Chapter Twenty-One

Day at Sea

Usually I wasn't a fan of surprises. Past results hadn't gone in my favor. A monster truck rally with my bio dad instead of a trip to the zoo. Tanner winning the Astronomy Club election. Getting dumped in front of half my classmates.

But somehow, lately, when it came to Tanner, I was coming to fear them less. To almost be curious how he would subvert my expectations this time.

Trivia took place in a lounge, with a host asking questions that also appeared on a screen, and a tablet at each table for selecting answers.

Mr. Ramirez and his wife were sitting across the room. He waved at us. So did Dottie with her colorful walker, today accompanied by her husband.

Once we started, Tanner focused. More than I usually did. He knew every sports question, including about athletes from before we were born. He also knew a surprising number of historical ones, proving I'd been right that he liked the subject. And he answered the health questions, confirming the direction of my idea for his college major. I tabled the thought while I handled math and science and a surprising number of music ones, thanks to Jordan.

I was seeing sides of Tanner this trip that I had never suspected existed. All these years, I'd labeled him. Annoying. Loud. Goofy. Jock.

But I'd been forced to add funny, perceptive, observant, kind.

The box I'd put him in was utterly destroyed, lying in wreckage. And it wasn't a terrible surprise.

First place went to Dottie, who honked her horn in celebration. Her husband gazed at her fondly.

"She's been on a million cruises," Tanner said. "I bet they use the same questions and she memorized the answers."

We came in third, just behind the Ramirezes, which was good. I didn't know if it would help our moms if their teenagers seemed smarter than their boss.

Mr. Ramirez came over to congratulate us. "Glad to know the public education system is strong. Your parents should be proud."

"Tell them that, sir." Tanner grinned, but a muscle jumped in his jaw, so slight I was certain no one else saw it. Why was I noticing? And why did I want to press my fingers to it and ask him what was wrong?

"I hope you two are having a fun trip."

"Yes, sir," we said.

"Thanks for making our parents come," Tanner said. "And for the train ride. It was great."

Mr. Ramirez beamed, and it occurred to me, possibly for the first time, that Tanner wasn't sucking up or trying to make himself look good. His manners were just a result of his genuine desire to make people happy.

He was more complicated than the engine room.

And I was a sucker for a complicated problem, a mysterious equation to be solved.

When Mr. Ramirez left, I checked the time.

"Got somewhere to be?" Tanner asked.

"Yes, actually."

He cocked his head. "Do tell."

"Nope, you'll have to wait and be surprised at dinner."

"Ooh, mysterious. I like it."

Mysterious didn't usually describe me, but it was kind of fun.

"Buying art? More pea soup? Please tell me you're not springing for Wi-Fi so you can email Caveman."

Caleb. I'd barely thought about him in two days, which was weird, since he'd texted me—and I hadn't responded, because we'd been on the ship.

"Not emailing," I said. "You'll find out soon enough."

I returned to the cabin to grab my mom, who had heard me make the appointment and wanted to come. Together, we went to the spa.

My heart was racing as I entered the white room. This had sounded like a better idea a few hours ago. I tugged on the end of my ponytail and fought the desire to walk right back out.

Soft music, trickling water, and faint incense intended to create a calming atmosphere were failing in their mission—facing this was as nerve-racking as facing bears.

We went to the salon, and I sat in a chair and stared in the mirror, my long hair falling halfway down my back.

A tall woman with pale blond hair whose name tag said Ingrid stood behind me and ran my hair gently between her hands. "What are we thinking today?"

Usually I asked for a couple inches off, to trim the split ends. I gulped. "Something new, I think. But nothing too short or drastic. I've always had it long. And it's really straight."

Ingrid gave me a book full of pictures. Most I would never consider, short and spunky or half shaved, and many required waves or curls, which I had no hope of attaining.

When I didn't say anything, Ingrid asked, "What if we give you a trim and layers?"

"Okay. But make sure it's long enough to pull back when I run." My attention caught on a picture. "And maybe this?"

Mom peeked, and I wasn't sure what she would say. I'd never been adventurous with my looks, so I'd never learned her opinion on piercings beyond one in each ear, or tattoos, or edgy fashion.

"I love it," she said.

"Really?"

"Really. It's just hair. If you hate it, it will grow out or we'll fix it."

"Cool."

Ingrid washed my hair, and the scalp massage relaxed me. Her fingers were magic. But tension crept into my shoulders again when we relocated to the chair so she could comb my hair.

Haircuts are a nightmare scenario for introverts. You're trapped in a chair, frantically searching for conversation topics, hoping not to accidentally say the wrong thing and annoy the person standing behind you holding a sharp, pointy object with easy access to the major artery in your neck.

Thankfully, Ingrid was content to work in silence, which was fine by me.

When she started cutting, I nearly shouted stop. A large amount of hair covered the ground, several inches, plus more for the layers. But if I left now, I'd be lopsided.

She brought out the dye—deep blue for stripes on the under layers. Mom was getting regular highlights, and they left us to marinate.

"Hoping a new look will impress Mr. Ramirez?" I asked.

"I have been rather distracted this week, haven't I?"

"Yep."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I'm having fun."

"You and Tanner seem to be getting along."

My heart fluttered. "No one else to hang out with. And you told me to be nice."

"Mmm."

When we were done, Ingrid washed out the dye, blow-dried my hair, and spun me to face the mirror.

It was me, just trendier. Instead of long, straight hair all the same boring color, now layers swung at different lengths, and the blue streaks peeked out. Not obvious or glaring, but hints of fun. I snapped a picture to send to Jordan later, knowing she'd love it.

