Page 3 of Ship Outta Luck

Unable to shake the distinct sense of being watched, I look around. But find no one.

“Fudge.”

I savor the euphemism, the shape my lips make around the f as it rolls from my tongue. But it isn’t as satisfying as the real thing, and my lower lip curls down.

Control is satisfying though. Control, with my carefully scheduled days. My constant reminders to stand, breathe, and exercise… routine and control are the only things keeping me from a complete meltdown.

“Fudge.”

Unbuttoning a few of my top buttons, which doesn’t make a difference at all, I stride towards my old, beat-up truck. The red paint peeled and pebbled in places, a victim of the same salt air I taste on my tongue. Another relic of my father, of our shared past.

My throat swells, my tongue thickening in my mouth.

TheSantu Espirituwas our thing; the hobby we shared. Then the mutual obsession we shared, hours spent tracking tides and histories and leads that would go up in smoke. Just because I don’t knowexactlywhere it’s collecting silt and sea creatures doesn’t mean it isn’t out there, waiting for me.

It should be waiting forus.

And now?

Now I go home, to no one. No boyfriend, no roommate.

Just the constant glow of my laptop, the endless cataloguing of historic tides and possible historic sandbar locations. Primary sources and spreadsheets. And checking my scuba gear. Cleaning the boat. Working on the boat. Remembering to eat, thanks to the reminders in my schedule.

Alone.

Maybe I should make time for something else—someone else.

I shake the thought off.

No.

The wreck—it’s my life’s work. I won’t give up now, not with success so close I can taste it. There isn’t time for anyone. And it’s selfish to expect anyone else to understand how much the ship means to me.

The hair suddenly rises on the back of my neck. That feeling’s back—that I’m being watched. Did I hear something? I stop walking, listening intently.

The calls of seabirds replace the crunch of caliche under my heels, but there’s nothing else to hear.

I inhale deeply.

I could have sworn I heard something.

Another rustle.

My eyes dart to the massive plumbago border of the parking lot, its powdery blue blooms swaying gently.

Nothing.It’s nothing.

I need sleep.Mmhmm. And maybe a really big, salty margarita.

Still, despite the heat, I shiver. Reflexively, I palm my car keys, turning them into a weapon. Just like my dad taught me.

Along with plenty of other tricks.

“June?” A voice pings off the truck, and I levitate briefly before regaining my balance, clutching my chest.

A tall blonde strides around another car.

“Charlie.” I press my hand to my heart. “You nearly scared me to death.”

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