Page 13 of A Perfect Disaster

“Then we correct it,” I reply. “Quickly, without drama, and without hiding anything. Mistakes don’t bring teams down. Keeping silent does.”

For a second, I see Helen at that meeting from the past, sitting next to me, waiting for me to tell the truth.

“That’s why I want you to bring up any doubts, any issues, anything that seems off to you. Even if it’s small. Even if you think I’m going to get mad. I only get mad when someone starts a conga line next to a stairway,” I joke.

Iván raises his hand curiously.

“Tell me that’s never actually happened to you.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“We do want to know now,” he insists with a smile.

“Another day. When you fully trust me and can’t give up on the team anymore.”

The meeting ends with less tension than when it began, which is already a small victory. I assign them their tasks, we go over schedules, and confirm the welcome rehearsal on deck.

“Let’s go up,” I suggest. “I need to see how you move with space, real wind, and no walls to save you from making fools of yourselves.”

“You’re so motivating,” Nico murmurs. “And here I thought we were going to dinner.”

“We’ll do that later. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Or right now.”

“You should give motivational speeches,” Lara remarks.

We head out as a group toward the main deck. As we climb, everyone notices how the ship changes when the sun goes down. We leave behind the narrow crew corridors and the cold white lights, and emerge under the dark open sky. The deck lights bathe everything in a special glow. The water stretches out around the harbor like a deep blue sheet speckled with silver sparkles. We haven’t set sail yet, but the Marine IV seems impatient. I can feel it beneath my feet, in that slight vibration of living machinery that radiates energy.

My team scatters, driven by curiosity.

“All right,” I begin, raising my voice so they can hear me clearly. “Passenger boarding point over there. Music here. Visual reception from this side. I need energy, but without intruding on people, okay? We smile, accompany, and guide. We don’t attack them.” There are entertainers who see a shy passenger and feel an irresistible urge to accompany them the whole time so they don’t feel uncomfortable.

“That sounds like a huge overreaction.”

“It is, unfortunately.”

I ask them to repeat the welcome sequence: a warm greeting, pointing them toward reception, an invitation to the opening event, and guiding them smoothly toward the stairs or elevators as needed.

As they move, I correct those small details that make our work perfect.

I’m not surprised to see Helen at one end of the deck, by the railing, checking something on her tablet. Alone, as always. Attentive. A little set apart, as if she needs to observe the world from a distance so it doesn’t affect her. “How I hate those pants…” The uniform fits her impeccably. It’s an objective observation. Terribly objective. The dark pants, the wrinkle-free shirt, complementing her perfect, silky hair. She seems made of control, of straight lines and difficult decisions.

Nothing about her invites me to approach her, and yet I want to get closer. “What a perfect disaster.”

I keep staring at her longer than is prudent. Helen seems to notice my gaze because she looks up and our eyes meet. She doesn’t smile, nor does she give me a look of disapproval. There’s only that intensity of hers, direct and unadorned. A look that always seems to do two things at once: warn me not to cross a certain line and ask me why I’m so afraid to cross it.

My chest tightens. Because suddenly I don’t just see the strict coordinator who has just torn apart half a proposal in the conference room. I see the woman I slept with repeatedly, the one I began to get to know, the one I left alone. The one who waited for a truth that never came. I thought time would wash it all away. But I was very naive. Because time doesn’t wash away what is never confronted. It only sinks it deeper until, one day, it floats back up.

Helen looks away first, and that leaves me frozen in place.

“Maika,” Lara calls to me. “Is this okay?”

It takes me a second to react.

“Yes. Sorry. Start over from the beginning.”

My voice sounds normal. I’m good at faking normalcy. I learned that over time, too.

The rehearsal continues. The kids improve quickly, relax, laugh, and find their own rhythm. I ask them to imagine real passengers: a family tired from the trip, an older couple who need clear directions, a group of friends eager for fun, someone feeling dizzy, someone lost, or someone who pretends not to need help but looks at all the signs upside down. They respond well.