"Happy?" Mom asked.

"I am."

"What prompted this?"

"I thought it might be time for a change." I fingered the end of a blue strand.

"Well, you look beautiful. You always do, but I like the color."

"Hopefully Dad does, too."

"Is he the one you're thinking about?"

My face got hot. "Who else would I mean?"

Mom shrugged and smiled as Tanner's face flashed through my mind.

The hair matched my dress for our second formal dinner. This one was ruffled and longer and would have been a much safer option for going onstage with devil birds in front of hundreds of people.

My head felt like it had lost a few pounds. Layers swung against my collarbone as I swiped on mascara and lip gloss. I could conquer the ship.

We left, but I realized I forgot my phone.

"I'm going to run back real quick," I told my parents. "I'll meet you there." I went inside, grabbed the phone, and rushed into the hall.

Just in time to run into Tanner bursting out of his room.

"Oh, good," he said. "You're late, too. I was—" He froze. His gaze traced my face, and I swore I felt it physically touching every inch. His throat bobbed.

"Wow. You look amazing." He reached out to run his fingers through a blue streak in my hair, and they brushed my bare shoulder.

I shivered. "Thanks."

"Kind of subtle punk rock. It suits you. Quiet, but with hidden unexpected depths."

My mouth was suddenly dry.

He continued to stare at me. Time in the hallway froze.

His hand was still resting on my shoulder, barely. I tried to swallow.

"You, um, you look nice," I said.

Tonight, he wore a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up and a gray vest, and the dressy outfit made semicasual had stolen all coherent thoughts from my brain. We matched, like we'd planned it.

He offered his elbow. I slipped my hand through it, feeling solid muscle under his sleeve.

Despite my heels, he was taller. I liked it. Slower than normal, we strolled down the hall. Every inch of me felt on edge, thrilled, but also like I might float away.

"Aren't you two adorable," said an older lady near the elevator. "Here, let me take a picture."

Tanner handed his phone to her and slid his arm around my waist like he'd done it hundreds of times, gently pressing me against him. Without thinking, one of my arms snaked around his back and the other hand came to rest on his chest.

A slight exhale came from his throat, and his hold on me tightened.

"Smile," the woman said.

I didn't know if that was possible, if this energy sizzling through me would let me. Every point of contact between us felt welded together, like it would take actual physical force to separate us.

When the lady extended the phone, Tanner moved to take it. But he moved slowly, his fingers trailing across my back as he reluctantly removed his arm from around me.

"Thanks," he said, his voice cracking.

I could no longer meet his gaze. I stared at the carpet. My face was on fire, and my heart was racing.

He cleared his throat. "We should, um."

"Yeah."

This time, as we continued to the dining room, we kept two feet of space between us.

What was happening? Surely any butterflies I'd been feeling were simply from the objective fact that Tanner looked good in dress clothes. That was a simple, quantifiable fact. No actual emotions could be involved.

We joined our parents and sat across from each other at the end of the table. I immediately reached for the bread basket to give my hands something to do.

"Savannah, dear, you look beautiful," said Tanner's mom. "I love your hair."

"Thanks, Mrs. Woods."

Don't mind me, I wasn't recently imagining what it would be like to feel up your son.

A menu lay by my plate, and I busied myself reading it. Tonight's theme was "A Taste of Alaska," and it included many intimidating items.

"You survived the soup," Tanner said. "And that terrifying omelet. Are you up for something else?"

His voice sounded light, and I peeked at him. I couldn't let him believe a simple photo had affected me in any way.

"If you order snails again, I'm leaving."

He grinned, and my insides did the foxtrot.

"Crab legs?" he asked, naming one of the appetizers.

A waiter had just walked by with those, and they looked all pinkish-orange and crunchy, like they'd been removed from a giant crab five minutes ago. Or from an alien life form.

A man at the table across from us was cracking one with his bare hands, and my stomach heaved.

"Please, for the love of Alaska, don't make me look at those."

"They do look like aliens, don't they?"

How did he keep doing that?

"What about the main course instead?" he asked. "You like steak, right? They have elk. That sounds cool. Or surf and turf. Regular steak plus lobster, so if you don't like the lobster, you can eat the steak."

"And you'll finish the lobster for me?"

"Naturally."

"I guess I could try that."

Since I was being adventurous in the meat selection, I had no hesitation in ordering a plain dinner salad and baked potato on the side.

"Oh, Savannah," said Mrs. Woods. "How was the tour of the engine room?"

I spun to face her. "Amazing! We saw the control room and the lowest levels. It's so complicated and impressive. And we learned about how they steer and how the propellers work."

"Sounds fascinating," Mr. Woods said. "These ships are marvels."

"Tanner, what did you think?" my mom asked.

He grabbed another roll. "It was loud." He wore a disinterested expression and kept his tone light.

"You seemed to enjoy it," I said.

His gaze flickered to me, shadows in his eyes. He hesitated. Shrugged. "I didn't understand it like you. You're the one who's good at that science stuff. Can I have the butter?"

Now that I knew him better, I was starting to understand what he was doing—lowering everyone's expectations. Why? So he couldn't disappoint them by failing to live up? I thought back over many conversations this week. When his parents talked about his sisters or anything academic or serious, and he played dumb or interrupted to make jokes or did something outlandish. Provided a show, a distraction, a flashy performance to hide anything real underneath.

It was so obvious now. How could his parents not see it?

"You could learn from Savannah, you know," his dad said. "I wish you'd apply yourself like she does."

"He applies himself in lots of ways." My voice rang out before I could stop myself.