Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
When I finished, I read it back with a twisted sense of dread. From a journalist’s perspective, I thought I’d done it, woven the pieces of the man together to give the reader the full picture of him. As a friend, a—a lover . . . well, it feels exploitive to write about Phillip in this way without his consent. He’s been so tight lipped about everything; even the interview answers he sent were restrained and polished . . . bland, for lack of a better word.
I sit here now, wondering what’s right and wrong, wondering what my grandmother would tell me to do. I picture my future after this cruise, the one where I tell Gwen point blank that I can’t give her what she needs. I fail and slink right back to my old job. I suck it up, find a lonely apartment, start paying rent, and continue living the way I have been, forever and forever.
Then I think of how this article could change my life if Gwen really likes it, if she thinks my writing is worth investing in, if other publications catch wind of the story and it really gets picked up. This could be life changing, I’m sure of it.
So whether or not it’s the polite or nice thing to do, after I read through my new exposé about Phillip for the twentieth time, I send it to Gwen.
I also send it to Phillip.
It’s a bold move on my part, especially considering I have no idea what his reaction will be (spoiler, it won’t be pleasant), but it’s the least I can do. Over the coming days and weeks, if Gwen approves the story, someone from Bon Voyage will reach out to Phillip’s team for approval and input. He’ll read what I’ve written about him eventually. It feels important that it at least come directly from me first so that he can prepare himself now rather than later.
I sit back on my couch, my hands shaking from adrenaline.
If I made a mistake, well . . . there’s no going back now.
I stare at my inbox almost as if I expect them both to reply to me right away, but nothing happens. I refresh once and then again; there are no new emails.
After a few minutes, I close my laptop and look around. I’m itching to get out of this suite. I could try to hunt down Sienna at the pool, but I’m too scared to wander around the ship. I’d rather not cross paths with Phillip just yet. Better to give him a chance to read the article . . . a moment to cool down if he needs it.
Instead, I take a book out onto my balcony. I have every intention of reclining back on one of the loungers and losing myself in my book, but instead, I lean against the rail and stare out at Puerto Plata, the tiny slice of the Dominican Republic that stretches out in front of me. It’s midafternoon. I’ve missed the planned excursions for the day, but nothing’s stopping me from doing a little bit of exploring on my own. I barely think it before I’m already acting, throwing on a dress and comfortable sandals, grabbing my purse and wallet, sunglasses and sun hat.
I race through the halls of the cruise ship, hurrying toward the gangplank. I’m scared I’ll bump into Phillip, but the moment my feet touch solid ground again, I breathe easy. The cruise port is right in the heart of the city. Freight and cargo are getting unloaded; taxis whiz past; music comes from every direction; and people are everywhere: sitting outside clustered together on plastic chairs, playing cards; walking along the sidewalks; riding bicycles and motorcycles, sometimes piling an entire family onto a single bike. The city is eclectic, and once you bypass the overtly touristy parts—the pink street and the umbrella street—you see the real lives of the locals. I walk past old, sagging buildings in need of a fresh coat of paint, mismatched architecture, grocery stores, and laundromats. There’s color everywhere as if the city has a personal vendetta against painting things white or gray or beige. The beauty of Puerto Plata is evident everywhere, highlighted most prominently by the huge mountain that serves as the city’s backdrop, looming over the squat one- or two-story buildings. The mountain is part of the Isabel de Torres National Park, and I find out by asking a few nice locals (who help me with my cobbled-together Spanish) that I can take a cable car to the very top.
I rush in that direction, wanting to stay on foot rather than hop in a taxi. I’m documenting everything, snapping photos with my phone, trying to absorb every last detail. Gwen hasn’t seemed all that interested in my review of the trip so far, but I’m hoping I can change that. I want to prove to her that this interview is a stepping stone to bigger and better things. I’ll write up a review of Puerto Plata and send it along anyway. I’ll show her that I’m eager for more assignments and possibly—hopefully—a long-awaited promotion.