“I know,” I said, inspecting a dessert spoon for water spots. She’d said as much every time I brought up my itinerary. If it weren’t for the fact that one of us had to stay and work the day charters over the summer, I would’ve forced her to come with me.
“And why do you have to live vicariously through Jo?” Nina said to Britt. “Won’t you be working Med season and making bank? I can’t believe you’re abandoning me. Honestly, I may never forgive you.”
Britt rolled her eyes. “Workingin the Mediterranean and vacationing there are two different things. I won’t be sleeping in any castles.”
Ollie banged a pot on the counter, making us jump. “Could you three shut it? I’m trying to prepare molecular gastronomy for a fecking beach picnic. That primary’s a miserable little pox, and if I feck this up, I’m blaming you three for distracting me.”
“Aren’t chefs supposed to like cooking fancy shit?” Nina said. “Quit complaining and do your job.”
Ollie gave her a look that could bleach coral. “Don’t eat the head off me, Neen.”
Nina dismissed him with a wave. “I swear, I hardly understand you sometimes.”
Britt elbowed me and mimed sticking a finger down her throat, making me laugh. There was always some sort of tension between Nina and Ollie. We were never sure if they were about to murder each other or make out. My bet was on both.
“You’ll text me if they hook up this summer, won’t you? They’ve got way more drama thanThe Bachelor.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Who’s to say they haven’t already?”
Britt gasped. “Josephine Walker, do you know something I don’t?”
“Sorry.” I zipped my hand across my mouth. “Solemn best friend duties. My lips are sealed.”
Nina and Ollie leaned toward each other over the counter, tension sparking between them. (Sexual, or the kind that got you a special on Oxygen, who could say?) I had no idea if they’d hooked up or not. But whatever Nina felt about Ollie, it had to be serious, because she refused to talk about it, and Nina wasn’t the sort of person to hold her tongue.
Though Ollie had a habit of complaining about everything, he was right about this: Molecular gastronomy and beach picnics did not go together. Everything about the food he was preparing depended on precise temperatures and chemical reactions, making sand and sun less than ideal. But on a superyacht, the primary got what the primary wanted. And I couldn’t wait to get this one off the boat as soon as possible.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my job, because I did. I loved the routine of it: stretching sheets taut on the beds, the thud of the lines as they hit the dock, the constant hum of the washer and dryer, planning theme parties and scavenger hunts. Most of our guests were fun and generous people. But our current guests made me wonder if I should’ve gone to college and found a job that required shoes, offered a 401(k), and had a regular schedule with weekends off.
Our current primary was a Silicon Valley type with a God complex. Last night, after spending the entire week working indoors in the Sky Lounge and complaining about spotty Wi-Fi, he’d chewed me out in front of everyone for not smiling enough during dinner service.You’re coming off a little bitchy, sweetiewere his exact words. What he didn’t know was it had been three months to the day since Samson, my eleven-year-old nephew, was struck and killed by a car while riding his bike to a friend’s house. I’d spent the entire morning crying—in the laundry room, while scrubbing toilets, as I collected leaves from a nearby island and hot glued them to construction paper to make laurel wreaths for the toga party. So yeah, my smile wasn’t at full force. I’d wanted to tell him it takes a bitch to know one, but I liked being employed. Instead, I apologized and imagined all the offensive towel art I could make on his bed but wouldn’t.
“Hey, hello? Jo?” Nina said, knocking on my forehead. “Can you check if the guests need a refill on drinks? They’re on the sun deck.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
Nina scowled, so I shut my mouth and marched up the spiral staircase without another word.
Though the laundry room was my true love, the sun deck was a close second. Known as the “party spot,” the sun deck had a hot tub that could be converted into a dance floor, several oversized lounge chairs for sunbathing, and stunning panoramic views of the water. Another set of stairs led up to the highest point on the ship, a cushioned area called the bunny pad, where guests (or crew members looking for a moment alone)could escape for the best view on board. Mr. Silicon Valley didn’t care about once-in-a-lifetime ocean vistas, however. I found him in the hot tub with his coworkers and their bored girlfriends, all of them staring at their phones.
“Anyone need a refill?” I asked, plastering my brightest smile on my face.
The primary unglued his eyes from his phone. “I’ll have a gin fizz. And make sure you shake it long enough this time, Jen.”
I almost said,My name is Jo, jerk face, but the rest of the crew would kill me if I put our tip in jeopardy, so I contented myself with a “You got it” and an eye roll once I turned away. Fussy drinks for fussy guests, go figure.
Nina and I used to play a game where we’d guess which drinks the guests would order based on our first impressions of them. After a few months, we got scary good at it. Vodka sodas were the favorite of youthful, weight-conscious girlfriends. Whiskey drinkers were contemplative types who stared silently out at the water, but when they did talk, they had the best stories. Winos, on the other hand, talked nonstop. They were the ones who inevitably ordered late-night snacks, meaning we had to shake Ollie awake to make them (we played rock, paper, scissors to see who got stuck with that unpleasant task). But they were also the guests who most frequently invited us to join the fun: dancing with us at theme parties, or requesting we go down the giant inflatable slide behind them or double-bounce them on the floating trampoline. Painkillers were for the flashy new-money types who squeezed every last perk from their trip. The margarita drinkers were my favorite, though. Fun, but not overly complicated, and I’m not only saying that because margaritas are my and Nina’s drink of choice.
“Oh, and, sweetie,” the primary called out. “These towels are a little damp. Mind getting fresh ones?”
And gin fizz drinkers were the worst of them all. After all that shaking and straining, they were never pleased. I shook his drink with extravigor, imagining it were his head. I knew those towels were dry when I brought them up. What did a damp towel matter when he would get it soaked with his sopping-wet chest hair anyway?
When I finished making his drink, I stood near the hot tub and waited for his approval. All I got were smacked lips and a “Meh.” But what did I expect, a thank-you?
I ran belowdeck to exchange the towels (aka went downstairs, refolded the towels, waited three minutes, and returned with the same towels), then stood behind the bar, watching the primary and his friends take business calls while their girlfriends took dozens of pouty photos. After what felt like an eternity, Nina appeared on the sun deck and joined me by the bar.
“Having fun, Jen?” she asked.
“So much fun,” I said, wiping down the already-spotless bar with a damp rag.
