Where is the sea? (WT) Chapter 2

Marina never - ever - made rash decisions. Out of the three Hernandez siblings, she was the most careful, the most sensible. Always prudent. Always calculated.

Never reckless.

Except last night. Last night, she'd thrown caution - and her new hat - to the wind, and wound up on a catamaran on the way to Cozumel with a group of people she'd met just hours before at a club in Playa del Carmen.

Carefully, she opened her eyelids; she could tell by the shade of red when they were closed that it was bright outside. She was in a neat, compact bedroom, and through a small round window on the other side she could see... nothing. Nothing except turquoise blue water, rising and falling at all distances.

She shut her eyes tightly, willing her brain to not register the ocean waves that rocked the boat, or the waves of nausea that mimicked them. It didn't work. She could feel the burn of bile rising, the clammy sweat and the sense of dreadful knowing that came moments before vomiting. She flew a hand to her mouth and rolled over to let her mouth hang over the side of the bed, lying on her side, her knees curled to her chest. Her foot grazed another body, and she froze.

Someone was in the bed with her, and she didn't know who it was.

A steady beat pounded between her temples as she pulled her foot instinctively away and opened one eye to survey the room and find the nearest garbage can, keeping the other eye shut to prevent the dizziness.

She spied it in the corner, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was coming up now and she wobbled across the floor, fruitlessly attempting to stay upright, until she fell to her knees in front of the can. Tequila, the sickly sourness of lime juice mixed with stomach acid, it all came out in heaves until she was dry, and she slumped against the wall.

She glanced at the bed where the other figure still lay, limbs askew. Was that Jazzy? She couldn't tell, couldn't see the person's head or her best friend's white blonde Mohawk. Jazzy had been the one to convince her to get on the boat last night - and the one who'd convinced her to come to Mexico in the first place. Jazzy convinced her it was exactly what she needed to get past the emotional turmoil of the last year. Jazzy had even used her American Airlines miles to buy her best friend's ticket.

"Your Christmas slash birthday gift," she'd rocked her head side to side with eyebrows raised and lips pursed to let Marina know it was non negotiable, this was one of those times Jazzy would have her way.

They'd been best friends since elementary school, initially bonding over their mutual obsessions with Ariana Grande, Harry Potter, and pepperoni pizza. Jazzy - a nickname she'd chosen for herself because, by the time she was four she was already tired of people saying "oh! Like Princess Jasmine!", was tired of correcting them by spelling it out: J-A-Z-M-I-N, and wanted a name that made her stand out for being fun. Jazzy proved to be an unfailingly loyal friend to Marina. In third grade, when Marina lost her favorite beanie baby, Jazzy used her allowance to buy her friend a new one. In sixth grade, when Jonah Hoffman said he didn't like Marina and didn't want to be her boyfriend because her nose was too pointy, Jazzy found him after school and tripped him, causing him to fall on his face and break his nose.

Marina was a good friend to Jazzy, too. When Jazzy began struggling with math, Marina would transmute the word problems so their subjects were horses - Jazzy's favorite animal. And Marina always - always - covered for Jazzy, even when it meant lying to mom. Marina hated lying to her mom; she didn't have any reason to except to keep Jazzy out of trouble.

But Marina had also been a good influence on Jazzy, or she liked to think she did. When Jazz wanted to drop out of college, preferring to work, Marina convinced her to stay by helping her find the major with the highest ratio of cute boys (business school). And Jazzy thrived - not just because she was surrounded by boys who gave her the attention she craved. She'd also proven to be a shrewd entrepreneur when she became the first student to sell the adderall she didn't really need to kids with obscene monthly allowances who partied too hard and needed to cram before exams. Eventually she made a name for herself; a local dealer heard about her customer base, and sought her out to help them sell weed. Marina, thinking about Jazzy's future, had convinced her to use a fake name - Tammy - instead of her real name. Just in case.

Marina sighed. Maybe she hadn't been such a great influence on her friend. Shaking her head, her palms pressed down on the cool, damp wood floor and she pushed herself up, slowly. If she didn't get off this boat soon, she'd hurl again.

"Jazzy." She stumbled across the floor towards the bed as the boat rocked. "Jazz." She said louder. The figure in the bed groaned, and Marina stopped, steadying herself with one hand braced on the wall behind the bed. "Babe, are you okay? I just threw up... everything. Ugh. Where the fuck are we right now." A chuckle escaped as she asked, knowing Jazzy would look at this entire situation through her golden optimism, and that alone made her feel less concerned about the fact that she was in the middle of the ocean with strangers.

