Chapter 9

Amelia

The office air is thick with tension. We've been working fifteen days straight. It's Saturday afternoon, and we've been here for almost nine hours today without so much as a break. I'd rather be anywhere else, but instead, I watch Rose become the human barometer for our office climate, pacing before her desk then slumping into her chair, only to spring up again moments later. I can almost hear the creaks and groans of her mood swings. It's exhausting, trying to predict her next high or low.

"Amelia, where are my reports?" she asks, her words bright and sharp one second, dulled and indifferent the next.

"Almost done," I call, clicking through the last batch of data.

I'm halfway through crafting the email to send with the report when Adam's voice booms from the doorway, "Rose! I'll need you here at seven sharp tomorrow!"

There's no please, no thank you, just an expectation heavy as lead.

My heart sinks. Seven o'clock on a Sunday morning is brutal, even more so because I know if he's calling Rose in, I might be next. My plans with Kent flash before my eyes, a shimmering mirage about to evaporate. I need to get ahead of this.

"Adam," I begin, hesitating as I gather my courage, "about tomorrow…"

He turns, eyebrows raised expectantly. "What about it?"

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of my own exhaustion. "I won't be available in the office. I've managed to secure a spot on Dr. Johns's sailboat—Dr. Johns from Mercy Hospital. It's for…research." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but desperation has its own flavor.

"Research, huh?" Adam leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a skeptical smirk on his lips. "And what exactly are you hoping to learn from this little aquatic adventure?"

"Market insights," I explain, keeping my voice steady. "Doctors are a key demographic for us on the Mercy account. Understanding their lifestyle could inform the strategies for our presentation."

"Smart." He nods slowly, though I can tell he's not fully sold. "Just make sure it's not all play out there."

"Of course," I assure him, my mind already sailing away from the fluorescent lights and endless demands.

As I turn back to my computer to finish my email, I can't avoid a pang of guilt. But I haven't had a full day off since Christmas, and the bags under my eyes are as heavy as the workload that created them. My work product has been slipping. The spark in my ideas? Dulled. Not that anyone is listening to me anyway. But regardless, I'm not at my best. Still, I'm about to commit the ultimate sin in the church of advertising. I'm taking a day for myself.

"Who is it, Amelia? Who did you snag an invite from?" Rose appears in the doorway and her voice latches onto me like a grappling hook as she muscles past Adam.

"Dr. Kent Johns," I confess, the name tumbling out before I can second-guess whether this information will buy my freedom or tighten the noose.

Rose's eyes gleam. It's the scent of opportunity that has her nostrils flaring, not concern about my well-earned weekend plans. "Johns?" She turns to Adam, eyes wide, voice pitched high. "He's on the committee, Adam. The committee."

Excitement fills the air, and I scribble down their barrage of questions, each an inquiry I know I won't fulfill. Why is Mercy unhappy with us as their current agency? What led them to seek new bids? Who are they leaning toward? When are they going to let us know officially? Upcoming campaigns, budgets… Adam's convinced there's a treasure trove they're sitting on. "We need insight, Amelia," he insists, as if I wasn't the one who brought this to his attention in the first place.

"Get us those answers," Rose adds, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Things have gone terribly off the rails here, as they've taken this and run in the wrong direction. Kent is not, in fact, on the committee, but it doesn't seem at all to my benefit to mention that right now. I was just going to get his perspective as a doctor, but even that seems ridiculous in the face of this, their rabid ineptitude. Resolve hardens inside me, a kernel of defiance that whispers, no more.

I finally finish and send my email, and at this point, it's only the three of us left. I'm ready for this miserable day to end. Pulling on my coat and grabbing my bag, I try to sneak out before they give me something else to do.

"Enjoy your research," Adam calls after me, a knowing edge to his voice.

"Will do," I reply, my smile forced as I push through the doors.

Outside, I breathe in the freedom of an impending day off, the promise of salt air and open water to soothe my frayed nerves. I should feel guilty, but I don't. Not really. This isn't just about escape; it's survival. And besides all that, the thought of setting sail with Kent sends a thrill through me, a spark of something new and fun for a change.

