AllFreeNovel
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She pats my shoulder on her way to the door. “Things will look up, I’m sure of it. Between the sun and the sand and Sawyer, you’ll find something to write about.”
Sawyer
A good run should help clear my head. It does at home, anyway, and there’s something kind of nice about running with nothing in front of you but the treadmill screen and infinite ocean.
When she first suggested I take up running, I thought it was a little too on the nose. But she clarified: I’m not running away; I’m running toward something. Still, I’m running, putting distance between myself and all the things I want to get far, far away from. This trip accomplishes the same goal: there’s no cell service, no WiFi, no communication with anyone back home. No social media stalking of Gwendolyn Pierce, which is frustrating, because I know I know her, but I don’t know how.
The treadmill belt squeaks a steady rhythm, punctuated by each footfall, and I hear every thud, even with my headphones on, over the pulse that pounds in my ears under the electric guitar and scream-singing of the band that occupies most of my training playlist. I’m not sure why the fitness center seems to be the least air-conditioned part of the whole ship, but sweat is dripping from my hair, nose, and arms by the time I start my cooldown.
Afterward, the shower feels incredible, despite having to duck down to wash my hair. I let the water run down my back and watch it circle down the drain, imagining my problems are carried away in that swirling vortex.
But it’s not that easy, and being still for too long makes me itchy. My legs are starting to tighten after this morning’s run. I need potassium, hydration, and a walk.
The breakfast buffet is still crowded, but I’m not looking for a table. Instead, I swipe a banana and a carton of chocolate milk, then fill a cup with water and down almost everything before I even leave the room. A few laps around the sports deck should help to loosen my muscles.
From up here, the view is incredible. The breeze off the unending sea is comfortable, and the water rises and falls around us in a gentle greeting. The sun climbs, and wisps of white clouds dot the sky. And then a familiar figure pops into view.
Gwendolyn
Sawyer’s a no-show at breakfast, but Nancy’s quick to point out that it’s because he’s at the gym this morning. “He’s training for a marathon,” she says, with such reverence you’d think he’s the only person ever to do so. Fine by me—I get to fill up on pineapple and French toast without being harassed.
After breakfast we head to the sports deck, but we part ways there. I’m ready to relax, and they’re itching for a game of shuffleboard. I grab a chaise that overlooks the ocean and settle in to write. To actually write this time, not just to create a happily-ever-after for myself on paper.
My fingers rest on the laptop keys and I tap away at the home row, but I never press hard enough to put words on the screen.
I’m still stuck.
The ocean is a nice distraction, and I watch the waves glitter in the sunlight. Maybe there’s a story there, in the glittering surface of the sea, aboard the ships that pass through it. I could break from my usual style and write a pirate love story, maybe a mermaid love affair, or a combination of the two.
It all feels too overdone, but at least they’re ideas. Instead of diving into a story that has no subject, I dive into brainstorming more possibilities. Anything. Everything. I type the most random words I can think of: Radio. Lamp. Silver. Werewolf. Slippers. Umbrella. Knife. Rum. Condo. Ballerina. Orange. Blanket. Yeti.
An idea starts to form. Not with all the words, of course, but a few of them. This could be something, and I’m a full page into summaries and plot lines when I feel it: that creepy kind of sensation, when you can tell someone’s watching you.
I half-close the laptop lid and twist to my right to grab my water bottle from my tote—my excuse to look around. The next chair over is empty, but beyond that there’s a woman in all black sitting upright in her chaise, reading a book with a cover I know by heart.
“Wow.”
I jump a bit at the voice behind me. I don’t even have to look to know whose it is.
Why couldn’t Gram and Nancy have planned a trip to New York City, or Disney World, or Las Vegas, or somewhere open and roam-able, where I wouldn’t have to risk bumping into Sawyer every five minutes?
Actually, scratch Vegas. Too many chapels.
“What a coincidence,” he says.
I drop the bottle back in the bag and settle back into my seat. “Yes, what a coincidence, that on our ship—currently in the middle of the ocean with no escape route—we have bumped into each other again.”
“Not that,” he laughs, and when he says nothing else, I’m forced to look at him. He simply jerks his head toward the woman with the book and lowers his voice. “Gwen Dolan-Pierce. I knew that name sounded familiar.”
“Look at that. Now you know something about me, and you didn’t even have to buy me that drink.” I slide the laptop into my tote and stand. He trails me as I weave through the people now swarming the deck.
“Is that what you’ve been working on? Another book?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a romance novel. That’s what I write.”
