Page 119 of Last Call at the Local

Beer dribbles down Alex’s chin when he turns to look at her.

“I’m not pregnant,” she says. “You’ve seen me drinking all season, Nina. We shared a fishbowl at that weird pirate bar—”

“Davy Jones’s Locker isfestive, not weird.” I fiddle with one of the dangling unicorn earrings I take off only to shower and sleep. “You could’ve been pregnant. I don’t know your life. How am I supposed to know if you adhere to CDC guidelines?”

“Youdoknow my life,” Jo says. “Which means you also know I never planned to work in yachting forever. I never planned to work in yachting at all.”

The three of us fall silent. Mitch’s walls are littered with photographs, and ticket stubs, and dollar bills, making me feel as if I’ve stepped into a stripper’s scrapbook. I glance at the wall beside us, my heart cartwheeling in my chest when I spot the Polaroid of me, Jo, and Ollie, theSerendipity’s chef before Alex. I decide that our current chef, Amir, is my new favorite. His food isn’t as good as Ollie’s or Alex’s, but at least Amir has never broken my heart.

Ollie and I started on theSerendipitythe same year, when both of us were new to yachting. We worked together for eight charter seasons, and it was in this very bar, almost a year ago to the day, that I’d found out he was leaving to become sous chef at Miami’s illustrious Il Gabbiano.

Don’t think about him, the voice in my head chides. But how can I avoid it when he’s staring right at me from that damn Polaroid? I lean over and grab the photo, yanking it free from the wall with one sure pull.

“Nina,” Jo says. “What are you doing?”

I shove the photo into my bra. “Souvenir,” I say. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it: burn it, tuck it into a book, sneak back here in a week and staple it to the wall again.

“Shots!” Britt, theSerendipity’s third stew, appears beside the table with four shot glasses crowded in her hands. She grins at us, completely oblivious to the tension she’s walked into.

I take two of the shot glasses and glare at Jo. “I need this more than you.” I tip Jo’s shot down my throat before chasing it with mine.

Britt scoots into the booth energetically, nudging me against the wall and blocking me into this hellscape.

“Leave some room for the Holy Spirit, won’t you?” I shove Britt over until half her ass hangs out of the booth. “Lord help me sitting next to you all night. Where’s RJ? He’d let a girl have some peace and quiet.”

Britt snorts. “I doubt it.”

I’ve never heard RJ, theSerendipity’s bosun, string more than one sentence together at a time, and I’ve known him for as long as I’ve been in yachting. Jo and I exchange a look that says,What’s that supposed to mean?But I look away when I remember she is now myformerbest friend.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere mooning over Amir anyway?” I ask Britt. Their love affair had done nothing positive for the efficiency of the interior crew this season.

“I’m letting him miss me,” Britt says. Her gaze is unfocused, and I wonder how many shots she’s had already. “What is it with stews and chefs?” she muses. “Is it the knives? I mean, it’s got to be more than a coincidence. Me and Amir, Jo and Alex, you and—” I raise aneyebrow. She mimics my expression and realizes her mistake. “Uh, Chrissy Teigen.”

I twirl the two empty shot glasses before me on the table. “Is Chrissy technically a chef? There was a robust debate about it on Twitter a few weeks ago, and I don’t remember what the consensus was.” Alex opens his mouth to answer, but I cut him off. “Rhetorical question, Alex. I don’t want to hear anything from you. It’s bad enough you’ve stolen away my former best friend.”

Jo looks stricken. “Former?”

Britt sighs unsteadily against the table and nearly topples out of the booth. “They told you, huh?”

“You knew about this?” I say.

“Britt!” Jo hisses.

Britt flashes drunken jazz hands at me and shouts, “Surprise!”

“She’s taking over for me,” Jo explains.

Which means Xav, our captain, already knows too. “Next you’ll tell me RJ found out before me.”

“That may be my fault,” Britt slurs. She grabs Jo’s unfinished margarita, but I pry it from her hands and pass her my water instead.

“She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” Jo says.

“RJ made me tell him.” Britt leans forward to catch the water’s straw in her mouth and misses.

I ignore the revelation that RJ actually converses with someone and turn to Jo. “When?”

“Why would I know when she told him?”

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