“I’m a gentleman now,” was all he said. And I was some lady, forgetting to line my own pockets with a similar tool.
The cloth kicked up a tempest of dust motes, and we both jumped back, coughing.
“You haven’t flown anywhere lately, I see,” Elliot said.
“I’ve needed every scrap of solar power for basic ship functions and, well, the docking fees. So no joy riding for me, or grand vacations.”
I turned back to the console, taking a seat and pulling up the fly controls. I could feel Elliot hovering behind me. I waited a beat, leaving him space to say something. The moment lingered, heavy with intent.
“Are you going to ask Mr. Ninety-Three Percent out?” he asked finally. His voice was soft, edging on playful. “That’s practically love-match levels.”
“There’s not going to be a love match,” I said matter-of-factly. I would never love anyone but Elliot, I’d realized. Any iteration of him was one I would love to the edges of the universe. Not that I could say that to him. “This is why I have to speak to Miranda Fairfax, get this license agreement. If I can make my own money, I won’t have to marry anyone.”
Elliot didn’t respond. I felt only the breeze at my back that signaled his departure. I was left to the stars, winking at me from the window, and the warm console under my hands as I nudged Sofi back out into the black skies.
* * *
It was a short trip to the Lady Liberty, since we were on the same side of the orbit roster. What ate up the better part of two hours was all the red tape to secure a flight path and landing dock for us, which required my best diplomacy skills and a little name-dropping. We hadn’t seen the Fairfaxes since my mother was alive, but you can bet I mentioned Miranda Fairfax no fewer than six times in the course of my conversation with Brent, the terse logistics manager for the famous American ship.
I was as vague as possible when it came to the occupants of my ship, save for also mentioning Her Royal Highness Klara Lind at least three times. If they knew about Evgenia and Elliot, we’d get into sticky territory in terms of visas. Still, eventually I got it settled, and so we found ourselves docked by evening, just in time for dinner. Bully for Klara.
We made for an awkward boarding party. I led the way, seeing as the Sofi was registered under my name (Father having transferred it to me to avoid subsequent paperwork), and it would be my rank—and ship—that garnered us easy entry at customs. Klara trailed behind me, silently fuming that in this case her name and higher rank were unimportant.
She made me pay at dinner, metaphorically and literally. Not only did Klara choose the most expensive restaurant in the New York Ward, but she spent the entire meal flirting with Elliot like it was her job. But Elliot politely rebuffed her at every turn, which should have made my heart soar but instead was like watching a slowly escalating horror show.
Every time Elliot countered one of Klara’s jokes, softly chided her for an ill-formed thought, Carina bloomed a bit more in her chair. She radiated hope. In turn, Elliot squirmed with every smile my sister threw his way. With every contrite or miserable look that he and I shared, I settled farther into the sticky bog of my own feelings. Anger boiled in my veins that Elliot expected me to be sympathetic toward this mess of his own making. But elation buoyed me up toward the ceiling with each reminder that he was interested in neither my sister nor my cousin. Self-loathing quickly followed, that I would find joy in my sister’s misery.
When the meal was done, Elliot insisted on picking up the whole tab.
“We absolutely must go swimming,” Klara gushed as we exited the restaurant. “I’ve already called ahead to get us special access to the pool, and I’ve arranged for a bit of shopping.”
She dragged us to a fancy swim boutique where a timid shopkeeper nodded us inside without a word.
“Everyone pick out a suit. Even you, Leo. It’s on me.”
So it seemed this was her revenge. Night swimming. Bathing suits mandatory.
Carina didn’t need to be told twice to shop; she was already rifling through the racks, Klara by her side. Elliot was off somewhere too.
“Let’s knock their socks off.” Evgenia grabbed me by the arm and steered me toward a display of vintage pieces. “This one has underwire!” She handed me a magenta one-piece with a sweetheart neckline and ruching on the bodice, then picked out a similar one in emerald for herself.
Evgenia lowered her voice as we made our way to the fitting rooms. “So, dinner was interesting. Elliot’s stopped flirting with your family members, so that’s progress. Now all you have to do is admit your feelings. I’m sure he feels the same way.”
“No, we’re just friends. We’ve talked about it.”
“You have?”
“Not directly. It’s obvious.”
Evgenia exhaled a deep sigh, then muttered something in Russian.
The suit was perfect, hugging my curves while hoisting up that which needed to be hoisted. I kind of looked hot, if I did say so myself. Still, I wanted Evgenia’s opinion, so I stepped out of the changing room and into the foyer.
“Klara, I think these are too small—”
And there was Elliot mere feet in front of me, in nothing but a pair of formfitting black shorts. My hands flew to my chest in a futile attempt to cover myself up.
“She picked out your suit?” I asked, trying but failing to avoid scanning the length of his body again. I caught Elliot doing the same with me.
“Yeah, I uh, prefer looser swim shorts. These are a bit tight.”
“I think they’re fine.” I coughed.
“Your suit is really nice too. The color’s great.”
We both nodded. A sense of déjà vu washed over me, like the other night in my bedroom, only this time, Elliot was nearly as naked as I was. But bathing suits weren’t nudity, I reminded myself. This was normal. We were normal.
“What was that, El?” Klara emerged from her dressing room in a sophisticated cream-colored suit with a plunging neckline. Not a bikini, as I’d expected. “Oh, you’re definitely getting those,” she said, pointing at Elliot’s shorts. Then her assessing eye turned to me. “Leo, you look amazing. Definitely get that one.”
The weirdest thing was that I think she actually meant it.
At my cousin’s insistence, we wore our suits out of the boutique, making the far trek from the New York Ward to California. Apparently, California had been the land of swimming pools and beaches, and each of the state-themed wards on the Lady Liberty was meticulously on-brand. The ship also specialized in excess, so we discovered both a pool and a beach from which to choose. Well, it was one long and large pool of water, but with two access points—one a white-sand beach at which the shallow, crystal-blue water gently lapped; the other, shallow descending stone stairs.
Ignoring either entrance, I found a quiet deck chair on which to plant myself. I made it only halfway before Evgenia appeared.
“Oh, no, you don’t! You don’t have to swim, but at least dangle your legs in the water, since you’re in your adorable bathing suit. I want you close to all of us.” She inclined her head in Elliot’s direction. I’d have to tell her later that the wing-womaning was off. For now, I didn’t argue. I could sit on the edge of a pool. It was the deeper parts that stressed me out, though logic told me that if there was a freak gravity failure in here, as there had been the night my mom died, it wouldn’t matter which part of the pool I was in.