Chaos smells like burnt popcorn and coconut tanning oil. At least, that’s what I deduced as I sprinted down the Lido Deck, weaving through a sea of sunburned passengers and inflatable flamingos. The Disney Dream ship, once my pride and joy, now teetered on the brink of mutiny. All because I had a hunch.

"Fire in the galley!" screamed a panicked sous-chef, his once-pristine white jacket now a tie-dye of soot and sauce. Great. Another thing to add to the list. I skidded to a halt, pulled out my walkie, and barked, "Marco, get your ass to the kitchen. Stat."

"Bit busy here, boss," crackled the voice of my head of security. "Got a situation with the bingo crowd."

Of course he did. I glanced toward the aft of the ship where a mob of octogenarians waved their daubers like pitchforks. Who knew a $5 pot could incite such rage?

"Just—" I started, but the walkie had already cut out. Fabulous. I shoved it back into my pocket and made a beeline for the nearest stairwell. The elevator dinged and out poured a toddler in a lifejacket and swim trunks, followed by his parents, all shrieking in unison, "Iceberg!"

This was the Caribbean. There were no icebergs. I facepalmed and kept running.

Two decks down, I burst into the Aquarius Lounge, where a thick haze of smoke met me like an old, toxic friend. A chorus of coughing and swearing filled the air as patrons attempted to relight their hookahs. In the corner, the DJ futilely fanned his equipment with a glow stick.

"Turn on the damn sprinklers!" I shouted to no one in particular. A busboy in a fez shrugged and pointed to the ceiling. I looked up. The once-dripping wet pipes were now bone dry. Of course they were.

I fished out my walkie again, hesitated, and then put it to my lips. "Maintenance, this is Sullivan. Why are the sprinklers offline?"

A long pause, then, "Water main's busted. We're working on it."

I muttered a string of expletives that would make a pirate blush. "Estimated time?"

"Could be an hour, could be the rest of the cruise."

Kill me now. "Fine. Just—fine." I clicked off the walkie and surveyed the lounge. A bachelorette party in the center had resorted to waving a giant pack of e-cigs, their throats too raw to yell but their eyes more than capable. If looks could kill, I'd be fish food.

"Complimentary drinks for the rest of the night," I announced. A collective grumble of discontent, but the crowd started to disperse. One of the bridesmaids lobbed a hookah hose at my head. I ducked, it missed, and I made a mental note to bill her for it.

Out in the corridor, I leaned against a wall and rubbed my temples. This was supposed to be a slam dunk. A "Pirates of the Caribbean" themed Disney cruise during spring break—how could it fail? Yet here we were on day three, and it was shaping up to be my personal Titanic.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text from Lisa. "We need to talk. Urgent."

Shit. I didn't have the bandwidth for a relationship crisis on top of everything else. I typed back, "Can it wait? In the middle of something," and hit send. Almost immediately, the phone rang. It was Lisa.

I let it go to voicemail. I’d deal with her later. Maybe.

I was about to head to the galley when my phone dinged with a new message. This time from an unknown number. "Mr. Sullivan, we have reviewed your application. Please call us at your earliest convenience. Eclipse Cruise Lines."

Well, that was… something. I saved the number and stuffed the phone back in my pocket, then trudged toward the kitchen. The smell of charred something-or-other grew stronger with each step. I pushed through the double doors to find a scene straight out of Hell's Kitchen. Flames licked the edges of a gigantic sauté pan, and a cook wielding an industrial-sized fire extinguisher played a game of will-it-or-won't-it with the trigger.

"Let it rip!" I commanded. The cook hesitated, glanced at what I assumed was his supervisor, then squeezed. A cloud of chemical foam exploded over the workstation, dousing the fire and half the staff. A cheer went up, quickly stifled by a chorus of wheezing and eye-rubbing.

I surveyed the carnage. Melted aluminum, blackened wood, a pile of ruined mussels. "How bad?" I asked no one in particular.