Tomorrow, I decide as the city bustles around me, I will not be Amelia the overworked ad exec. I'll be Amelia the adventurer, the sailor, the woman who laughs easily and worries about nothing more than the direction of the wind. Maybe I'll discover something helpful for the Mercy account, and maybe I won't. I certainly won't be getting the insights they've decided I should. But maybe by taking a day for myself, to do things the way I want to, I'll take a step back toward the woman who once loved her job, rather than just enduring it.

But first things first. Tonight, I will pack my bag and dream of horizons wide and uncluttered, of sails billowing with possibility, and of a day that belongs entirely to me. But before that, I need reinforcement from my friends.

"Research," Isla snorts a couple hours later, swirling her wine in a way that seems to mock the very concept. We've popped popcorn and there's a romantic comedy queued on the television in the quiet sanctuary of my home with my friends. "Aren't emergency docs like firefighters?" she asks. "More about action than admin?"

"Exactly," I confirm. The relief of admitting it aloud feels like shedding a disguise I've been wearing too long. "I mean, they said he's on the committee—whatever that means. But what would Kent know about marketing budgets and ad campaigns?"

"Maybe he's just ridiculously charming and they wanted him front and center," Stella offers.

All I can do is roll my eyes.

We talk into the night, never really getting into the movie, our conversation capturing our attention instead. My insides churn with anticipation for tomorrow's adventure, though I do dread explaining that this espionage has not yielded the results they expect.

"Amelia, you've been running on fumes," Stella says. "You deserve a break."

"Right," Isla agrees, topping off our glasses. "Screw their expectations. Just enjoy the sail, and you can explain that they made a mistake. They said he was on the committee, not you."

As the wine warms my veins, I let their words become my mantra. Tomorrow, I am not Amelia the informant. I am Amelia the free spirit, chasing the horizon with a man whose world is as far from mine as the sea is from shore.

"Tomorrow, I sail," I declare, and we raise our glasses to that simple truth. A toast to a reprieve, to living for myself, if only for a day. And as the city lights twinkle outside, mirroring the stars above, I feel the weight of expectations lift, replaced by the buoyancy of hope.

For all my anticipation, I am barely conscious of the city around me as the rideshare pulls up to Vancouver Marina the next morning. It's early, and sleep played an elusive game with me all night. But now, as I step out into the brisk air, a sense of calm settles over me. The marina is a forest of masts, and the sound of water lapping against hulls is oddly soothing.

"Amelia!" Kent's voice cuts through the chilly morning, and I turn to see him on the deck of his boat. It's larger than I expected, and he stands in khaki pants and a wool roll-down sweater, topped with a big wool coat. He looks ready to tackle the North Sea.

"Hey, Kent." I approach, forcing a brightness into my voice that I don't quite feel yet. But I will.

"Good choice with the sneakers," he says with an approving nod.

I smile. They're reasonably cute, but more importantly, they're practical and skid proof. "Thanks." I follow him onto the boat, ducking under the boom as he leads me through a brief tour. "Wow, this is…spacious."

"Two bedrooms, here and here." He points with a casual sweep of his hand. "Bathroom with a shower—small, but it gets the job done. Seating area for planning and plotting courses or just enjoying a drink. And the galley kitchen, where we can whip up something if we get hungry out there."

The intimacy of the space is surprising, and it seems to have everything one might need. "You could live on this thing," I say, half to myself.

"That's the dream." He grins, looking every bit the adventurer. "One day, to sail around the world."

"Sounds lonely," I reply before I can stop myself. But then again, the idea of being so utterly free is tantalizing.

"Maybe," he concedes. "But think of the stars at night, unspoiled by city lights."

I nod. "Can't argue with that."

Back on deck, we push off from the dock, and the engine hums beneath us as we make our way past rows of boats bobbing gently in their slips. As we round the point at Stanley Park, a float plane roars overhead, descending gracefully onto the water.

"Look," I say, pointing toward the shore. "That's where I wiped out on my bike."

"Ah, the infamous fall." His voice carries a teasing lilt. "And the guy just left you there?"

"Yep." I roll my eyes, remembering the sting of gravel against skin—and pride. "Complete loser."

"Then it's good riddance to bad rubbish." He flashes a supportive smile as we leave the point behind us.

"Time to go full sail," Kent announces after a few minutes, shifting from motor to wind power. With a few deft movements, he hoists the mainsail, and then the headsail rises too. A gust of wind catches them, and the boat leans into its new element.

