"I feel a little bad," I whisper to Sean as he, Dorian and I try to salvage what we can of the meal that Pablo the chef prepared in the kitchen. Outside, the ocean and shore race by, as up in the navigation cabin, a fuming Carlos steers the yacht at top speed towards the southernmost tip of the Baja peninsula and Cabo.
"Don't," Dorian says flatly, standing at the sink and handwashing the five chipped or cracked but intact plates we've managed to salvage in the ruined kitchen. "He can be ridiculously childish sometimes—like now, for instance."
"But I destroyed his boat."
"Hardly destroyed. I promise you, it's been in worse shape. And it's not his boat. We each own half."
I sigh miserably, and tears well in my eyes as I stare at Sean sweeping broken glass and ruined food onto a dustpan with a hand broom. "Great. I destroyed his and your boat."
"Try again, Dorian," Sean says blandly, emptying the dustpan into a bin. "And remember she's still hungry."