The sous-chef, now looking like an extra from a post-apocalyptic cooking show, said, "We can still do sandwiches."

"Sandwiches."

He shrugged. "And salads."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "This was supposed to be the big seafood feast. You realize how many people we have up in arms right now?"

"Better than food poisoning," he shot back. "We were short-handed. The new guy couldn't keep up."

I had to bite my tongue. The "new guy" was an intern from the culinary school we’d just partnered with. The same school I’d convinced corporate to support. The same corporate that was already on my ass about costs and staff turnover.

I took a deep breath. "Just do what you can. I'm comping tonight's dinner."

The sous-chef's eyes widened. "You can't—"

"I can and I will. We're not serving $50 salads." I turned to leave, then looked back over my shoulder. "And tell the new guy he's not fired. Yet."

Out in the hall, my phone buzzed again. I braced for another text from Lisa, but it was my mother this time. "Sweetie, how did the proposal go? Lisa just called me. Call me asap. Love you."

Fuck.

I put the phone back in my pocket, took it out again, and stared at the screen. Then I dialed Lisa's number. It rang once, twice, three times. I was hoping she'd let it go to voicemail, but she picked up on the fourth ring.

"Chase," she said, her voice tight.

"Hey. I just saw your—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Did you really think not telling me was an option? That I'd just be cool with waiting in the dark?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Lis, it's not that I didn't want to tell you. I was going to. I just—"

"Just what? Needed more time to figure out how to break it to me gently? Jesus, Chase. We're supposed to be a team."

"I know. It's just… things have been crazy. I didn't think you'd—"

"Didn't think I'd what? Understand? Support you? This is why you didn't propose, isn't it?"

I winced. "It's why I didn't propose yet. Lisa, come on. You know I love you."

She was silent for a moment, and I could almost hear her shaking her head. "Do you, though?"

That stung. "Of course I do."

"Because right now it feels like you love this job more than anything. More than us."

I didn't have an answer for that. Mostly because she was right. The job had consumed me, but in my mind it was all for us. For our future. At least, that’s what I told myself.

She sighed. "Chase, I’m not saying no. I’m just saying… I don’t know. We need to figure this out."

"Can we talk when I get back? I'm kind of in the middle of a shitstorm here."

"Yeah. Sure. Take care of your precious Elysium." She hung up.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence sink in. Then I remembered the walkie in my pocket and pulled it out. "Marco, status?"

"Kitchen's sorted," he said. "For now. I'm heading to the pool deck. Heard something about a fight."

"Fuck," I muttered, then clicked the walkie back on. "Wait. I'm coming with you."

***

Punches in paradise are a special kind of sad. By the time Marco and I arrived at the pool deck, the two combatants—both in pirate regalia—were too drunk and sun-poached to do more than slap at each other like angry walruses. A small crowd had gathered, cheering them on with half-hearted enthusiasm, more interested in their piña coladas than the spectacle.

Marco stepped in and separated the would-be buccaneers with a single, disapproving glare. One of them wore an eye patch and plastic cutlass; the other sported a tri-corner hat and a temporary parrot tattoo on his chest. They looked at Marco, then at each other, then back at Marco, as if trying to decide who was in more trouble.

"He started it," slurred Eye Patch, pointing a wobbly finger at Tri-Corner.

"Did not," protested Tri-Corner, though his heart wasn't in it.

I stepped forward. "Gentlemen. This is a family cruise. What kind of example do you think you're setting for the kids?"

Eye Patch looked around, as if expecting a pack of children to materialize and take notes on his piratical behavior. Tri-Corner just shrugged.

I continued, "We're all here to have a good time. To relax. Maybe plunder a few buffet tables. There's no need for violence."

Eye Patch opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "However, I understand that sometimes tempers flare. So here's what we're going to do. You're both banned from the pool deck for the rest of the cruise."

"What?" they exclaimed in unison, suddenly sober.

I held up a hand. "But. If you cool off and kiss and make up, we might reconsider. Now go change out of your costumes. You look ridiculous."