The cold bites at my cheeks, but the sky is a canvas of unblemished blue. It's a perfect day—no rain, no looming deadlines, no Rose breathing down my neck for updates.

"Here, take the wheel for a second?" Kent asks.

"Uh, sure." My fingers wrap around the wheel, and I feel the pulse of the ocean beneath the hull. The boat responds to every minute adjustment, alive and eager, much like I feel in this moment—awake, finally, to the simple joy of being.

"Nice. You're a natural," he compliments, securing a line.

"Or maybe it's just beginner's luck," I counter with a laugh, feeling the tension in my shoulders unwind with each nautical mile we put between us and the city.

"Either way, you're doing great."

The sails billow, a dance of white against the azure. I'm going to have fun today. "Thanks, Kent," I tell him, gratitude warming me more than the sun ever could. "For this. It's exactly what I needed."

"Happy to oblige," he replies, eyes crinkling with a smile.

Today, I won't ask about budgets or bids or agency politics. Maybe we'll chat a bit about his job, but maybe not. First and foremost, we sail.

The Georgia Straight unfolds before us like a living mosaic, each island a unique piece of natural artistry. Kent points to the smaller ones first, mere rocky outposts crowned with resilient pine trees that somehow cling to the craggy surfaces. I squint against the sunlight reflecting off the water as we approach the larger islands, where homes are nestled so discreetly within the folds of tall pine trees, they might as well be secrets.

"Check that one out," Kent says, nodding toward a particularly grand estate on its own island, complete with a helipad. "Local tech mogul's retreat."

"Quite the escape," I murmur, imagining the kind of life that affords such isolation, a stark contrast to my frenetic, people-filled existence.

Then movement catches my eye—a pod of orcas slicing through the waves, their dorsal fins cresting rhythmically. My heart leaps at the sight, and without thinking, I reach for Kent's arm, pointing. "Look!"

"Stunning, aren't they?" His voice is soft, filled with the same awe that tightens my throat.

I nod, losing words to the simple grandeur of it all. "Is that a…?" I pause, second-guessing the dark shape in the distance. It swims with purposeful strokes, and my brain struggles to reconcile the image. "A black bear?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." He chuckles. "They're strong swimmers. Sometimes, they island-hop looking for food."

We watch in silence until the bear disappears into the foliage of another island, leaving ripples as the only evidence it was ever there.

As the marina comes into view, Salt Spring Island greets us with open arms. We glide into our designated spot, and Kent secures the boat with practiced ease. Our steps sync up as we disembark and stroll toward a little café across the street.

"Be right back," I say, darting into the restroom. The mirror doesn't lie. My ponytail has surrendered to the wind, and wisps of hair frame my face in disarray. But my smile, it's irrepressible, fueled by the salt air and freedom. For a moment, I'm taken aback by my reflection, not because of the tangled hair, but because of the unmistakable spark in my eyes.

I dig my phone from the depths of my jacket pocket. Thirteen texts. All from Rose. Each one a pang of guilt, a reminder of what I'm supposed to be doing. I hesitate, thumb hovering over the power button. Then, decisively, I switch it off. The vibration in my chest isn't anxiety. It's rebellion, and it feels exhilarating.

"Ready?" Kent asks when I reemerge.

"More than ever," I reply. "Let's enjoy this day, shall we?"

"Absolutely."

The café hums with the soft chatter of locals and the occasional clatter of dishes. I slide into my chair, the wood cool against my skin, still flushed from the ocean's kiss. Kent has already ordered, and as soon as we've settled, a turkey sandwich and chips are laid out before him.

"Decided to treat yourself, huh?" I tease, eyeing the golden crisps beside the hearty sandwich.

He grins. "It's not every day I have such great company." His eyes twinkle with a playful light, and it spreads warmth through me like the first sip of a hot drink on a cold day.

The server then sets a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of me. The aroma is comforting, familiar, a nostalgic nod to childhood sick days. I wrap my hands around the bowl, letting the heat seep into my palms.

"I hope that works for you," he says. "I thought you could use some warming up."

"It's perfect," I assure him. "Thank you."

"Your family from Vancouver?" Kent asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

I stir the soup, watching the noodles swirl in the rich broth. "No. I came out here for university. I grew up in Nova Scotia."

