My calves tense. It’s a photo of Walsh doing her handstand on the beach. And damn it if it isn’t breathtaking. At the bottom, there’s text: Swipe up to find wellness in the wilds of the Galápagos Islands. Swiping takes me to the Galápagos booking page on our company’s website.

Is this Graeme’s plan for his proposal: use digital storytelling to sell cruises? How many swipes has the story logged? How many bookings have resulted?

And what do I have for my own proposal? Just a handful of questions and a vague idea. Closing my eyes, I drum Walsh’s phone against my forehead. “Damn it,” I grumble.

She winces. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to pose for him. The naturalist said, ‘sea turtle tracks,’ and I thought, ‘Ooo, that sounds cool, maybe I can distract him from taking pictures.’ Hence, handstands. I didn’t know he’d post my picture on your company’s Instagram.”

I offer a conciliatory smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “I’m not mad at you. It’s Graeme. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing for his proposal, it’s going to be good.”

“And I didn’t help things, did I?” she moans miserably.

“You were trying to help, and that’s all that matters.”

Walsh’s phone trills twice; I’m still holding it. I glance automatically at the two texts that pop up on the screen. They’re both from a contact labeled Bad News Bears.

Come on, don’t leave me hanging

I need an answer. Now.

Scrabbling, Walsh rips the phone away from me and stares at the screen. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the phone before clicking it off.

“Who are those from?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re talking to someone you’ve labeled Bad News Bears, shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, not texting them?”

The wall speakers crackle. “Good afternoon, good afternoon. Our final excursion to Post Office Bay will be departing in fifteen minutes. As a reminder, you have the option of participating in the oldest mail delivery system in this part of the world. Postcards are provided in your cabin, so be sure to write one—to a family member, a friend, or even yourself. Disembarkation begins in fifteen minutes.”

“Are we good? You’re not mad at me?” Walsh asks.

“No, I’m not mad.” Crossing the room, I give her a quick hug before stepping back and gripping her by the shoulders. “But you’re going to tell me what those texts were about.”

“Just some low-key drama. Super boring. Nothing to tell.”

“Walsh.”

“Oh, look at the time.” She taps her bare wrist. “Got to shower, best hurry.” Phone tucked in the waistband of her pants, she darts into the bathroom and closes the door.

“Brat,” I shout.

“Nosy,” she retorts.