They grumbled and swayed their separate ways. The crowd dispersed, and I could feel the tension in the air evaporate like so much pool water on hot concrete.

Marco looked at me. "Kiss and make up? You're getting soft."

I shrugged. "Last thing we need is more bad press. Let them think they have a chance."

He grunted, then said, "You should know, the captain's not happy."

"When is he ever happy?"

Marco didn't answer, because we both knew the answer: The captain had been happy when his son ran the ship. That was before corporate installed me as Cruise Director, before every decision had to go through an endless chain of command, before hunches and "gut feelings" took precedence over experience and tradition.

I sighed. "I'll talk to him."

Marco put a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe wait until after the call."

I frowned. "What call?"

"Head office. Thirty minutes." He paused. "Good luck, Chase."

***

Luck is a funny thing. Some people have it in spades, tripping over four-leaf clovers and horseshoes their whole lives. Others, like me, seem to run on a perpetual luck deficit, as if the universe is charging us interest on good times we haven't even had yet.

I sat in my cabin, staring at the phone. Old school, with a cord and everything. I liked it better than the cell, mainly because you could slam it down in a fit of rage and it wouldn’t explode into a million pieces. Not that I was planning to rage-fit. Yet.

The thing with corporate calls is you never know who’s going to be on the other end. Sometimes it’s just HR, in which case you’re probably safe. Sometimes it’s the CFO, which means you’re in trouble but not sunk. The scariest is when the CEO decides to chime in, because he’s the kind of guy who only gets involved when he smells blood in the water.

I picked up the receiver, dialed the number from memory, and listened to the hold music. It was "Beyond the Sea," a MIDI version that sounded like it was played on a Fisher-Price xylophone. I hummed along, thinking about the proposal. About Lisa. About how badly I’d botched the whole thing.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Chase," said a stern voice. The hold music cut out. I recognized the voice as Alan. He was HR, but he was also Lisa’s uncle, which made things… complicated.

"Alan," I said. "How's the family?"

A long pause. "They're well. Chase, we need to talk about the situation on The Elysium."

Here we go. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up on the small writing desk in the corner of the cabin. "It's a rough cruise, but we've had worse. Remember the norovirus Christmas?"

Another pause, this one pregnant with disapproval. "This is different. The negative press from the last few voyages is starting to take a toll. We can't afford any more bad reviews."

I sat up. "Wait, are you reading the reviews already? We're only halfway through."

"Some of the passengers are blogging. Tweeting."

Fucking social media. "Alan, you know this industry. Every cruise has its hiccups. We'll turn it around."

"Chase," he said, and I could hear the reluctance in his voice. "You know I’ve always been in your corner. But the board is losing confidence."

"The board," I said, though I meant to say, "Lisa." Because that’s what this was. She’d gone to her uncle, who’d gone to the board. Or maybe she’d gone to the board directly. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

"We're going to have to make some changes," Alan continued. "For the good of the company."

I gripped the phone tighter. "Alan. Come on."

"I'm sorry, Chase. You’re a valuable asset, but right now we need someone who can steady the ship."

"And you think I'm not that person anymore? After all these years?"

"It's not forever. Just until things calm down."

I didn't say anything, because I knew if I did it would be something stupid. Something that would get me not just suspended, but blackballed.

"Take some time," Alan said. "Get your head straight. We’ll find a place for you. You know that."

Yeah, I knew that. I also knew that once you were out, it was a hell of a lot harder to get back in.

"Chase," Alan said, softer now. "You there?"

"I'm here," I said, but I wasn't. I was a thousand miles away, in Lisa's apartment, picking up the ring box I’d left on her dresser. The note I’d written her said, "I’ll be home soon. Let’s talk."

"Look, we’ll reassess in a few months. Just think of it as a sabbatical."

A sabbatical. Sure.

"Okay," I said, and hung up before he could say anything else. Before I could say anything else. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring, knowing it wouldn't.