"Are your parents still there?"

"My dad died when I was eight in a fishing accident, and my mom came out here after I came for university."

His face brightens. "No wonder you're a natural in a sailboat. You must have spent hours on the water."

"I did before my dad died. But it was a fishing boat—very different from a sailboat."

"You mentioned you went to Simon Fraser University and studied marketing. Did your mom come with you?"

"It seemed like it, but not initially. She just showed up one day."

"Do you still live with her?"

I laugh at the thought. "No. She sometimes stays with me when she's between boyfriends, but not for very long."

"It's great that you're so close."

I open my mouth, but then close it again. That's not it at all, but there's no need to tell him my mom is a mess. That's too much to share at this point. So, I just look out over the water and enjoy the beauty of British Columbia. "Speaking of relationships…" I begin after a moment. "You said your sister's wedding is coming up, right?"

"Ah, yes." Kent sighs, leaning back and looking momentarily burdened by the thought. "Mid-March. A spring wedding." He shakes his head. "I'm happy for her, really. She and her fiancé seem good together. But the planning, the expectations… I'll be relieved when it's all just wonderful memories."

"Weddings can be overwhelming, even if you're not the one saying, ‘I do'," I empathize, thinking of the countless bridal magazines that littered our living room during Mom's many engagements.

"Exactly." He crunches a chip. "But hey, it's about them. I just have to show up and look moderately presentable, right?"

"Right." I laugh because Kent always looks more than moderately presentable. He carries himself in a way that suggests he could step off a sailboat and into a wedding without missing a beat.

"Anyway," he says, brushing crumbs from his hands, "enough about my familial obligations. I don't want to discourage you from agreeing to be my guest at the wedding."

"Right," I joke. "I don't believe I've done that." Though today it seems entirely possible.

"Yet," he adds with a smile.

I return to my soup. We're two people, momentarily untethered from duties and demands, sharing a meal as the world spins on without us. In this little café, with its mismatched chairs and the scent of salt air, we have found a pocket of peace.

The last bite of my chicken noodle soup goes down warm and comforting, and I look up to catch Kent eyeing me, a look on his face that says he knows a secret about the world that makes everything lighter. I wonder what it could be.

"Ready to head back?" he asks, voice casual but eyes searching, like he's trying to read my mood without prying too much.

I nod, feeling the pull of the open water in my chest, a yearning I hadn't realized had taken root. "Sailing back sounds perfect. I'm really enjoying this—today, the sea, the company."

"Great." Kent stands and shows me to the door.

We step outside, and the chill of the ocean air nips at my cheeks, once again tugging strands of my ponytail free. I should feel disheveled, out of place, but instead, there's an exhilaration that courses through me, wild and untamed like the sea itself.

Kent leads the way, shoulders relaxed under his wool coat, a beacon of calm assurance. I follow, my sneakers sounding against the marina's wooden planks. "Thanks for making today possible," I say as we walk. "I needed this break more than I realized."

"Happy to provide a respite from the grind," he replies, glancing back with a grin. "Work will always be there, but days like this…" He gestures toward the horizon. "They're rare."

He's right. Work has been a constant, demanding presence in my life, an insistent ring in the back of my mind. But out here, with the vast expanse of the ocean before us and the sails catching the wind, I can almost forget the stack of tasks awaiting my return.

As we reach the boat, Kent's stride is confident, purposeful. He unfastens the mooring lines and offers me one to hold. "Watch your step," he warns as we board.

"Will do," I chirp back. I hop onto the deck, feeling the slight give beneath my feet as the boat adjusts to our weight.

Kent's movements are a dance of precision as he prepares to set sail. He motors us out beyond the marina, and I watch, transfixed, as he once again hoists the mainsail, muscles flexing under his coat. The canvas billows out in the afternoon breeze. It's like watching a bird stretch its wings for the first time, magnificent and full of potential.

"Here we go," he announces, and the motor cuts off, leaving us with nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the hull and the creak of the mast.

"Here we go," I echo, a smile spreading across my face. As the boat picks up speed through the waves, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the sun kiss my face.

I'm still smiling when I open my eyes again and Kent's gaze meets mine, an unspoken understanding passing between us.

Today, I choose the sea over the storm.