“The boat is leased,” I correct her. “Not sold.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s actually a very significant legal difference.”
She waves a hand dismissively, already crossing to the window seat where I’ve stacked the boxes meant for storage. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing one of my old flannels over what looks like a bathing suit top. The yacht company orientation starts in three days. She’sbeen practically vibrating with nervous energy since she got the confirmation email.
I grab another roll of packing tape from the floor and start assembling a new box. “It’s only for a year. After that, we’ll see how it goes.”
“Sounds like it mightgoforever.”
I pause, tape dispenser in hand, and meet her gaze.
Mabie’s expression is carefully neutral, but I can still read the mix of emotions swimming behind her eyes. Hope. Worry. The particular brand of sisterly concern that comes from watching your brother pine for a decade.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” I admit quietly.
She nods slowly, accepting that non-answer for what it is. Then she ruins the moment by dragging what appears to be a suitcase the size of a small refrigerator through the doorway.
“I need help.”
I stare at the monstrosity. “With what? Smuggling a body through customs?”
“With closing this goddamn suitcase.” She drops onto the bed beside it, slightly out of breath. “I sat on it for twenty minutes. The zipper’s stuck.”
I set down the tape and approach the luggage situation with the wariness it deserves. The suitcase is bulging at every seam, fabric straining against the frame like it’s moments away from explosive decompression.
“How much did you pack?”
“Everything I might need.”
“For a yacht contract? They provide uniforms. And bedding. And meals.”
“What if I get cold? What if there’s a formal event? What if I meet someone important and need options for date night?” She gestures imperially at the straining zipper, a queen demanding service from her underling. “Just help me sit on it.”
With a sigh, I move to help her.
We both press down with our full weight and the suitcase creaks ominously.
“On three,” she says. “One, two?—”
We bounce. The fabric groans. Something inside makes a sound that might be a shoe box collapsing.
“Harder,” Mabie commands.
“I’m trying?—“
“Really put your back into it?—”
The zipper gives way with a sound like surrender, teeth finally meshing together in one long, triumphant zip. We both freeze, still perched on the overstuffed luggage, waiting for it to explode.
It doesn’t.
“Ha!” Mabie punches the air triumphantly. “Told you it would work.”
“You told me nothing. You just demanded I participate in almost destroying your luggage.”
She grins at me, and for a moment she looks exactly like she did at fifteen—all enthusiasm and determination, ready to take on the world with nothing but stubbornness and a questionable amount of optimism.