My first "sabbatical" had been five years ago, when I was still green enough to believe that hard work and passion were all you needed to succeed. That time, I'd been out for six months. I used the time to get certified as a lifeguard, then as a personal trainer. When I came back, I was in the best shape of my life and ready to take on the world.

This time, I didn't have six months. I had a mortgage, a car note, and an engagement ring that cost more than my first three paychecks combined. Not to mention a fiancée who was rapidly becoming an ex.

I thought about the text from my mom. About how the proposal had gone. The thing was, I hadn’t even asked her yet. I’d chickened out, big surprise, and told her that the ring was a gift. That I hoped she’d wear it until I was ready to make it official. She’d cried, and I wasn’t sure if they were happy tears or something else. Something more fatalistic.

I took out my cell and looked at the saved number for Eclipse Cruise Lines. They were a weird outfit, more rumor than reality in the industry. No one I knew had ever worked for them, and their ships were conspicuously absent from port registries. Yet they had a following. A cult, almost.

I put the cell down, picked it back up, then put it down again. Eclipse was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had. For now.

The cabin door burst open and Marco stood in the doorway, hands on hips. "You didn't tell me you were proposing."

I groaned. "Who told you? Let me guess: Lisa."

"She mentioned it. Said you sprung it on her during the last shore leave. Congratulations, man."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Marco squinted at me. "You don't seem very excited."

I rubbed my face, which was starting to show the first signs of a beard. We weren’t allowed facial hair, except for the crew in historically-themed restaurants, but I figured if I was going to grow anything out it might as well start now. "We're on hold. The proposal, I mean."

"On hold? Can you do that?"

I shrugged. "It's like a sabbatical."

Marco walked in and closed the door behind him. "Speaking of."

"Don't," I said.

He ignored me. "How'd the call go?"

"How do you think it went? I’m fucked."

He sat on the edge of my unmade bed and crossed his arms. "It's not forever. You know that."

I laughed, but it came out more like a bark. "Jesus, were you listening in? That’s exactly what Alan said."

"Alan’s a smart guy."

"Alan’s a weasel."

Marco uncrossed his arms and stood. "You’ll land on your feet, Chase. You always do."

I wanted to believe him. Hell, I needed to believe him. Because if I didn’t, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.

"Thanks," I said, and meant it. Marco started for the door, but I stopped him. "Hey. Can you cover for me tonight? I need to… I don’t know. I just need to."

He nodded. "Take care of yourself," he said, and left.

I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall, then picked up my cell again. I pulled up the number for Eclipse and stared at it for a long time. Longer than I should have.

Then I dialed.

***

I spent the rest of the night in my cabin, ignoring the stack of passenger complaints on my desk. Ignoring my phone, which now had a dozen missed calls and twice as many texts. Most were from Lisa, one was from my mother, and a few were from numbers I didn’t recognize but had a sinking feeling I should.

The call with Eclipse had been short, which I took as a bad sign. The woman I spoke with—Isolde, she said her name was—had an accent I couldn't place. Something old and European, like a cask-aged Transylvanian. She told me they were very interested inmy application and that someone would be in touch soon. I didn't dare hope that "soon" meant anything less than a month. Still, just having the possibility was enough to keep me from diving headfirst into the nearest bottle of rum.

I thought about the pirate fight on the pool deck, about how ridiculous they’d looked flailing around in their costumes. At least they’d been having fun, up until the point they tried to kill each other. Fun was in short supply on this cruise, and I had to admit that a big part of that was my fault.

My intuition, my gut, whatever you wanted to call it—it had served me well for years. I could walk into a situation and just know what the right call was, even if it flew in the face of conventional wisdom. That sixth sense was what had gotten me this job in the first place, but lately it was leading me astray. Or maybe I was just out of practice. When you start second-guessing yourself as much as I had been, it’s hard to tell the difference between a hunch and a hallucination.

