Page 14 of Reckless Girls
He swats at my ass before jogging back up the steps to the deck, and I turn to Brittany and Amma, my cheeks a little flushed. Is Nico always this… bro-y? I mean, I definitely knew he had tendencies. But there’s something about seeing him through Brittany’s and Amma’s eyes that makes me feel like I have to say, “This trip is clearly bringing out his inner Sigma Nu.”
Brittany smiles and waves me off. “He’s a good guy,” she says, and Amma nods, folding her arms on the table.
“Not bad to look at, either.”
The words don’t make me jealous, only proud, which is maybe a little pathetic.
“Do you need any help with those?” Brittany asks, nodding at the plates, but I shake my head.
“No, I got this. Go on up to the deck. The stars are unreal, I bet.”
They don’t need to be told twice, and I hear Nico call out to them as they emerge above.
Without three other people in here, the galley actually feels a little open, and I take a deep breath, relishing these few moments alone.
I wonder if I maybe should’ve let the girls find their own boat, a bigger one where we weren’t all on top of each other.
But no, it’s worth being a little crammed. TheSusannahis finally fixed. And as soon as we’re back from this trip, Nico and I will be free to start our own adventure, and it won’t feel claustrophobic. It will feel… cozy.
Homey.
Besides, in two days, we’ll reach the island—atoll—and there will be plenty of space. Too much, probably.
After rinsing the dishes in the little pump sink, I go back to the table to collect the water bottles, sticking my fingers in the necks to gather them all up. As I do, I glance at Brittany’s phone, still lying on the table. The lock screen shows a picture of Brittany and Amma with their arms around each other’s shoulders, the Colosseum in the background. Their smiles are broad, but they both look a little paler than they do now, thinner, too—Brittany almost alarmingly so, her cheekbones standing out so much that they create their own shadows. Amma’s knuckles on Brittany’s shoulder are almost white, her fingertips digging into Brittany’s skin.
Frowning, I lean in a little closer, but before I can study the photograph further, I hear feet on the steps again, and quickly turn back to the sink. I’m rinsing out the bottles when Brittany appears in the galley, reaching for her phone.
“Just wanted to get some pictures of the sky,” she says, then looks again at the sink. “You sure you don’t need help? I feel bad.”
“Don’t,” I assure her. “I’ll be up in a second.”
“Okay, but you’d be up inhalfa second if I help,” she says, and I find myself smiling back at her. They’re just both really nice—not what I expected girls like this to be.
Brittany joins me at the sink, close enough that our hips bump as she reaches for one of the plates. The pump sink doesn’t have the best water pressure, but we manage to clean the remaining plates and forks pretty quickly, and then I’m on the deck with all of them, staring up overhead.
There are so many stars that they almost seem fake, and I rest one hand against the mast as my eyes try to take it all in. The sea is open and empty all around us, the sky stretching out overhead, and it’s all so clear, so vast, that I can see the curve of the earth, and suddenly I understand why Nico enjoys this so much.
I don’t feel small or scared or alone. I feel part of something bigger.
And when I look over at Brittany, her face tipped up to the sky, I see a grin stretching wide across her face.
BEFORE
Brittany is crying again.
Amma lies on the bottom bunk, listening to the sobs above. They’re muffled because Brittany has buried her face into her pillow or the wall or a blanket—she tries to hide it, but this isn’t the graceful crying that girls do in movies, silent tears tracking down pale faces. This is full-body shit, shoulders shaking, tears spraying, nose leaking, throat aching.
Amma knows because she’s done her share of this kind of crying.
The bunk room is uncomfortably warm even with the windows open, the night outside hot and still, and Amma hears a dog give two short barks, the only sound other than the sobs.
She and Brittany had picked this hostel because it was cheap, and at the time, a twenty-minute train ride outside of Paris hadn’t sounded that far, plus it was a good use of their Eurail passes. But Amma hadn’t thought about how lonely it might feel out here in the suburbs, how the pace and noise and lights of the city might keep this kind of breakdown at bay. The quiet here is too thick, too heavy, and the old lady who runs the place has a curfew, which means they were all in their bunks by midnight, the doors locked.
We should’ve spent a few extra euros and stayed in the city,Amma thinks, punching her pillow down. But their money is already starting to run out and they never had that much to begin with.
Brittany gives another choking cry, and from across theroom, one of the other American girls staying in the hostel sits up. Amma thinks her name is Taylor or Hayden, something like that. She’s from South Carolina, Amma remembers from the brief conversation they had over the shared dinner of sandwiches and soup in the rustic kitchen, and her accent is thick as she snaps, “Girl, whoever he is, he’s not worth it. Shut up and go to sleep.”
Amma is up almost before she realizes it, tossing her pillow back on the bunk, anger surging through her blood so quickly it almost makes her dizzy.
