Page 14 of A Perfect Disaster

However, a part of me remains at the far end of the deck, where Helen keeps working as if nothing could distract her. I never thought of her as someone sad, withdrawn, or lonely. Before, I saw her as strong, unattainable, brilliant. A woman built to solve problems while the rest of us are incapable. But maybe she always had a hard time trusting people, and I, with my cowardice, confirmed to her that trusting someone was a bad idea.

When we finish the first round, I give them the freedom to go to dinner and rest. They scatter, discussing what they’ve learned. I stay by the railing, my folder pressed against my chest. Helen is still on the other side, farther away now. I watch her as she talks to a technician. She points to a section of the deck, listens intently, and nods.

This woman doesn’t waste time. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything. Everything about her is efficient; even the way she frowns has a clear purpose. But I keep remembering another Helen. The one who, years ago, stayed with me after a disastrous event while I pretended I wasn’t exhausted.

“If you keep smiling like that, your face is going to break,” she told me that night.

I laughed. She offered me a cup of coffee from the machine, and for an hour we stayed there, silently gazing at the horizon. I liked her—I liked her a lot—and she liked me. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much. Because I didn’t betray just anyone. I betrayed someone who, in her clumsy and precious way, had begun to let me into her heart.

Helen looks at me again, and I don’t look away. I don’t smile either. I just look at her. And for a fleeting second, something changes in her expression. Then she looks down at her tablet and walks away.

“Maika,” Lara says behind me. “Are you coming to dinner with us?”

“Sure.”

Lara hooks her arm through mine as we walk toward the crew restaurant. Nico keeps talking way too loud, and the others join the conversation with that ease I’ve always envied in some people.

I walk with them, half-listening, letting the group’s chatter carry me along. The Marine IV hasn’t set sail yet, and I already feel like the journey has begun. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that a part of me is eager to find out where all this will take us.

5

Helen

Maika sent me the proposal at exactly 10:47 p.m., thirteen minutes before the deadline I’d set for her. Of course she did. Showing off, as if she needed to prove to me that she’s not only capable of following instructions to the letter, but that she can afford the luxury of meeting them early enough to be irritating.

I opened the file on my laptop with a glass of iced lemonade by my side and the firm intention of tearing it apart. I was looking for any small flaw, any loose end that would allow me to keep the comfortable, prejudiced opinion I had of her intact.

The problem was that the document was flawless. Organized, clear, and damn practical. It included names, exact locations along the evacuation routes, staff rotations, assigned radio channels, support points, and detailed observations on passengers’ typical behavior during evening events. She even included preventive notes on the “hot spots”: those areas of the promenade deck where cruise passengers tend to crowd together to take photos with the sunset or clog the flow while waiting in line at the bar.

I read every line, pressing my lips together. There was no trace of the chaotic Maika I remembered. She had provided exactly what our superiors had asked for at the officers’ meeting: a layer of human psychology applied to the cold, flat evacuation plan. Something difficult to refute without looking like I was clinging to my pride with both hands and an emergency whistle between my teeth.

No, no, and no. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit that she was right.

I saved the file in the general drill folder and forced myself to shut down the computer. I did it because I’m a professional and because, even though it stung to admit it, some of her proposals deserved a chance. Just a few. Maybe several. But not nearly all of them.

The start of the season is critical, and the entire crew—from the first officer to the last housekeeper—has to act with impeccable professionalism. The crew’s general drill, hours before the boarding of the thousands of passengers who will fill the ship begins, is our last safety net. My team of security officers was ready. I was ready. The only thing left was to see if Maika’s entertainment circus would know how to stay in its place.

· · ·

The next morning, the harbor sun is already beating down on the deck. Maika appears right on time, escorted by her entertainment supervisors and holding a bottle of ice-cold water. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail higher than strictly allowed, slightly violating the company’s image guidelines, and her sunglasses are perched on her head. She seems calm. Too calm for my peace of mind.

“Good morning, Officer Müller,” she greets me as she approaches.

“Good morning,” I reply.

“We’ve checked the radio channels and the assignments for the assembly stations,” she says, stopping a meter away from me.

“I know. I got your email.”

Her mouth curves into a barely perceptible smile, the kind that makes you want to open the navigation manual and hit her with it.

“So you’ve read it…” she says, in a sing-song tone.

“That’s usually the goal when you hit send, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad to see the security department has a handle on basic technology,” she replies with sharp irony.

I stare at her, holding her gaze. She doesn’t blink.