Page 137 of Damaged

Alana shrugs. “Practice makes perfect.”

We walk back into the beach house, and Alana puts together a blender of margaritas. That’s as clear as the nightis for me. She makes them extra strong, and after my first drink, the three of us are singing and laughing and acting years younger than we all are.

It does feel like we made it. I have hundreds of thousands of dollars. Hailee has Alex and her dream job, and Alana, well…

Alana has always had her shit perfectly together. As much as she likes to have wild a night out.

The alcohol and constant conversation fill the hole in me tonight. It doesn’t feel like anything is missing. I have my friends. I have time to find a man I love.

But the second my thoughts pull the word love from my lexicon, I go back to the kitchen to pour myself an even larger margarita.

I wake up to the light crash of the surf. The sun is bright. When I roll over and check my phone, I see that it’s already past nine.

I stay still for a moment to assess my hangover.

No headache. No feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. I have a crushing urge to pee because I chugged more than a liter of water before my head hit the pillow. But I have a feeling I made it out okay. There’s a little sluggishness that is unavoidable. I don’t feel refreshed, but I’m far from debilitated.

I go to the kitchen and peek into both guest bedrooms to check if Hailee and Alana are both still sleeping. They are, and I go get changed, have a banana and big glass of mango juice, and then I’m out the door.

Our beach house isn’t far from the harbor where Bernard’s research vessel will depart from. The post office address that I texted to James is close by.

Mail from America arrives first thing in the morning, so every day before Hailee and Alana have woken up, I’ve walked in the early Caribbean heat to see if anything arrived for me.

It’s a little pathetic. He said it’s just tax documents. But still, maybe there’s a letter in there, too. Something that says good luck. Have fun. He did want to send it to the boat address and not my apartment.

But he never responded after I texted him the address. Not even athanks.I don’t know why I would expect anything from him. This just goes to show how my mind is still being led by my heart.

I miss James. I love James. It’s okay for these things to be true after only a month apart. It’ll take time to heal.

And heal I must. Maybe a more rational part of me is hoping that Idojust get a stack of tax documents. No letter. Nothing personal, whatsoever.

But I don’t feel that way when I stand at the post office desk and ask if there’s anything for Sophia Simms.

This morning I’m extra anxious. We won’t be back in port for thirty days. We only come back to the island once during the expedition, and that could always change based on weather and if the shipwreck we’re exploring demands more time.

The mail clerk goes in the back and comes back with the same sorry expression she’s worn every morning I’ve come here. She can tell I’m hopeful for something. “No mail, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks for checking!” I say like it’s no big deal. I’m trying to hide my pathetic heartbreak at the fact that I didn’t get my tax documents from my old boss. When I put it that way, I sound desperate.

I suppose I am. I keep seeing myself turn from him and walk into the snow that night in Quebec.

I leave the little building and head back into the heat that’s building in the street. I pick up some pastries at the bakery and walk back to the beach house.

Alana and Hailee are worse for wear. They’re zombies from the hangovers. Eyelids low. Movements slow.

“You went outside already? Like… in the sun?” Alana asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re a madwoman.”

“I think I had fewer margaritas than you guys.”

“We’re on vacation. Ugh.” Hailee puts her head against the cool countertop. “Don’t judge us,” she says jokingly.

I’m glad I took my foot off the gas last night. Bad hangovers give me anxiety these days, and I’ve got plenty of that today.

“Did you get your mail?” Alana asks.

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