“Oh! I almost forgot,” she exclaims, running out of the cabin. When she returns, she’s clutching a glittery blue gift bag that I’m certain her future MIL wouldnotapprove of. Shimmering plastic bits sprinkle across the duvet as she sets it down.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Just a little something to say thank you for coming. I know this kind of trip isn’t exactly your idea of fun, but you being here means the world to me. Really.”
Way to lay the guilt on thick, Jules. I reach into the bag, past the copious layers of white and navy tissue paper, and grab hold of something smooth and weighty. I pull out a blue leather book with my initials embossed on the front—SDO. The white pages inside are heavy and slightly grainy.
“It’s a sketchbook.”
“And pencils, too!” she announces conspiratorially, pulling a beautiful set of pencilsthat cost more than last night’s hotel room out of the bag. “I know you’re partial to oil, but I thought Patricia might skin me alive if I brought a bottle of paint thinner aboard.”
I run my hands over the book’s soft leather binding. There was a time when I couldn’t go a day without one of these, but I haven’t so much as doodled on a napkin in over a year. The only thing I’ve had time for since starting my fellowship is teaching, research, and worrying about teaching or research. But feeling the familiar weight of the sketchbook on my lap triggers a warmth that blooms in my stomach: a forgottenintimacy that wraps itself around me like a hug and squeezes just the right amount. A feeling that even though I’m on the Titanic Junior, thousands of miles from the shores of the Olympic Peninsula, I’m home.
“Thanks, Jules,” I tell her, and give her one of those rocking hugs reserved for the people you really can’t live without. “It’s perfect.”
I don’t tell her that I’m not even sure I remember how to draw. The satisfied expression on her face is enough of a gift for me.
“I’m glad you like it, Stelly.”
Before she gets up, she squeezes my hand, planting an extra kiss on Pepe’s plush forehead like she used to do when we were little.
“Now, you’ve got exactly—“ she looks down at her Apple Watch. “Eleven minutes to sulk. After that I expect you bikini-ed up and ready for dolphin spotting!”
“Copy.”
“Just do me a favor, please, andtryto enjoy yourself this week. You’ve got the rest of your life to be stressed out.”
She winks at me before opening the door, and I sigh. If there’s one thing Jules and I have in common, it’s that we’re pathologically independent. So if she’s asking me for help with her in-laws, I know it must bereallyimportant. I’m just going to have to swallow my secret for another ten days—or at least until she starts to feel more comfortable.
There’s just one teeny, tiny problem.
Caleb already knows.
7
While we don’t see any dolphins on the way out of the marina, the view from the bow (that’s rich people for ‘boat-front’) is glorious. Jules and I perch together on the front of the ship like Jack and Rose, our arms looped around the silver railing as we lean over to watch the cerulean water parting beneath us. It’s almost enough to make me forget about Caleb blatantly snubbing me. At least if he’s pretending we’ve never met, he’s got no way to spill the beans about my suspension. And who cares what Captain Frigid thinks, anyway?
A warm breeze whips my dark brown hair across my face and lifts the sleeves of my t-shirt. Sunlight sparkles over water so still it could be made of glass. And to our right, island after lush, green island stands out against the blue.
I’ve seen pictures of places like this on Instagram ads—water the color of sea glass that laps against bone white coast—but I never thought I’d actually see one for myself. I’ve spent so long clawing to get ahead, to be the 1% of the 1% that actually makes it into a fully funded art history PhD program, that traveling anywhere further than Detroit seemed likea distant dream. There is nothing to accomplish, here. No dissertation committee breathing down my neck, no taking back exits to avoid a run in with Dr. V and his new bride-to-be. Just Jules, me and the ocean. Just our breath and the salt and the sea.
Maybe Marianne was right. Maybe a resetiswhat I need.
After a little over an hour underway, we pull up at our first anchorage, Musket Cove, and drop anchor in a pristine palm-lined cove that couldn’t be more perfect if I’d painted it. If I weren’t so terrified of heights, I’d jump right off the bow into the sea.
“I’m going to see where Harry’s gotten off to,” Jules says, squeezing my hand. “He has a bad habit of getting sucked into work emails if I’m not watching his every move. Can I have Gia get you anything?”
I shake my head. At what point will the word “work” cease to make my stomach twist into some sort of disfigured balloon animal?
Instead of following Jules, I creep inside and back down to my cabin, where the gorgeous sketchbook she got me is waiting, untouched, on the desk. These islands must already be working their magic on me, because instead of holing up in my luxurious cabin like a socially awkward troll, I slip it into my bag and head upstairs. Unfortunately, I get lost about three times on different stairways and almost end up in the engine room. Maybe the first sketch I’ll put in this baby is a map.
Once I reach the stern deck and check to make sure no one’s lurking around, I pull out the sketchbook from my bag, holding it in my palm like a touchstone. The feeling of the soft leather is an anchor grounding me into the present moment, connecting me back to my breath. I open it, slowly, as if it contains some sort of panicked bird. But nothing leaps out at me from the pages. Only a blank canvas that beckons to be altered.
I look out at the moon-shaped cove we’re anchored in,listening to the sounds of water softly lapping and Matthew and Steven splashing around off the swim-deck. But when I place one of the pencils on the page, aiming to capture some of the swaying palm trees ahead, my fingers don’t move. This used to be second nature to me, but I don’t even remember the last time I doodled on a notebook, let alone sketched deliberately. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if the thing I was once most passionate about has been suffocated by the unending drudgery of the last three years?
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m too scared to try. Right now, I can pretend I’m still an artist. I can blame burnout and business for my hiatus and call it a day. But if I’ve really lost my creative spark, if what was once my lifeblood is buried too deep to dig out, I won’t be able to hide behind life circumstances anymore. I’ve made a mess out of pretty much every facet of my life. I’m not sure if I can handle knowing I’ve lost this, too.
I can’t handle that, yet. Not today.
