5
Waking up next to Swift again is terrifying.
In the past month, I’ve dreamt about it. Some mornings, I’ve snapped awake shuddering from a nightmare where we’d gone back to the way things were like nothing had changed. I’ve spent countless early morning hours lying in bed, paralyzed with fear and trying to convince myself that it would never happen, that I was too strong to let it happen.
When my eyes slide open to find Swift’s Minnow tattoo at the end of my nose, I choke back a scream.
Slowly I remember the apology. The kissing. The look of pure joy on her face when I revealed that she’ll be seeing her family soon. It made me forget all about hating her. I remember the breathless moments after the door closed when we collapsed into my bunk. We didn’t dare move. We didn’t dare speak. In the dim light, the wonder in her eyes was the last thing I saw before I drifted off with her arm slung around my waist.
Was that really all it took?
I frown, taking stock of the way we’ve settled. Her fingers are twined in mine, locking my arm over her waist. Her t-shirt has ridden up enough that my forearm is draped over bare skin, and I feel the ridge of her newest scar tucked against the crook of my elbow. My knees rest on the back of her thighs. If I try to disentangle myself from her, I’ll wake her up for sure.
If I don’t, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret. In the morning light, I can’t stand being this close to Swift. I can’t believe that I let my guard down like this, that I dragged her into my room, that I asked her to stay. I need to get out of here. I need to get her out of here. I need—
Swift twitches beneath my arm. Her fingers curl tighter in mine, and her eyes slide open. She lifts her head, peering down at our hands, then glances back over her shoulder. “Hi,” she says, her voice cracking.
I try to smile, try to act natural, but I can’t sell it. I wriggle my fingers, dislodging myself from her grip. Swift tightens her lips, but at least she doesn’t complain. I turn my back to her and sit up, my eyes falling on the piles of unsorted and sorted laundry carpeting my floor. If it hadn’t been for Swift, I’d have gotten it done last night. The thought irks me. I’ve always prided myself on how much more put-together my room is compared to hers.
A brush of fingertips at the base of my spine shatters my thoughts, and I stiffen. “Look, Cas—”
“You should go.” It’s so much easier to say when I don’t have to look at her.
The mattress creaks as Swift crawls to the foot of the bed, where her discarded boots lie. She doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t try to protest. “You’re right,” she says, low and defeated. “I don’t… I don’t think we’re ready for this yet.”
“We” is putting it kindly. We both know it’s me who needs convincing, that I’m the one who can go to bed one way and wake up another. And “yet” is optimistic, but I’m not about to take that from her. I watch her pull on her boots, my head a jumble of words I can’t quite string together and thoughts too undercooked to share.
She listens at the door before she opens it, a far smarter move than I would have given her credit for. In the fragile state we’re in, the last thing we need is needling crew, gossipy trainees, or, worst of all, the captain herself butting into things. Once Swift is sure no one’s in the hall outside, she slips out, shutting the hatch delicately behind her.
The moment the latch clicks into place, I lean forward, bury my head in my hands, and groan.
The next day is a dance. First around the Slew, around Varma’s suspicious eye. I’m back to sparring today, and the captain’s been merciful enough to pair me off with him. I focus on dodging his gangly limbs and blocking out the grunts and yells from the next mat over, where Chuck and Swift are squaring off.
“Heads up, shoregirl,” Varma shouts, and I stagger back as his foot swoops past my head. “You’re spacey today, huh?”
“Head injury,” I snap, probably a moment too late for the truth.
“You’re blushing.” He sidesteps me as I lunge.
“We’re fighting.”
“You’re willingly in the same room as Swift.”
I don’t have an answer for that one.
Varma lights up when he sees my scowl deepen. “Chuck!” he shouts.
“Yeah, lelemu?”
“Have you noticed anything else odd on this fine morning?”
“Oh, plenty!” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Chuck dodging Swift’s swing, grabbing her by the elbow, and twisting her into a hold.
“Such as?” Varma’s roguish grin doesn’t falter as he blocks a flurry of blows from me. I take it back—I’m starting to resent the captain pairing me off with him. At least I can get within arm’s reach of every other trainee on the ship.
“Well, I woke up early, first of all.”
“Highly unusual,” he quips. Varma aims a lazy kick at me, and I easily knock it to the side.
“And so I decided to check in with my workout buddy.” Said workout buddy thrashes in Chuck’s grip, trying to dislodge Chuck’s thick arm from around her neck, but there’s no moving the enginesmith trainee once she’s latched on to something.
“Who, no doubt, was still asleep, as is her habit.” Varma and I have the good sense not to engage, our own sparring match forgotten as we watch Swift writhe.
“One would think.”
“But?”
“But imagine my surprise when I opened the door and found that dear Swift’s bed was as cold and empty as our captain’s black heart.”
Swift’s eyes bulge, and she lashes out with her unrestrained hand, grabbing Chuck’s mane of hair. Chuck shrieks, her head snapping back, and Swift manages to twist free. “Lay off, you jackasses,” she spits, crawling to the edge of the mat. Her eyes flick up and find mine, daring me to do something.