I picked up the stack of complaints and flipped through them. Most were standard fare: noisy neighbors, sub-par food, insufficient towel animals. One stood out, though, and I read it twice just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

It was from the guy with the eye patch, written in surprisingly neat cursive for someone who’d been three sheets to the wind since embarkation. He apologized for the ruckus on the pool deck and took full responsibility, then went on to praise the crew for their professionalism and courtesy—especially the Cruise Director, whom he described as "fair and understanding."

I set the stack back down and stared at the ceiling. One good review wasn’t going to save me, but it was something. Maybe I’d pass it on to Marco; he could use it to convince the next guy to go easy on them.

My stomach growled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since the disastrous brunch. I thought about ordering room service, then remembered I’d comped a ridiculous amount of it this trip. The accountants tallied that sort of thing, and even though I was out, I didn’t want to give them more ammo for when I "reassessed" with Alan.

I put on my crew jacket and headed for the staff mess. The halls were quiet, most passengers either asleep or winding down from the day’s activities. I liked the ship at this hour; it had a ghostly quality, like the set of an abandoned soap opera.

The mess was empty except for a lone dishwasher in the back, smoking a vape and playing on his phone. I grabbed a tray and loaded it with salad, a piece of baked chicken, and what I hoped was mashed potato. The Disney Dream was a five-star vessel, but the staff food was closer to public school cafeteria. Not that I was complaining; I’d eaten worse during my first "sabbatical."

I took a seat by the porthole and watched the moonlight play on the waves. We were somewhere in the Caribbean, but it all blended together after a while. The horizon was a flat, unremarkable line, and I found myself longing for a glimpse of land. Not for the scenery; I just liked knowing where I was.

"Mind if I join you?"

I turned to see Marco holding a tray. He had a strip of beef jerky hanging out of his mouth like a cigar, and the rest of his haul looked like it came from the discount bin at a gas station.

"Thought you'd be sleeping," I said.

He sat and took a bite of the jerky. "Nah. Too wired." He eyed my chicken. "You gonna eat that?"

I slid it over to him. "Have at it."

He swapped me for a pack of almonds, which I tore open and dumped on my salad. We ate in silence for a few minutes, the kind of comfortable quiet that only comes from years of working together. I liked Marco. Trusted him. Which is why I was so surprised when he said what he said next.

"I ratted you out, you know."

I stopped mid-chew. "What?"

He speared the chicken with a plastic fork and examined it like a biologist with a grant. "The pirate thing. The kitchen fire. All of it."

I put my almonds down. "Are you fucking serious?"

He nodded, then took a bite of chicken. "Don’t get me wrong. I softened it. But yeah, I told them."

I sat back in my chair, trying to process. "Why?"

"Because if I didn’t, someone else would. And they’d make it sound a lot worse than it was."

My mind raced. Had it been Marco all along? Leaking things to the board, to Alan, to the fucking bloggers? I didn’t want to believe it, but it made a twisted kind of sense. He was the captain’s man, and the captain—

"You’re not the only one with a gut feeling," Marco said, interrupting my internal trial. "If you go down, the ship goes down. And I’m not about to let that happen."

"So you thought sinking me would save the ship? That’s some brilliant fucking logic, Marco."

He finished the chicken and wiped his mouth with a napkin, a rare show of manners. "Chase, you need to understand something. We all want you to succeed. The captain, the crew, even me. But you’re running on fumes, and it’s starting to show. Taking a step back isn’t the worst thing."

I stood, not sure what I was going to do. Punch him? Yell? Walk away dramatically? None of those felt right, but neither did sitting there like a chump.

"Sit down," he said. "I’m not done."

Against my better judgment, I sat.

He leaned in, and I could see the lines on his face more clearly now. We were the same age, but he looked a decade older. Sea life does that to a person, though in his case it might also have been the stress of working with me.

"You remember Jodi?" he asked.

I had to think for a second. "Your wife?"

"Ex-wife. You ever wonder why we split?"

I shrugged. "Figured it was the usual reason."

