Page 2 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Freya!” I shriek, exasperated.
“I’m so sorry, Riley. I forgot that part.”
“I wrote it down in the Memorize-This-If-You-Want-to-Live bible I left you.”
“I know!” she whines. “But I was in a panic this morning, and the milk bit slipped my mind.”
Knowing my absence from Georgia’s life will spell trouble for everyone at the office, I glance at my watch, wincing at the time. “Has she arrived yet?”
“No.”
“Then go.”
“Huh?”
“Go!Go and get her the coffee she requires. It’s life or death, Freya. Her Golden Latte is the catalyst for the day to come.”
I shut my eyes—because headache—debating whether boarding the white monstrosity before me is a wise move or not. But then I remember my mother’s pleading, heavy gaze as she handed me the ticket, and I know I have to set sail. For her.
“Go. I’ll call ahead. It should be ready by the time you get there.”
Ending the call, I immediately dial the coffee shop to order Georgia’s liquid lifeline, informing Casey, the barista, who it’s for.
No more needs to be said.
My stomach twists with unease, but I pocket my cell and continue walking as a family of four, all wearingI Love to Cruiseprinted T-shirts, marches past me.
As I shuffle out of their way, a train of suitcases in their wake, the older son knocking his sister’s hat off her head and laughing as she falls behind to pick it up.
“Loser!” she calls after him.
“No fighting!” their mother barks before visibly forcing herself to take a deep breath. “Smell that fresh sea air. Isn’t it wonderful?”
I take a whiff, wishing I hadn’t. All I can smell is apprehension and fish.
The mother bends down, picks up her daughter’s hat, and then cups the little girl’s cheek, their loving exchange thickening my throat as I swallow. Momma often cupped my cheek too, her fingers warm and nurturing. No matter the day Ihad or what lay ahead, that subtle gesture always brought me peace, even if only momentarily.
Blinking back tears, I nudge my suitcase once again, following the family to where cruise staff wait to take our luggage. They check for ID tags and cabin numbers, which were printed and attached at home, and then heave my case onto a large metal cart.
I hug my tote bag to my chest again, relieved I kept my most valuable items with me.
“What’s your check-in time, ma’am?” one of them asks me.
I glance at my watch as the alarm I set starts to vibrate my wrist. “Uh… now.”
“Please proceed to the elevator and then head to the counter.”
“Thank you.” I sigh, relieved he doesn’t berate me for being late. It’s nice, considering I’m accustomed to being criticized for the smallest of things.
Noticing the doors to the elevator closing, I call out, “Hold the door!” while scurrying forward, almost tripping in my heels as a muscular arm scrawled in ink slides across the steel, preventing it from shutting.
“Thank you,” I huff out, slightly breathless as I wiggle into the cramped elevator car, my ass brushing the man’s thigh as I squish in tighter to allow the doors to close. “Sorry.” I glance over my shoulder at him, once again hugging my bag to my chest as I smile apologetically. “I probably should’ve gotten the next one.”
He nods but doesn’t quite smile back, so I look forward, no stranger to cramped elevators, except they normally comprise like-minded, professionally attired people, ready to start or leave work. Not large-brimmed hats, carry-on suitcases, or flustered mothers cradling babies.
Please, God, I don’t want a cabin next to a crying baby. I’ll never get any work done.
Staring at the polished steel doors, my reflection a blur of color, I silently pray my cabin neighbors are over the age of sixty. The elderly are quiet, mostly. At least my mother was. Mostly.
