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She reaches over and strokes my arm gently. “Until she’s safe.”
* * *
The afternoon rolls into the evening and the evening into the night. And when Florence won’t take no for an answer—won’t shut up about how I need to rest, how Mae would want me to rest, how I’m no use to anyone if I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open—I end up back in my room. In the bed I’m meant to share with Mae.
Her absence is loud.
Pronounced.
Her clothes are here. Her perfume. Her hair products and face creams. I can’t bring myself to touch anything, as though if I were to leave it all just as she had it, she might walk back in the door and just resume where we left off.
My body physically aches from missing her. I didn’t know that was possible. I feel like I’m being compressed, as if I’m in a room where the walls have closed in, pressing on me from every side. Breathing is painful. I close my eyes, but I only see her. Hear her.
I try to think back over our last interactions. The look on her face. Our last conversations. What did I miss? Did she try to tell me something was wrong? Were there any hints this was coming?
As I remain in the dark, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, new ideas hit me. Diego mentioned that some of the disappearances were from people jumping or falling overboard. Could she have…
I don’t even want to consider it, but I must. At this point, the ship is on course. All the passengers have reboarded and been accounted for, and Diego informed me Mae wasn’t one of them. If she left the ship with the intention of not getting back on board, not returning to me, it worked. But her key card wasn’t scanned to leave the ship, according to the security team. Which means she either slipped past the crew somehow while disembarking—which seems unlikely—or she’s still on the ship—which is still my most prominent theory, that someone has her, that the man has her—or she left the ship through other means. Which brings me back to the theory she may have jumped or been pushed.
Would she have jumped? I know Mae has been going through a lot lately, but could I really have missed something as big as that? There were no signs. I’m sure of it.
I feel heavy with grief but also angry with myself for grieving. She may come back. She may still need me to fight for her. Not to give up.
I’m in such a weird sort of limbo, not knowing anything. As we pulled away from the shore earlier, my heart ached so badly at the thought of leaving the place she may still be. If we don’t find her, I’ll always wonder if I should’ve stayed. If I should’ve searched all of Cozumel for her, demanded help from the authorities, but where would I have even started? But if I did get off and she was still on the ship, where would that have left us?
If I could tear myself in half for her, be in two places at once, I would.
I’d do anything for her, and that makes me bitter too, because what if she chose to leave me? I haven’t been perfect, maybe, but I don’t deserve this. If she left me, I’ll never be able to forgive her.
Of that, I’m certain.
I squeeze my eyes shut, begging the universe, selfishly, for a moment of peace in the form of sleep. For the pain to stop long enough for me to rest.
My request is firmly denied in the form of a knock on the door.
I jolt. It might be her. I swear my heart almost stops completely as I stand and cross the room in a second. I swing the door open, holding my breath, and freeze.
The woman in my doorway is not the one I expected to see.
“Florence?”
“I know it’s late,” she whispers, glancing behind her. “I figured you weren’t sleeping either.”
“Not a wink,” I say gently, stepping back so she can enter the room. I want to ask if everything’s okay, but regardless of why she’s here, we both know it’s not.
She spins around to face me when I shut the door, and we’re trapped in the small hallway in front of the bathroom. Her next sentence makes the space feel even smaller. “Bill finally called me back. They were in doctor’s appointments all day.”
I nod. I knew he’d eventually return her call, but I’d hoped they’d be busy and he’d wait a few more days. Until we were back in Florida. Until we knew more. “How’d they take it?”
“I mean, not well. They’re devastated, obviously. I could hardly understand them through the tears. They’re coming down to meet us at the port. Martha can’t fly, so they have to drive, which makes it even worse. I think they were leaving before we even got off the phone. Mae would hate to know they’re driving this far. Bill promises they’ll drive nonstop as long as Martha can make it, but I told them to do what they can. I promised them we’d wait.”
“Of course.” I’m not sure I plan to leave Florida ever. To leave would feel like giving up on her.
“I don’t think any of us will survive this,” she says gently. It’s maybe the most honest thing either of us has said all day.
“Me either.”
“I don’t know if I want to.” She leans forward, wrapping me in a lingering hug that feels like she needs it as much as I do.
