stuff. Now, we have this nice spot for boarding photos. And they gave each ship a Star Heart costume.”
“I’m so glad,” I mumble.
Much to my surprise, West laughs. The warm, unexpected sound sends a shot of warmth through my insides … until he says, “I told you ship life would eat you alive.”
I want to clock him in the nose, but I doubt I could drum up a good swing while I’m dressed as Kippy, the Giant Hugging Heart. I mutter something unflattering under my breath, and West’s blue eyes narrow.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing, boss,” I chirp.
West stares at me a moment, then rolls his shoulders and stretches out his arms. His polo rides up to reveal a flat stomach that makes my mouth go dry. I glance away, pissed at myself for noticing. Sure, West is easy on the eyes—when he’s not scowling at me—but there are several attractive guys on the photo team. Camelia warned me while we cleaned earlier that everyone on ships tries to score with the new hires, so it’s clear that if I want a guy to warm my tiny bunk bed, plenty of them will offer. Although I already know that I won’t take any of them up on it.
I’m not interested in distractions, especially of the male kind.
First of all, I don’t do relationships. As for one-night-stands … I’m done with that kind of thing now. I spent my whole senior year packing my schedule with classes and GRE prep and—if I’m being totally honest—the occasional hookup to fill the crater in my heart formed by Sofia’s passing. As a psych major I knew meaningless flings wouldn’t help me get past the grief, but since it kept my mind off my sister for a few hours, it became a habit.
One I need to kick. I have to face my sister’s death instead of ignoring the pain. For the last eleven months, I just wouldn’t let myself think about it. I knew that if I fell down that pit, I wouldn’t be able to function, so I shoved all thoughts of Sofia into a mental box.
But that’s not healthy, and college is over, so my excuses have dried up. My good grades don’t even matter now, because I don’t know if I want to be a clinical psychologist anymore. How can I help others when I can’t even help myself?
Without Sofia I don’t know who I am, my dreams don’t make sense, so I’m here chasing one of hers. She always wanted to be a pro photographer, and near the end, she started telling me I should be one too.
So here I am. By day, I’ll throw myself into this job that Sofia would’ve loved; and by night, I’ll work on the project I’ve planned in her memory. It’s a pair of collages, made up of photos that from far away form images of Sofia’s face. One will consist of her photos, and the other … I found a notebook in her desk after she died. In it, she listed photo ideas, stuff like a picture of a mountain, or a couple in love, or a shot from the inside of a bell tower. All shots she never got to take. I’m going to take them for her, and that’s what will make up the elements of the other collage. The pair of them will represent the Sofia that was, and the Sofia that should have been.
The hospital she went to has an annual charity art auction, and I’ve told them I’ll contribute the collages in Sofia’s honor. They’re due in a couple months, so that’s what I’ll be focusing on in my free time here on the ship. I only hope that checking Sofia’s photo shots off her list and making the collages will help me work through my grief.
Another half-hour passes before, thankfully, the embarkation door closes. West places the cap on his camera lens and packs up the tripod and flash.
“Are we done?” I ask, hardly daring to hope.
“With Kippy? Yeah. With work? No.” He tilts his head toward the atrium. “Let’s get back to the shop.”
When we arrive, Camelia is chatting with two of the guys on the team. She sees me—well, the heart—and grins.
“You have been Kippy,” she says. “Now you are
“I’m so glad,” I mumble.
Much to my surprise, West laughs. The warm, unexpected sound sends a shot of warmth through my insides … until he says, “I told you ship life would eat you alive.”
I want to clock him in the nose, but I doubt I could drum up a good swing while I’m dressed as Kippy, the Giant Hugging Heart. I mutter something unflattering under my breath, and West’s blue eyes narrow.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing, boss,” I chirp.
West stares at me a moment, then rolls his shoulders and stretches out his arms. His polo rides up to reveal a flat stomach that makes my mouth go dry. I glance away, pissed at myself for noticing. Sure, West is easy on the eyes—when he’s not scowling at me—but there are several attractive guys on the photo team. Camelia warned me while we cleaned earlier that everyone on ships tries to score with the new hires, so it’s clear that if I want a guy to warm my tiny bunk bed, plenty of them will offer. Although I already know that I won’t take any of them up on it.
I’m not interested in distractions, especially of the male kind.
First of all, I don’t do relationships. As for one-night-stands … I’m done with that kind of thing now. I spent my whole senior year packing my schedule with classes and GRE prep and—if I’m being totally honest—the occasional hookup to fill the crater in my heart formed by Sofia’s passing. As a psych major I knew meaningless flings wouldn’t help me get past the grief, but since it kept my mind off my sister for a few hours, it became a habit.
One I need to kick. I have to face my sister’s death instead of ignoring the pain. For the last eleven months, I just wouldn’t let myself think about it. I knew that if I fell down that pit, I wouldn’t be able to function, so I shoved all thoughts of Sofia into a mental box.
But that’s not healthy, and college is over, so my excuses have dried up. My good grades don’t even matter now, because I don’t know if I want to be a clinical psychologist anymore. How can I help others when I can’t even help myself?
Without Sofia I don’t know who I am, my dreams don’t make sense, so I’m here chasing one of hers. She always wanted to be a pro photographer, and near the end, she started telling me I should be one too.
So here I am. By day, I’ll throw myself into this job that Sofia would’ve loved; and by night, I’ll work on the project I’ve planned in her memory. It’s a pair of collages, made up of photos that from far away form images of Sofia’s face. One will consist of her photos, and the other … I found a notebook in her desk after she died. In it, she listed photo ideas, stuff like a picture of a mountain, or a couple in love, or a shot from the inside of a bell tower. All shots she never got to take. I’m going to take them for her, and that’s what will make up the elements of the other collage. The pair of them will represent the Sofia that was, and the Sofia that should have been.
The hospital she went to has an annual charity art auction, and I’ve told them I’ll contribute the collages in Sofia’s honor. They’re due in a couple months, so that’s what I’ll be focusing on in my free time here on the ship. I only hope that checking Sofia’s photo shots off her list and making the collages will help me work through my grief.
Another half-hour passes before, thankfully, the embarkation door closes. West places the cap on his camera lens and packs up the tripod and flash.
“Are we done?” I ask, hardly daring to hope.
“With Kippy? Yeah. With work? No.” He tilts his head toward the atrium. “Let’s get back to the shop.”
When we arrive, Camelia is chatting with two of the guys on the team. She sees me—well, the heart—and grins.
“You have been Kippy,” she says. “Now you are
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