Page 1 of The Vacation Mix-Up
chapter one
You only live once. Apparently. Unless you’re a cat… or Bill Murray inGroundhog Day, because without divine intervention or a feline righting reflex, one lifetime is all we have.
Until recently, I thought “only living once”was exactly what I was doing—following my dreams of becoming a publisher in New York—by working my ass off from morning ’til night six days a week.
I live in my mother’s apartment, own a somewhat desirous closet, and my bank balance is… healthy. Not Jeff Bezos healthy. More like sweetened oatmeal healthy, but healthy nonetheless. It gets me by, considering I have no children, husband, or hobbies.
And speaking of health, I’m the picture of it. I don’t smoke, drink, or party on weekdays… nor weekends. I commute to work by train and foot, eat at least one substantial meal a day, and I exercise my brain with a balanced mix of words and caffeine. My life rides a sturdy track to success, but apparently, that’s not what “only living once” is all about. According to my mom, it’s just a fraction—a small slice of the life pie—and her dying wish was for me to have the whole thing with cream, sprinkles, and even a cherry on top.
So that’s what I’m trying to do—live a fuller, less career-driven, and sturdier life for her.
“Big boat!” my Uber driver exclaims as he pulls into the drop-off point on the dock at Cape Liberty.
I glance out the window and correct him. “It’s a ship.”
“Same thing.”
Technically, he’s right, but I don’t have time to discuss his inept choice of adjective and noun. If I get into a grammatical debate with him, I’ll be late for my allocated boarding time, and that’s not an option. I’m never late for anything. Not my train, not my job, not even my period.
“I’ll help you with your luggage,” he says, opening his door and exiting the car.
Staring at the ship, I marvel at what will be my floating home for the next few weeks. “I’m really doing this, Mom,” I whisper, hugging my bag to my chest, unable to suppress a small, anxious smile.
Embarking on a European adventure is far outside my well-constructed comfort zone. I’ve never left the country, let alone sailed to another continent, so while I’m excited, I’m also nervous. I’ll be alone—but then, that isn’t unusual, given my career-driven existence.
“Seven countries in sixteen days,”Mom said excitedly when her frail hand placed the ticket into my palm.
I remember fumbling with it as if it would burn my skin, as if taking it would seal my acceptance of her unfair and undeserving fate. I also knew I couldn’t abandon my job for that long just to take a vacation. My boss, Georgia Peters—head of publishing at Duxley—would never allow it. I’m her rightandleft hand, her twenty-four-seven go-to, her eager and opportunistic slave.
Uncharacteristically, as it turns out, Georgia has a compassionate bone in her body and was surprisingly supportive of my trip—provided I worked on a couple of manuscripts in my downtime.
Stepping out of the Uber, I double-check that I’ve leftnothing on the back seat before collecting my luggage from the driver.
“Bon voyage,” he says, saluting like a sailor.
I smile politely but have zero time to waste. My appointed check-in is only minutes away, and I need to ring the agency temp who’ll be filling my role while I’m abroad. Every T must be crossed, every I dotted. Quite literally. No stone—and I mean absolutelynostone—can be left unturned, because beingthepersonal assistant of one of the country’s most sought-after publishers isn’t an easy feat, and it’s certainly not for the faint of heart. Georgia Peters is meticulous and indomitable, and yet I somehow manage to endure her Miranda Priestly tendencies.
Ifthatdevil wore Prada, then Georgia wears Hermès.
Nudging my large suitcase with my knee, I awkwardly sling my bag over my shoulder and dial the office on my cell, counting how many times it rings before the temp answers.
“Georgia Peters’s office, you’re speaking with Freya. How can I assist you?”
I draw in a frustrated breath. “Freya, it’s Riley. You need to answer quicker than that.”
“I picked up as soon as I could.” She sighs as if my request is impossible. It’s not; I do it day in and day out.
“We’ve been over this,” I say sympathetically. “Two rings. No more. Trust me, it’s for your own good.”
“Yes, Riley, I understand.”
“Did you collect her coffee?”
“Yes. Double espresso, turmeric, ginger, and honey.”
I wait for her to continue, and when she doesn’t, I come to a complete halt. “Please tell me you also asked for steamed milk.”
“Shit!”
