rest of the can, which has Simon’s name written in large letters on it, and turn to find Ollie watching me from where he leans against the doorframe that leads to the crew quarters.
I set the can on the counter and pad over to him. I’ve been up since six thirty, and from the looks of the guests, the party isn’t stopping anytime soon. God, I’m tired. So tired that Ollie looks like the perfect comfort right now, damn the consequences. I touch him low on his stomach, walking my fingers slowly up to the center of his chest as I speak. “I think if I were to analyze the history of my criminal tendencies... the fault would land squarely on you,” I say, and tap his heart.