The person in the bed shifted and pulled the blanket down. It was not Jazzy; she knew as soon as she saw the black fluffy curls appear, and a set of dark brown eyes squinting at her as though she was the sun itself. Confusion, and panic, exploded in her chest. Did she sleep with someone last night? She couldn't remember. Immediately another wave of nausea washed over her brain and her belly. She turned back to the garbage can, twisting too fast, tripped over her own foot and lunged forward. Her knees slammed to the ground and her left wrist caught the rest of the impact. Pain shot like a lightning bolt up through her elbow and she cried out, just as the vomit came up again. Shit. I could have sworn...

"Whoa! Hey, hey..." the man's voice came from behind her. She heard him fumbling through the sheets, his feet thudding on the floor towards her.

"I'm fine." She croaked, lifting her head again to search the room for towels, or anything to clean up the mess she'd just made.

The next words he spoke were not in English. Spanish. Marina spoke and understood conversational Spanish from years of high school classes and living in Miami, but at present, she was too occupied with her attempts to quell the nausea. Her brain didn't want to translate. She caught a few words, agua, medicina, and someone named Miguel, but she was so, so dizzy. A new worry presented itself in her brain. Did she have alcohol poisoning? Was she given something, drugged by someone last night? She groaned.

Just then, the door to the tiny cabin opened. The figure that appeared in the door was darkened to shadows by the bright light behind him. He spoke, loudly, also in Spanish, but not to her. Again, she grasped a handful of words, enough to understand that the man in the doorway was telling the man in the room that he was an asshole, and to get out of the room quickly. Or else. Marina grimaced, the light and the volume of his voice sending her headache to a new level of pain.

The first man scrambled by her and squeezed past the man standing in the doorway, who moved no more than an inch to let him by. A show of power; push past me, I dare you. Marina's head bobbed with the motion of the waves as she peered up at him. He kept his eyes on her as he pulled a small bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to her, it's contents softly rattling as it landed in her lap. Slowly, she tore her gaze away from him, to the package. Also in Spanish, but she didn't have to wonder too long.

"Take two of those. Under your tongue. It will kill the headache." His tone was sharp, and he was frowning. He looked annoyed, definitely disappointed, maybe disgusted? Jerking his chin towards the back of the room, he added "There's water in the cooler on the wall. Drink at least one bottle." Was he the owner of the boat, and was irritated that she was still there? It's not like she could just hop off and swim back. Weren't she and Jazzy invited on board last night? Then she remembered again.

"Where's... where's Jazzy?" She managed.

He scowled, instead of answering, then took a breath and shook his head, walked smoothly across the room and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler. He handed it to her. "She's fine. She's on deck." He kept looking at her in an odd way from under his dark eyebrows. She couldn't tell what look he was giving her, but he didn't seem to be happy she was on this boat.

"Got it." She adjusted herself to sit more upright against the wall and popped two of the pills into her mouth. They were coated with something ever so slightly sweet. Greedily, she gulped down half of the cool water and took a deep breath, feeling - just a little - less anxious knowing that Jazzy really was there. And she was okay.

"Where are we?" Marina eyed the second man again before turning to look out of the window.

"Inside the gulf. On the way to the Bahamas."

Panic clenched her throat again.

"Bahamas? No... no." She tried to stand, fear causing her wild instincts to look for a way out. "I don't have my passport. I... you need to take us back to Playa Del Carmen." She stumbled and caught herself on the bed, hunched over, tears came to her eyes. "I need to go... home."

Go home. To her apartment in New York? Was it even home anymore? She's been avoiding the brownstone like its inhabitants carried the black plague, sleeping in her bed only when Jason was unquestionably on a business trip. For the past year, she'd spent as little time in their apartment as she could, blaming it on work, staying hidden literally anywhere she could spend time so she could avoid him. Whenever she did finally appear, he was unquestionably drunk, probably high, and always furious.

It had been two weeks since he last lashed out at her, two weeks since she'd left and was living out of a small carryon suitcase, falling asleep on Jazzy's sofa every night. In the past two weeks, she'd realized just how little she needed to survive day to day. Suddenly, the realization that she might have slept with the man she'd woken up next to reared its ugly head in her mind, and she gagged again.

The man stood quietly. She imagined he was glaring at her in disgust, but she didn't care.

Her life was a disaster. How did she get here? The tears started and she didn't try to make them stop.

"You should go back to sleep." The man said, with a slightly softer tone, but still a command. "I'll tell your friend you're sick."

Marina was grateful he didn't say he'd send Jazzy in. She didn't want to see her. She didn't want to see anyone. Sleep was the only thing she wanted. She felt like she could sleep for a million years.

She nodded, barely, and climbed into the bed, pulling the blanket over her face. It was cool, and soft, and in a short moment, she was asleep.