Page 17 of Never Been Shipped

“They said they could let you back into your room, if you feel up to it,” he said.

Her hand was still splayed on the floor, less than a foot away from him, and he stared at it, as if it could give him some insight into what she was thinking. She had long fingers—part of being tall, and she’d always been a little self-conscious of them. More so because of the nail biting, which he noticed at least looked better than it had at the meeting. She’d clearly gone for a professional manicure, her nails now painted what looked like black but what he could see was a dark navy blue. She no longer wore any rings, not even the twisty-design one from her sister that she’d worn for so many years.

“Not yet,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

He wondered if she’d lost the ring. It was the only reason she would’ve been without it, back in the day. “It’s fine. Take as long as you need.”

There was a knock at the door, and John pushed himself up to answer it, accepting the bag with ginger ale and crackers and medicine from a guy with an unnaturally wide smile. John almost shut the door before remembering that he was probably supposed to tip, and he dug through his pockets, trying to find money but only coming up with a guitar pick and a crumpled receipt.

“It’s good,” the man said. His badge said he was from New Zealand. “Not to worry.”

Something about the way he phrased that—the extra formality in it—made John even more determined. “No, no, hang on,” he said. “I know I have—”

“In my bag,” Micah said from the bathroom. “It should be by the door.”

Sure enough, the black cross-body bag Micah had been carrying was slouched over on the floor where she must’ve dropped it on her way in. It felt somehow invasive, going through Micah’s stuff, but she’d clearly meant for him to. He rummaged through a few items—pens, a small notebook held shut with a stretchy band, a bottle of medication—before he hit upon her wallet. There was a five-dollar bill sticking out, and he grabbed it by the corner to hand to his friend at the door, who gave him a beaming smile.

“I’ll pay you back,” John said once he’d shut the door and hung Micah’s purse on the handle where she wouldn’t forget it.

He could hear the water running in the bathroom, and when she emerged she had droplets still on her chin where she must’ve rinsed her mouth out in the sink.

“Why?” she asked. “It was all stuff for me.”

He glanced inside the bag. “What do you want first?”

She held out her hand, and he gave her the entire bag. She took the bottle of ginger ale out first, uncapping it too fast and letting out a little fizz, which she ducked her head down to lick off the top before it started spilling everywhere. John glanced away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

It was weird, how easy it was being with Micah again. How much it felt like no time had passed at all, like they still had the natural rapport they’d always had as kids, once John had gotten up the nerve to talk to her again in homeroom. At the same time, it felt impossibly difficult. He’d always had thisawarenessof her, even back in those days, but he’d shoved it down. So deep, he told himself he didn’t feel it. But now here she was, sitting tentatively on the edge of his bed, her head tilted back asshe took a swig of the ginger ale, and even when he wasn’t looking directly at her he still always knew she wasthere.

They’d been each other’s first kiss. It had been when they were thirteen, one of thoseShould we? Just to get it over with?type of deals. At least that was how Micah had framed it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked now.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Should I take the medicine?”

“Couldn’t hurt.” He paused, wanting to mind his own business, but also having a sudden thought about the medication bottle that had been in her purse. “Unless it interacts with anything else you’re taking?”

She’d already put a single tablet on her tongue and swished it down with a sip of ginger ale. “That stuff in my purse is for panic attacks,” she said. “I don’t take it all the time—just if I feel one coming on or know I’m about to be in a situation that could trigger one.”

He smiled. “Like this entire cruise?”

“Believe me, that’s why I made sure I’d refilled the prescription before I got here,” she said. “But it makes me a little drowsy sometimes, so I was trying not to use it if I didn’t have to.”

He wanted to ask her more about the situations that triggered those feelings, what had happened to make her realize she needed medication in the first place. But it was definitely none of his business.

The ship moved again, the feeling somehow more unsettling for the fact that the room was completely enclosed without even a glimpse of the water outside. It felt like beinginsidea stomach, which was definitely not the kind of thought to share with Micah, who still looked a little pale.

“Fuck,” she said. “This sucks.”

“Lie down if you need to,” he said. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

“This isyourbed.”

It was still made up with crisp white hospital corners, a towel folded into an elephant resting atop the pillows. “I haven’t used it or anything. It’s clean.”

She let out a huff of a laugh. “That’s my point. It’syours.”

But he could see suddenly just how tired she looked, how spent. He didn’t share that observation with her—he knew how little she’d appreciate the reminder that she wasn’t looking her best, that he’d noticed, that maybe other people had, too. They could always call back down to guest services on the ship, get someone to meet Micah outside her room and let her back in. Get someone to tell her what her room number was in the first place. But looking at Micah, the way she was curling her hand around the cap to the ginger ale bottle, then opening her hand back up to see the circular imprint left in her palm…he knew that would probably be the last thing she’d want to do.

---