Deadshifted

As the waiter took our order, Asher sized up another uniformed cruise employee near the door. “Be right back.”

I didn’t have to ask what he was doing to know. I’d seen him do it at least a hundred times. He reached the man and started talking to him in his intuitively congenial way. Asher could make anyone like him. I watched him with a mixture of jealousy and awe, and the realization dawned that I was engaged to, and impregnated by, a hustler. Not that that was a bad thing, at least not in Asher’s case. But it was … a thing. Something I’d never had to deal with before.

Asher laughed and the man laughed and they were laughing together—I shook my head in bemusement, then let my gaze wander the room. This restaurant had an under-the-sea theme, with walls covered by splashing ocean waves and happy denizens of the sea swimming underneath.

I spotted the family we’d sat through the safety lecture with, the Indian couple with their kids, and I waved at them so as not to seem creepy, as the mother caught me staring a second too long. She absentmindedly waved back, clear she had no memory of me from yesterday. As a mom, this was probably like a working vacation for her. They might not be at home, but she hadn’t gotten to take a break from her mom-job.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye, trying to put myself in her shoes and failing. Her boy was scarfing down a huge plate of scrambled eggs, and her daughter was studiously drawing on a place mat with crayons. That was going to be me. Give or take eight years.

Asher returned to his seat, disrupting my reverie. “I know who to talk to now. I’ll go out after this and move things along.”

I smiled at him and snorted. “Wow, if you’re fast enough, this may be our only breakfast as fiancés.”

“I hope so, because that word sounds weird.”

“How shotgun is our wedding going to be? Am I going to have to find a white dress somewhere on board?”

He laughed, and just like the man he’d been conversing with, I found myself wanting to laugh with him. “Only as shotgun as you want.” He beamed at me. “I don’t care what you wear, as long as you show up.”

This week might be the last week I fit into the red dress I’d brought along for formal nights for a while. “I’m going to wear red then. I’ve already got that outfit, and it’s easier this way. Especially seeing as it’s just for us, and whatever witnesses we have to rope in for it to be legal.”

He grinned, then gave me a sober look. “You should get your hair done, though. And your nails. Whatever other fun things women do. I don’t want you to miss out on all of that just because I’m rushing you.”

I inspected my nails. My manicure might hold well enough for a few more days, seeing as there wouldn’t be any dishes for me to do, if I could avoid my natural inclination to use All the Sanitizer. But getting it redone just because I could was tempting, too. Wasn’t that how vacations worked? “You’re not rushing me, honest. I wouldn’t want the hassle of planning everything anyhow. This is saving me a ton of stress.” Avoiding sending out invitations, check. Avoiding endless discussions with my mother about colors, flowers, or dresses, double check. Not having to wonder if my brother’s going to show up or not, high or not, or being the worst-sister-ever again if I didn’t invite him to avoid that entirely, super-check.

Our breakfast arrived, and Asher waited until the waiter left to speak again. “Well, I’d still like it to be romantic. Even if it is practical.”

“It will be. It’s with you.” I grinned at him over my pancakes. They smelled so good—my stomach flipped a coin, and hungry won. I ate a few bites, and things held. I sank back into my chair, relieved. “What about rings? I’m not really a ring wearer—” Work gave me the opportunity to touch too many gross things.

He quickly shook his head. “Rings are too complicated.”

I blinked, as I realized he was right. People at work didn’t know I was with Hector—they’d only ever met me dating some blond guy named Asher, who just happened to never be around when Hector was. Same with my brother and folks. There would be no way to explain things at work, and the second either of us showed up wearing a ring—people there might not put us with each other, but there’d be questions to answer for sure. It would be easier without them, less chances to screw up.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s okay, I understand.” I set my fork down and held up my ring-free hands for illustration. “I don’t like them anyway, and besides, I’d be worried about it falling into an abscess all the time.”

Asher’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. “Please tell me you wear gloves when you change dressings.”

“I do, but—” I mimed taking off a glove and then a ring flying off and over, to land into Asher’s scrambled eggs. He made a face and then laughed.

“That’s disgusting.”

“My ability to be disgusting and still eat is kind of why you love me.” I leaned over and forked a bite off his plate by way of demonstration.

He grinned at me. “There are more reasons than that, but that is definitely one of them.”