So I whirl and punch Varma in the gut before he can do anything about it. He collapses on the mat, wheezing in mock indignation. “Save me, Chuck,” he gasps. “Their love is too fierce and powerful for my weak, scrawny—”
Swift storms out of the Slew before he has a chance to finish. Chuck shrugs when the hatch slams behind her. “Cas, want to tap out?” she asks.
I grit my teeth. “How about you two have some fun together, and I’ll catch up later.” I turn on my heel and march right out after Swift.
I find her perched on Phobos’s barrel, curled up and staring down at the waves rushing past. The wind breaks over her uneven hair, tossing the longer strands across her face and ruffling the shorter bits. She keeps her eyes fixed on the sea as I approach.
“They were being dicks,” I start, leaning against the gun’s mounts.
“It isn’t fair,” Swift growls. “They bunk together basically every other night and they don’t get any shit for it.”
“Because they’re impossible to embarrass.”
“I’m not—” She bites down on that last word. Even Swift has to admit that it’s way too easy to get a rise out of her.
Silence grows between us—a calm hush rather than an unhappy tension, surprisingly. I’ve fought her with silence for so long that I’m not used to enjoying it. But for a moment it’s just her above, and me below, and the waves beneath the both of us, and I’m not opposed to any of it.
“Thanks for backing me up at least,” Swift says at last.
“I’m on your side.” The words come so fast that they have to be true, and it jolts me to my core. I’m glad she can’t see my face from up there.
“Even though you hate me?” Swift asks.
“Even though I hate you.” But “hate” doesn’t feel like the right word anymore, and I think she senses it too.
The dance continues into the afternoon. The crew scurries around the deck, the ship consumed by the chaos of making ready to dock at the Flotilla. We’re not due into the floating city until tomorrow morning, but there’s so much preparation that goes into it, from careful inventory of the ship’s supplies to a thorough cleaning of the upper decks. Last time we docked, I was locked away inside my bunk and I missed all of the work that went into making the ship “portworthy.” Now I’m steeped in it.
All the sorting and counting numbs my mind, but I can’t help being a little thankful for the task. Partly because I can fix my brain on it without my thoughts wandering. Partly because it keeps me away from Swift. Mostly because it’s rigorous enough that I’m out like a light when I collapse into bed that evening.
I wake to Lemon’s voice ringing through the ship, announcing that we’re three hours out from the Flotilla. No further instructions come from the all-call, and I find myself perched on the edge of my bed, staring at my still-unsorted laundry, when a knock at the door startles me so much that I nearly topple headlong into a pile of Varma’s shirts.
“Yeah?” I shout, gripping the mattress for balance.
“Got your allowance for shore leave,” Swift replies.
There’s a moment of hesitation on my part, a moment where I consider telling her to leave it there, telling her I’ll come get it later, or even telling her that I can’t take a salary that was bought with blood. The first two excuses are weak, and the third is hypocrisy. “One sec,” I tell her, and spend the next several scrambling around as I throw on clothes.
When I open the door, Swift thrusts a canvas bag at me. “Captain’s giving everyone a little extra to keep us occupied while the Salt convenes.” There’s a strange hitch in her voice, as if something about pirates gathering puts her on edge. Maybe it’s something to do with her mother—for all I know, she could be on one of the Salt crews.
I take the bag from her and turn it over in my hands. Marked on the fabric in a blocky, childish scrawl that’s unquestionably Swift’s handwriting is the word “CASS.”
“You don’t know how to spell my name,” I say, my voice flat. Swift bristles, and too late I realize that she thinks I’m making a jab at her illiteracy. “No, I didn’t mean—” I stutter. “Just, you don’t even know this about me.”
Her lips twitch into a sneer. “What’s my last name?” she asks.
The question is like a kick to the stomach. There’s nothing I can add to the harsh, empty space between us. We know so little about each other, but I’d never really thought about it until this moment. Swift leans against the doorframe, her eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer I can’t give.
“My name’s spelled with one S,” I blurt.
“Kent,” she replies, then snatches my salary out of my hands. Swift pulls a marker out of her pocket, rips the cap off with her teeth, and crosses out “CASS” with three quick strokes. She braces the bag against the wall next to the door and starts writing. I stare at the floor, wondering what other important pieces of information I’ve never thought to learn. What other parts make up Swift Kent that I’ve never absorbed. What other parts of me she’s missing.
When she finishes, she tosses the bag to me.
Written under the crossed-out scrawl is “CASANDRA LUNG.”
I can’t help it—I snort, clenching the fabric tighter. “I— You don’t— My father’s family is from Hong K—”
But then I see that Swift’s about to burst, her cheeks red from holding back laughter. I slump, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “You should have seen your face,” she cackles.
“Give me that.” I snatch the marker away from her and scribble over the abomination of a name she’s written. “C-A-S L-E-U-N-G,” I spell out, scrawling each letter in an exaggerated, loopy font. The marker feels strange in my hand—I think it’s been four months since the last time I held one.
“Satisfied?” Swift asks when I’m finished.
“Satisfied.”
“Can I get my marker back?”
I hand it to her.
“Do you want to come with me when we dock?”
My breath hitches on the grin that takes over my lips before my mind can catch up with what she’s just said. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” I tell her. Because I have nothing better to do with myself on the Flotilla. Because I like her home and her family and the way I see her when she’s around them.
Because I may not know much about Swift Kent, but I’m never going to be able to deny that I want to.