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He mutters something; I can’t make it out. “What was that?”
“Point two,” he says. “Twenty-six point two miles. The point two is the hardest part.” He smirks like it’s a joke, but I’m not privy to its meaning.
“Ah, sorry, Mr. Math Man. Won’t it be cold for twenty-six point two miles?”
“It should be in the fifties or sixties at least. Pretty perfect weather for running.”
“Sure. Keep dreaming, buddy. I know we’ve had a few warmer days in the winter before, but that seems like a pretty high hope for February.”
He stops and turns fully toward me. Wind sneaks between the plexiglass barriers around the front of the ship in half-inch-wide wind tunnels, snagging his shirt, rippling it across his chest. He’s layered a zip-up hoodie over the gray T-shirt I saw him in earlier, and it pulls and plays in the ocean breeze.
“Gwendolyn.” His eyes narrow, and he purses his lips. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
I swallow, confusion settling in. “No?”
He rolls his eyes, but in a nice way, and laughs it off. “It might be cold back home, but my marathon’s in California.”
“Oh. I just assumed.” I shake my head. “So are you going out just for a weekend? To run and come back?”
He shakes his head, continuing our walk, opening a door to head back inside. “I’m planning to explore a bit. Do some hiking, visit a vineyard my friend told me about.”
“Wow—your school must have a great vacation policy.”
We’d found ourselves, moments ago, at the top of the forward stairs, and now he bounds down them two at a time. He pauses for a moment on Deck Eleven, his deck, like he can’t decide if he’s just going to call it a night or keep going until he runs out of stairs.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and his eyes meet mine, and I feel like he’s looking for an answer to a question he can’t bring himself to ask.
“I think I’m going to get to bed.” I hear myself say it, saving him twice tonight.
He clears his throat. “Probably a good idea. I’m gonna—” He hooks a thumb in the direction of his room and clears his throat again.
“I’ll walk you,” I say, because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Except I do, the whole way back to his room, and he does, too.
“Thanks, Gwendolyn,” he says at his door.
“I didn’t do anything.”
He holds his cruise card up to the lock and props the door open with his foot when the light goes green. “You did.” The saddest smile forms on his lips, and my mouth goes dry. “Anyway, I should—” he jerks his head toward the room.
“Yeah, me too. Big day tomorrow, apparently. Goodnight, Sawyer.”
I trek toward the back of the ship—aft—and up a set of stairs to my room, where I climb into bed, wondering who the hell Sawyer Dawson is.
Day 3
Bermuda
Gwendolyn
“I thought seven-thirty was too early for you,” Gram says, eyeing my tote, my sundress, and my lightly made-up face. It’s not a statement: it’s a trap, like she’s trying to figure out why I’m ditching her for a breakfast I said was “too early” when I’m awake, dressed, and packing my beach bag for the day.
I shrug. “I guess I went to bed earlier last night than I’d expected to.”
“The way you and Sawyer went off together—I was surprised to see you here when I got back.”
“Yeah, well. We just did a lap around the ship. I think he was tired.”
There’s a knock on the door, and Gram passes me the sunscreen from the shoe organizer hanging over the closet door. “I’m sure that’s Nancy. Since you’re up, would you like to join us?”
