Wreckage Read Online Free

and my other coworkers, but I despise Fiji and Adiata Beach. It has nothing to do with the actual cluster of islands in the middle of the South Pacific. It has more to do with being at the beck and call of entitled strangers for two full weeks—usually old people. And once I walk into that cramped little jet, I have to pretend to like these people.
    I don’t know what it says about Carlton Yogurt that the past five winners of the Dream Trip have been over the age of seventy. At least that ad campaign about “increasing regularity” with special probiotics is working. Note to self: find a new job with a young, hip company like Pixar or Apple. I wouldn’t get a trip to Fiji every year but I also wouldn’t have to talk about how often old people poop.
    I think I’ve been turned off on the South Pacific for life, because now when I come to Fiji I can’t consider anything other than what kind of babysitting I’ll have to endure this year. At least this time it’s only one week.
    That’s my mantra: it’s only one week, it’s only one week. I repeat it with every step up the rickety metal staircase into the jet’s cabin. Squinting, I see Theresa come into focus, her hair impeccable despite the heat. I’m sure half a can of Aqua Net’s responsible. It’s nice to see a familiar face, though, and hers is always such a friendly one.
    “Hey there, Dave, good to see you again!” she greets me. “Heard you just joined us, glad you made it for the best part. Private tropical island, all inclusive resort—honey, I wish I knew how to get your job.”
    I cringe. Thankfully she doesn’t notice, too busy taking my carry-on bag and stowing it in a compartment near the cockpit. Turning around, she tilts her head toward the cockpit door, her sweet Southern drawl lowering to a whisper. “Instead I gotta deal with Captain Kent Grabby-Hands up there.”
    “You and Kent aren’t together anymore, I take it?” She didn’t seem to mind Kent’s roaming hands last year, when they were living together.
    She shakes her head. “No, but his hands haven’t caught on to that fact.” She laughs at her own joke before changing the subject. “So, how’s the baby? Any pictures?”
    The word “baby” sends needles right through my chest. “No baby, Theresa. Not yet.”
    Turning around on her stubby blue heels, the corners of her mouth tug down like someone’s forcing a frown on her naturally cheerful face. “I’m sorry, Dave. I thought . . . you said you and your wife were trying for a baby two trips ago, and then last year you said you were going to do that in-vitro stuff so I assumed . . .”
    Why did I ever tell people we were “trying” to have a baby? At first they made jokes and jabbed me with knowing elbows. Now there’s only pity.
    “The in vitro didn’t work either. We’re trying one last thing and then . . .” I shrug, not knowing what comes next. If I felt like spilling every detail of my personal life I’d tell her Beth’s in premature menopause and we are using donor eggs. I would say that I want to explore adoption, but Beth’s obsessed with the idea of being pregnant. But I don’t say anything because she won’t understand. No one can.
    “I’m sorry, Dave, I didn’t know,” she says, like she’s greeting family and friends at a funeral.
    “It’s fine.” I squeeze the handle of my computer bag once, twice. “So, I should probably say hi to Captain You Know Who.”
    She taps her long fuchsia nails on a small door marked E MERGENCY , the plastic making a hollow sound with each clack. “Sure, hon, you go ahead. I’ll take your drink order when you’re done.”
    Thankfully, she turns and walks away without trying to make any further attempts at an apology. Spending time with strangers might be exactly what I need. I knock softly on the thin metal door to the cockpit. When no one answers, I swing it open.
    “Hey, sweetheart, get me some coffee would ya?” Kent says, without turning around.