He smirked. "Yeah, the usual reason. Except I never cheated on her. Didn’t have to. The job was mistress enough."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you’re me, ten years ago. Passionate, ambitious, stupid."

I took offense to the "stupid," but he wasn’t wrong.

He continued, "Jodi gave me an ultimatum. Her or the job. You know which I chose."

I sighed. "Marco—"

"Don't make the same mistake, is all I'm saying. You can have both, Chase. The career and the girl. But you’ve got to balance it."

I thought about Lisa again. About how she’d been infinitely patient, more than I deserved. About the ring sitting in its box, waiting for an answer.

"I’m not going to leave her," I said, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince.

"I hope not," Marco said. "But if you leave her waiting, she’ll walk. And you’ll be right here, eating shit food at midnight, wondering where it all went wrong."

We sat in silence again, but this time it crackled with unspoken things. With hurt and hope. I glanced at Marco, and in his eyes I saw a man who truly believed he was doing the right thing. A man who was tired, but not yet defeated.

I broke the silence first. "So, if you ratted me out, does that mean the pirate guys are off the hook?"

He shrugged. "Up to you. You’re still in charge. For now."

I nodded, then stood. "Thanks for the chicken."

"Don’t mention it," he said, already chewing on his jerky.

I left the mess and took the long way back to my cabin, winding through the maze of crew quarters and storage rooms. My mind was a knots of maybes and what-ifs, each tangling with the next.

When I got back to my cabin, I picked up my cell and looked at the texts from Lisa. The last one said, "We need to talk. Please."

I called her, and she answered on the first ring.

"Hey," I said. "I’m sorry about earlier."

"Chase," she started, but I cut her off.

"No, just listen for a second. I got some news, and it’s not good. The board is sidelining me for a while. They think I need a break."

She didn’t say anything, but I could hear her breathing. Waiting.

"I’m going to come home," I said. "For real this time. We can figure everything out."

"Chase," she said again, and this time it was softer. Almost tender. "Are you okay?"

No, I wasn’t. But I would be.

"Yeah," I lied. "I just miss you."

"I miss you too," she said, and I could tell she meant it.

I took a deep breath. "I’ll be back in a week. Let’s go somewhere nice for dinner. Somewhere I can actually propose, because I want you to say yes, Lisa. I need you to say yes."

She paused, and my heart stopped.

"Okay," she said. "Let’s talk when you get back."

We said our goodnights, and I gently set the phone down. Not a slam, but a caress.

I undressed, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling. The ship creaked and swayed, a giant cradle in the ocean. I thought about what Marco had said, about balance. About walking a tightrope with a pole in each hand, one labeled "Career" and the other "Love." It seemed impossible, but people did it every day. Maybe they had a net. Maybe they just had better balance than me.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut up. It kept replaying the day, the week, the whole damned year. Every misstep, every wrong turn. I wondered when it had all started to go sideways.

Then I remembered the ring. I got out of bed, dug through my suitcase, and found the box. It was as I’d left it, unopened, the note still attached. I took the note off, opened the box, and looked at the ring. It was beautiful, even in the dim light of the cabin. Exactly what she’d wanted, though now I wondered if she’d changed her mind about that, too.

I closed the box and held it in my hand, weighing it like a stone. Like a fucking albatross.

Maybe I could pawn it. That thought came unbidden, and I recoiled from it like a sinner from holy water. But the reality was that I needed the money. If I sold the ring, I could make it through the next few months without having to take a gig as a gym teacher or a lifeguard. I could keep the condo, the car. I could wait for the board to bring me back, for everything to go back to normal.

Or I could just propose. For real this time. If she said yes, then I wouldn’t have to pawn it. And if she said no, I could sell it with a clear conscience, knowing that I’d at least tried.

I didn’t know what the smart play was. My gut was silent, useless.

I put the ring box on the nightstand, crawled back into bed, and stared at it.

"Balance," I whispered to myself. "Just need to balance."