Love Just Clicks

Chapter 3-2

By the time we pull into the parking garage that will house our vehicles for the next four days, I’m giddy with relief that Sam is here. My phone has gotten enough charge in the last thirty-six minutes of travel that I’ll have ample juice to hold me until I can find another electrical outlet. And I have Sam’s helpful muscles to help carry equipment. It’ll be nice to have another set of shoulders to throw a lens backpack on.

“How were you going to carry all this yourself?” Sam says, pulling equipment out of my trunk.

“I’m mightier than I look.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you also are not a bodybuilder.”

“You don’t know that. I’m on a strict diet of protein and the souls of misbehaved children.”

“Still a weirdo,” Sam says, slamming my trunk closed.

“You have no idea,” I whisper under my breath.

We manage to reach the boat that will take us north to this magical island off the BC coast where Nikki Meyer is about to make the second biggest mistake of her life. The guy who greets us—“Tanner Fielding, at your service”—looks suspiciously like the Googled photos of the hockey player saved from the cougar by his girlfriend.

“You’re awfully white all of a sudden—don’t tell me you’ve developed a fear of boats,” Sam says.

“Do you think this place has wildlife? Like, dangerous wildlife?”

“Probably. But since we’re Americans, we can just wrestle them to the ground with our flags and longwinded diatribes about the Constitution,” Sam teases.

Tanner helps us stow my equipment up front so we don’t take up more than our share of seats. The boat is long and wide with comfortable seating on both sides of the rubber-floored aisle. The rear houses a small galley kitchen where a woman similarly outfitted to Tanner—cargo pants and dark green, long-sleeved shirts with a Revelation Cove logo embroidered over the left chest—prepares refreshments. I don’t spy any bottles of wine or champagne or gin, which is a shame, but it’s probably best not to get liquored up before we arrive.

Society and its silly rules.

The boat fills quickly, but I insist on sitting near the camera equipment, mostly because I can’t bear to make eye contact with any of the people behind us. Odds are excellent that I know at least some of them, if they’re wedding guests. Nicolette, Sam, my brother, and me all went to the same Portland middle and high school, and our dads are golf buddies, so there likely are people on this boat who know Harrison Hawes. He’s a big fish in a little pond.

And I don’t want anyone to see that it’s me, the offspring who answers the phone, doing this wedding, and not Gabe, the offspring who is an actual award-winning photographer and chip off the old block.

“Do you get seasick?” Sam asks, taking cups of OJ for each of us from the offered tray.

“I don’t think so.”

“You got seasick that time we rented boats in Newport,” he reminds me.

“Yeah, but that had nothing to do with the sea and everything to do with the crappy beer the night before.”

He nods and finishes his nonalcoholic orange juice. “Yeah, that was bad beer. So glad we grew up and refined our tastes.” He winks and skooches down in his seat to extend his long, denim-clad legs in front of him. “You are going to love this voyage. I’ve gone up this way and another time on the floatplane, and both routes are beautiful. This part of the world is unbelievable.”

“No floatplanes. I can see just fine from here,” I say, hoping the orca I missed earlier will make a renewed appearance. Then at least I can tell people I saw killer whales on my big adventure to Canada.

I sip my juice and then take one of the offered treats—a sugar cookie with a dollop of the best jam I’ve ever eaten in my life—and try to calm my nerves as we finally pull away from the docks and glide out of Victoria’s scenic Inner Harbour. Sam leans across me and snaps a photo with his iPhone of a huge boat parked at the very end of the moorage.

“Is that a helicopter on the deck?” I ask, straining to look as we move away.

“I dunno. I was taking a picture of that sign with the Canadian flag on it so I can prove to my coworkers that I am actually in a foreign country and I’m not just taking a random Thursday off.”

“Did you really come all this way for Nikki’s wedding? Why?”

“She invited me.”

I lower my voice and lean closer. “I’ve seen the behind-the-scenes on this wedding. This place is expensive.”

“But remember that I designed some software systems for her daddy, so I got in on the friends & family rate.” He tucks his phone away. “Why? Are you worried about my finances, little F-Stop?”

“What? God, no. That’s none of my business. I just … well, if I’d been invited to this wedding, I don’t think I would’ve been able to come.”

“You need to ask your dad for a raise. Better yet, you need to go into business on your own,” he says, retrieving another of the jam-filled cookies.

“Into business on my own. Sure. Doing what?”

“Writing. Magazine work. You were always fixing our homework for us—why don’t you think about writing for a newspaper or something? Use some of those keen investigative skills you used on us when we were kids.”

“Because I have no idea where to start with something like that.”

“You’re telling me the photography articles your dad and Gabe publish are written by them?”

I blush, but my heart also stutters a bit when he mentions Gabe. I know it must be a sore spot—it still is for my brother. He misses Sam, but the two of them have never been able to put this behind them, not when Lainie stands between them.

“You’ve read those?”

“Now and then …” His lip tugs into a shy smile.

“Well, thanks. And of course I wrote them. Gabe can hardly spell camera.”

“Precisely. Oh! And your i********:! Lots of dogs on there. There’s that one you post all the time, the funny brown-and-white dog—”

“Sherlock Bones.”

He laughs. “Nice name. Is he yours?”

“He wishes he were mine. He belongs to Mrs. Gianotti.”

“Any relation to Gianotti’s Deli? God, I love that place.”

I think of Sam popping into Mrs. G.’s deli. “You go there?”

“All the time.”

“So close to us. You should’ve stopped by.”

The expression on his face says it all. He would’ve stopped by, but water under bridges and bygones and such.

“I’m just saying, the photos of the dogs—you’re so good at it.”

“Should I be weirded out that you’ve seen my i********:?”

“I check on you now and again. See what mischief you’re up to,” he says.

My insides warm as I finish my cookie. Not gonna lie: I’ve creeped his social media too.

Sam smiles again. “One of these days, Frankie, you’re going to get out from behind the shadow of your brother and father and do something really big and awesome.”

I sit up rod straight. “I’m not in their shadow.”

He arches an eyebrow at me.

“Are you even serious right now? I haven’t seen you in a million years, and you’re already psychoanalyzing me?”

Sam’s face reddens a bit. His Scottish ancestry means every emotion is painted on his face. “s**t, no, I didn’t—”

“Not everyone is meant for big and awesome, Samuel. Some of us like quiet and understated.” I stand and wait for him to retract his legs so I can pass. My cheeks burn but am I embarrassed? Angry? What the hell am I doing letting Sam McKenzie into my head when we haven’t talked to each other since, what—forever?

“Is there a bathroom on board?” I ask the ponytailed, orange-juice woman. She points toward the back of the vessel. We gain speed, the boat’s nose angling up slightly with the push from the rear engines.

“You all right?” the woman asks.

“Yeah. Just a little unsteady on the water.”

She motions with her hand and I follow as she leads me down the aisle, my eyes fixed on my feet—one step, then another—using the passing seats as support, and then poof! I’m at the bathroom and I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone else who will see right through me.

Door locked, I even avoid my reflection in the narrow mirror. I’ve had enough examination for one day.