By the fourth day at sea, I’d finally stopped flinching every time my phone buzzed and had started sleeping through the night. The ocean had a way of quieting the questions I’d carried aboard.
I even caught myself humming in the shower that morning, and the sound startled me more than any grief had.
Hal and Marjorie had claimed me the first night. They were an older couple from Oregon, married for forty-one years, and refused to let me eat dinner alone.
“You’re joining us,” Marjorie had said in a tone that offered no debate. “Every evening. Non-negotiable.”
So I’d stopped arguing. Their easy affection at that window table felt like a warm lamp I could sit near without touching.
That evening, Marjorie and Hal were late.
I sat at our usual spot by the glass, watching the horizon soften into pink, and told myself I could handle one dinner alone. I’d handled worse in the last few weeks.
