Page 2 of If I Go Down with This Ship

“You’refine.”She steps back, releasing me from her grip, but before I can kick off my shoes and slide past her, she wrestles my suitcase from me, rolls it into the flat, grabs her purse, and shoos me out the door.

I stumble into the hallway.“Lou, what the—”

She locks the door behind her and pockets the keys.“A little birdie told me you’ve been having a rough go of it with your pirate book.I’m assuming that’s why I haven’t been able to get ahold of you—not that it’s ever easy to get ahold of you.”She mutters the last part, making me feel guilty.I don’twantto ghost her, but it’s hard when it feels like people in my life are moving on, finding love, and building their careers, and I’m just…here.

Or not here.I can hardly stand to be at home these days, to be reminded of how empty it is, of all the things I should have but don’t.Sometime in the last five years, I’ve given in to the notion that all the people around me will fall in love and eventually run off into their happily-ever-afters, and I’ll be leftto watch from the sidelines.Maybe it’s because of people from my past, or perhaps it’s because of the looks I get when I’m standing side by side with a man versus a woman, but I can’t imagine myself finding that kind of happy ending.

“Lasz,” she starts when I don’t say anything.“I think I found the perfect thing for you.To help with your book.”

I grimace and turn toward my flat.“No.Thank you, though.I just got home, Lou.I’ll figure it out tomorrow after I’ve showered and gotten some sleep.”

“Come on,” she urges, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me away.“It’s gonna help.”

I stare down at my older sister.Only a few inches shorter than me, Louise is the spitting image of our mother, complete with the family’s honey eyes, blond curls, and tanned, freckled skin.She has always been the sun in our family, the thing we’ve gravitated toward.

The practically empty notebook in my back pocket suddenly feels ten pounds heavier.“Couldn’t we just stay in?I have a lot of work to do, more research for my book.”

“Stay in?” Louise echoes, peeved, hands on her hips.“You don’t stay in, Laszlo.I don’t stay in.You and I, we were born for something greater, and,” she says, taking my elbow and pulling me toward the stairs and away from my flat, “you won’t find it by sitting and staring at your laptop.That book’s not going to write itself.Besides, it’s going to be fun.”

I squint down at her.“I don’t think you know the definition of fun.”

Her eyes are wide and pleading, lip curled as she presses her hands together, begging.“Why are you being so boring?This isn’t like you.”When I make no move to leave, she rolls her eyes.“Come on, I swear it’s going to be funandhelpful.”

“You promise it’s not another one of your archaeologist things?”I ask skeptically.

Louise laughs as we take the stairs down from my floor.“Maybe, maybe not.”

I do not believe her for a moment.And I’m right not to, because Louise does not have a good record of “fun.”Fun to Louise includes dragging me to a dig where she discovered (wait for it)fossilized human feces, or in scientist terms, coprolites.(Why they need a scientific name for fossilized shit is anyone’s guess.) There was even one time she dragged me—do you see a pattern?—to the opening of an exhibit for ancient sculptures crafted from miscellaneous animal remains that she’d participated on a dig for.

So far, not even one of her “fun” activities has been fun forme.And yes, I am happy for her.She has found something she loves dearly.She obviously enjoys her work, which is more than most people can say, but she wants to share it with me, and that’s precisely where I’ve learned to draw the line.Writing is my thing and archaeology is hers, and as much as I love Louise, I do not have the stomach for it.

Despite my feelings toward Louise’s particular type of outings, I let her tug me onto the street, because she’s right for once.I need a spark, and I’m not going to find it in my flat.

We hurry down the sidewalk and onto a bus, her excitement bordering on giddy as the bus lurches forward.I watch her carefully, my other hand reaching up to steady us.

“Where on earth are you taking me?”I ask.

She shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement.She’s careful to avoid my eyes, tongue sticking out from between her lips as she searches beyond the windows.“Uh-uh,I’m not telling you.But I swear,” she says, turning to meet my gaze, “you’re going to love it.And it’s gonna help.”

I raise a brow, wanting to protest but finding the words don’t come.

“I’m sorry you’re struggling, Lasz,” she continues.“I thought you were traveling for research.That didn’t help?”

I shake my head.“No matter how much research I do, no matter how much I love pirates, I can’t seem to write a fucking word about them.”

Her face scrunches.“That bad, huh?”

Lou and I don’t talk about these things.Frankly, we don’t talk about much.She’s been trying to for years, though, urging me to confide in her after everything that went down in my mid-twenties surrounding Julian and the article.And I want to open up.I do.Iwantto tell her the truth.So when something sad washes across her face as she looks at me, it all spills out.

“I don’t know what it is, Lou.Something isn’t clicking.I don’t know why I thought I could write this book in the first place.I mean, I write thrillers!And books about monsters!I guess I just thought I could break away from that.I spent months on the proposal, and now that it’s sold and I have an actual deadline, I just… can’t.Nothing is working.Going to North Carolina, trying and failing to take a sailing lesson because I couldn’t bring myself to climb onto the ship, reading books, visiting fucking tourist traps where there are hot pirates—”

“Tourist traps with hot pirates?”She holds up a hand.“Did you sayNorth Carolina?What’s in North Carolina?”

My face heats as I picture the tourist trap bar I stumbledinto.Clearing my throat, I wave a hand.“They have a lot of pirate history there.”

“Did you at least,you know, with a pirate…?”Her eyes dance with mirth, but I shake my head and she sighs.“And why not?”

I picture his face, the cheap pirate costume that looked like it was purchased from a Halloween store, the way the fabric clung to his body, the shirt opened at his chest.I see him standing out front after he got off work, searching the shadows for me as he turned the collar of his coat up against the autumn chill.