Caroline is the type who usually arrives everywhere fashionably late. But not this time. Tonight, she’s rushing me. Telling me to hurry up. Yelling at me and only making me move slower. Unlike other girls, I can’t even shop with other people well because I need to focus on picking out clothes and that takes a lot more resources from me than other normal girls.

“What the hell is taking you so long?” Caroline stands in my doorway. Her bag is already packed and she’s wearing the dress and heels that she will be wearing out. Meanwhile, I’m still in my pajamas and slippers.

“Listen, I told you. I need to think, okay? We still have half an hour before the cab gets here.”

She rolls her eyes and mouths whatever. She finds me tedious and boring. I know that. She wants to pre-game, meaning that she wants to do a few shots to calm her nerves. I know she’s nervous. So am I. But she doesn’t believe me. Even though I’ve been to the yacht before and participated in the auction, that doesn’t mean that I know what I’m doing. She has been to the yacht before, too. This isn’t all new to her. I mean, I would never even have met Aiden if I hadn’t gone to the party with her. But something about that night made me braver than Caroline. While she’s always the one having one-night stands and going home with strange men and going away for weekends on a whim, she didn’t want to be auctioned off that night. Come to think of it, I don't really know why I actually did it except that it felt like it would be an exciting thing to do. You see, if you live long enough as a boring, predictable sort of girl, you end up craving something different. Something fun. You want the world to see you as someone else. Or maybe you just want to see yourself as someone else. It’s not all the time that you actually have the ability to surprise yourself.

Fifteen minutes later, my bag is finally packed. I take a small makeup bag with me and check my hair in the mirror. I change into a pair of skinny jeans and boots and a tight-fitting, but warm jacket, which is cut in such a way that it makes my butt look amazing.

“What the hell? You’re not wearing a dress?” Caroline asks. She’s dressed in a lacy, black number, which is sleeveless to boot.

I shrug.

“The weather is getting colder,” I say. “It’s not summer anymore.”

Unlike most twenty-something girls in Manhattan, I’m somewhat of a wimp. These girls will wear stiletto heels and strapless dresses in the dead of winter when it’s like twenty degrees out and snowing. They’ll take a few shots to warm up and then leave their apartments without so much as a long sleeve shirt to keep them warm. No, I could never do that. Not in college, not now. I’m cold practically all the time as it is, even when it’s not February in New York City. And even though it’s only September and the days are still pretty warm, I’m worried that I’ll be cold on the yacht. Besides, I look hot. Just not dressed up. Jeans and a nice-fitting top are always my go to outfit. It makes me feel safe. Not too overexposed.

“Ah, whatever. It’s not like there’s time to change,” Caroline says, opening the door to our apartment. She has already called the cab and it’s waiting patiently for us downstairs.

“I’m so excited,” Caroline whispers to me in the cab. She never talks at full voice in cabs. I’m actually not sure which is ruder. I mean, it’s not like the cab driver can’t hear her even if she whispers. He just can’t hear her as well.

“Yeah, me, too.”

The cab driver drops us off at the familiar nondescript office building. It’s the same place where we helicoptered out of last time and we go through the motions like experts. The security guard inside nudges us toward the elevator and tells us to head to the top floor. This time, the roof isn’t particularly windy and I can enjoy the view a little more. New York is lit up in all directions, except for the water, which is pitch black. The helicopter pilot helps us with our bags and hands us earphones to wear inside. Within a few moments, we are flying high above the skyline. The skyscrapers look like models now, something that a little kid would play with. And the people below are practically non-existent. They’re as small as ants.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Caroline asks.

“Yes!” I scream so that she can hear me. Caroline pulls out her phone and takes a few selfies. But I decline. I don't feel like faking a smile now. My stomach is in knots over the anticipation of what is about to happen.

Since it’s already dark outside, I know that we are flying over water but there is only blackness below us. Somewhere in the distance, I see a few lights and feel the helicopter get into position. A few minutes later, we land.

At the entrance to the main living room, a familiar face greets us. Lizbeth, the woman who greeted us before and ran the auction. She is just as tall and beautiful as I remember. She’s again holding a silver plate with glasses of champagne. The man in an impeccable tuxedo next to her helps us with our bags.

“It’s nice to see you again, Ellie,” Lizbeth says, showing us to our stateroom. “You will not be sharing a room this time. The rooms are right next to each other though.”

Wow, we’re moving up in the world, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. Lizbeth shows Caroline into her room and the man in the tuxedo drops off her bag. She tries to tip him, but he refuses to accept anything.

“You are guests of Mr. Black,” Lizbeth explains. “And guests of Mr. Black do not tip. Besides, everyone working on this yacht is generously compensated.”

I nod, slightly relieved by this fact. I suddenly remember that I did not tip the guy last time and was already feeling bad about that. In restaurants, I always tip twenty percent no matter what kind of service I get. Why? My aunt, my mom’s sister, got pregnant in high school and worked as a waitress at a low-rent diner all of her life. Unlike other places of employment, waiters are not required to be paid a minimum wage. Employers only have to pay them $2.13 per hour because the rest of their wages are expected to come from tips. But the problem is that if the diner or restaurant isn’t busy, then they usually don't make even minimum wage. So, I always tip waitresses twenty percent, but I have no idea how much I’m supposed to tip cleaning people in hotels, and butlers, and other staff for things like turndown service and helping with bags. It’s mainly because I never really stay in places that have offered those services before.

“The cocktail party has begun. Feel free to join us when you’re ready,” Lizbeth says, opening the door to my room. The man in the tuxedo drops off my bags and I let out a sigh of relief because I don't have to scramble and worry if I’m leaving him enough of a tip.

“Oh my God!” Caroline bursts into my stateroom. “How gorgeous is this place?”

I walk around my room and take it all in. It’s just as beautiful as the last room we shared, but different. The fact that it’s called a room is a misnomer. It’s actually a one-bedroom apartment with a large sitting/living room area and a separate bedroom. I run my fingers over the fine Egyptian linens and follow Caroline as she shows me into the bathroom and gushes over the marble his and hers vanity. Back in the sitting room, I make note of the soft lighting that creates a mood of opulence and luxury and then go out onto my private balcony and look out onto the vastness of the ocean.

“This is amazing,” I say to Caroline. She nods excitedly, fixing her makeup.

“Shall we?” she asks, taking me by the arm. My heart skips a beat, and I follow her out to the cocktail party.