I snickered and then leaned forward to kiss him across the table—something I realized I might not be able to do in a few months when I’d gotten a belly—and he leaned forward to kiss me back, and that’s when I heard it. The sound of someone choking.

CHAPTER EIGHT

You don’t actually hear the sound of someone choking. The hallmark of choking is that the chokee can’t actually make any sounds. If they can talk, they can breathe, and they just need to cough things out.

What you do hear are the screams of other people’s panic as their tablemate turns blue.

“Someone help! He can’t breathe!” shouted someone with an Indian accent.

Asher and I both looked over. The woman was standing and her son was facedown in his eggs. Her daughter watched her brother, openmouthed and terrified.

Asher leaped up and raced over, and introduced himself by his occupation, not his name. “I’m a doctor.”

I was close behind him. He circled the boy, braced his hand around his waist, and popped his fists up underneath the boy’s sternum. The mom was still shouting for help, but she was wise enough to stay out of the way.

A plug of eggs popped out of the boy’s mouth on the third blow, and he started coughing violently.

“There you go—” Asher set the boy down on the chair beside his mother, and he promptly threw up. I reached over to the next unoccupied set table and grabbed all the napkins fast to put over the mess.

By then, the ship’s doctor had arrived, the same one I’d gotten the pregnancy test from this morning. He started looking over the boy as Asher and I faded back. He seemed competent from afar; maybe this morning I’d just caught him off guard.

The rest of the crew brought in a wheelchair and took the boy away for observation. His mother looked back at us on her way out the door. “Thank you so much, Doctor,” she said, still breathless from her ordeal.

Asher took it in stride and waved like a prom king.

We sat back down at our table. “Oh, Doctor,” I said to Asher, quietly, mimicking her intonation.

He snorted as our waiter returned and thanked us, his hands clasped nervously in front of his chest. “You were so fast! We have protocols, practices, but we don’t use them very often. Is there anything I can get you extra? For your help?” He looked from Asher to me.

My nurse’s stomach had withstood the onslaught of someone else’s emesis, but the pregnant portion of me was now rethinking everything else. I pushed my half-eaten plate of pancakes away. “I think I’m good. Thank you, though.”

“Oh, no, no, thank you. So many people sick on board,” he said, shaking his head. And then he blanched as though he’d said too much. “But it’s not us, it’s the waves. We’re racing a storm. All the waves’ fault.”

“I believe you,” Asher said, with just the right tone to calm the man.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said again, waiting for an extra second in case we changed our minds, and then backing hurriedly away.

“Are you okay?” Asher asked me, looking worried.

I smiled at him, trying not to look at the table or smell anything. “Yeah. I’m fine. You should eat, though.”

“Maybe later.” He smiled, pushed his plate away, and stood to offer me his arm. “Let’s go on a walk. After all, my job here is done.”

* * *

I made it until we were outside the restaurant, and out of earshot of everyone. “Oh, Doctor—” I teased again, in fair imitation of the boy’s mother. “Save me, Doctor!” I pretended to faint against him.

“You realize you’re not too pregnant yet for me to spank?” he chided.

I stood a little straighter and took a step away. “I just like how you get to be the one to save people’s lives, and even on vacation I’m the one that gets to deal with the biowaste.”

He gave me a thoughtful look, then shrugged. “Well, now that you put it like that, being a doctor does sound sexy.”

We walked past a cruise employee furiously wiping down handrails with cleaner. I felt for the man. He, at least, understood how germy people could be.

There were saloon doors in front of us, and someone pushed through them, letting fresh air in from outside. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Asher stopped and propelled me forward. “You go out—I’ll catch up with you. I have someone I need to meet.”

I was about to protest when I realized he meant Operation Shotgun was under way. “By meet, you mean bribe?”

He broke into a wolfish grin. “If that’s what it takes.”

“That’s my fiancé.”

He raised my hand to kiss it without the least hint of irony.

* * *

Outside, it was brisk and turning gray as the clouds caught up. I’d brought precisely one sweater for this trip, and luckily I was wearing it now. I’d packed with our destination in mind—Hawaii, lush and green, all short sleeves and sunblock—and hadn’t planned for this. This was better than Port Cavell, though, where it snowed all winter long. There was something to be said for being outdoors without a thick coat. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">