“These two have the answer,” he announces.
“Ah! The little ones!” Julio beams. “Always, they put the adults to shame. So—tell everyone, how many nines are there in one hundred?”
Max and Blakey exchange a conspiratorial look. Then, in perfect unison:
“Twenty!”
“Winners!” Julio shouts, arms flung wide.
Max and Blakey immediately explain the logic—counting from 1 to 100, ticking off every number containing a 9. “Ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two…”
And their prize? A Cabo San Lucas key ring. And because there are two of them, Captain Julio pulls out all the stops and throws in a little magnet.
And then, thank God, we are finally pulling up to the docks.
Julio’s voice cracks as he gives his final“Muchas gracias!”into the mic, then he ducks out of sight to help with the ropes.
Huge ropes. Worn. Heavy.
For the first time, I see it—the slump in his shoulders, the weariness replacing his carnival grin.
When Beckett catches my eye, I know he sees it too. And sure enough, when he shakes Julio’s hand on our way off the boat, he leans in just slightly… slipping a folded bill into the man’s palm.
It hits me how normal this feels, just for a second.
Like we’re a family wrapping up a long, ridiculous day on vacation.
But it’s a fragile illusion.
Because no matter how today feels—things between Beckett and me are essentially the same. I can’t go on living with his secrets.
My heart feels heavy as the tender bounces back toward the cruise ship, the water glinting in the late afternoon sun. Mom declares it’s bath time for the boys, only to be corrected that there’s no tub, just a shower. Everyone laughs weakly, thenshuffles towards the elevators, grateful the day’s over and that nothing official is planned tonight.
Back at our cabin, the door clicks shut behind us, and for a moment the silence feels… thick. Like what do we do now? Who are we?
“You, uh… want the shower first?” he asks, eyes flicking toward the bathroom but not settling. His fingers shift toward his pocket, probably itching to pull out that burner phone.
For a split second, I almost say,Who do you need to call?
“Sure,” I say instead. My voice is flat.
He nods once, still not pulling the phone out.
Then, unexpectedly, he adds, “Do you want room service? Or should we go to the dining room?”
I blink. I’m sunburned, salty, mortified by my screw up with the boat. The idea of dressing up and pretending to be a normal couple is just too… much.
“Room service sounds good,” I say quietly.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I know what you like.”
And somehow that unsettles me even more. Because he does know. Beckett has always known what I like, what I want.
And yet, the secrecy is still there.
“Sure.”
I grab my toiletry bag, slip into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me.
