Page 35 of Ship Happens

Owen motions with his hands, gesturing to the moment.

“Right, well . . .” Jacob sighs, falling to the edge of the bed next to Owen. “Maybe we could use this time to . . . figure things out?”

Eyeing Jacob suspiciously, Owen considers the words carefully, weighing all of them. “What does figuring things out look like?”

“Maybe we get to a place where we’re not pretending.”

Owen stares down, fixating on the pattern stitched into the white comforter on the bed. “Maybe.”

“Do you think we could at least try?” Jacob asks. “I know that being friends might be too much, but . . .”

“But . . . ?” Owen prompts.

“Forget it.” Jacob stands with a sigh. “It was a dumb idea anyway.”

Owen wants to stop him, tell him that maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all, but he doesn’t. He feels his chest flush with shame and pressure. Forcing his eyes closed, Owen does what he can to steady his breathing, praying that Jacob hasn’t noticed.

“So, it’s a truce?” Owen asks, just so they can put a label on it.

“A truce,” Jacob repeats, his words weighty, like he really doesn’t like that this is the best thing that they can hope for.

Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.

Who knows, there’s always the off chance they’ll find closure—maybe they could be friendly by the end of this trip. But Owen’s never been a glass-half-full kind of person. What if they end up hating each other more?

With his pinky extended, Jacob reaches toward Owen. “Truce?”

Owen stares at the outstretched finger, their old method of making sure the other person was being 100 percent honest about something, a symbol of absolute truth, no goofing around or purposefully rage-baiting the other. He jumps when there’s a loud slamming against the door, and the sound of footsteps, followed by Kaitlyn shouting, “Owen! Jacob! Hurry up, homos!”

“What are they even doing out there?” Owen asks.

“Abigail and Kevin wanted game night,” Jacob replies. “Pictionary, but I think Abigail brought her Uno cards too.”

“So, someone’s probably bleeding tonight,” Owen quips. “We should keep the ship medics on standby.”

Owen listens to the warm sound of Jacob’s laughter, breathing in the lingering scent of Jacob’s cologne. “I’ll keep them on speed dial.”

With his own pinky, Owen finally reaches up, returning the gesture. So, there it is.

A truce. He can’t imagine being Jacob’s friend again, being that involved in his life, going out to dinner or movies, texting and calling him just to check in; to have that all again when he can’t take Jacob’s hand and hold it as they walk down the street, when he can’t rest his hand on Jacob’s lap as they ride the bus, when he can’t hold Jacob’s cheeks in his hands and kiss him for as long as he wants . . . How could he survive that?

Maybe it’d be better to burn his bridges, totally let Jacob go.

Wouldn’t that be easier than having to exist alongside him, without ever getting the chance to love Jacob the way that he used to?

The way he knows, deep down, he still does.

Chapter Seven

You Were Totally Prepared to Become a Climate Terrorist

Owen closes his eyes, breathing slowly.

In through the nose. Hold for four seconds. And out through the mouth.

“I can do this.” He whispers the words of affirmation, hoping no one hears him talking to himself.

Owen does this a few times, urgently willing his pulse to stop beating so wildly, for his hands to stop shaking. I got this, he thinks to himself.