Anyone who steps into my one-bedroom Belltown apartment would think I’m a first-rate world traveler—if they didn’t know me. Oversized, colorful maps, framed marinescapes, and wildlife portraits are arranged in a collage above my ruby sofa. Along the opposite wall, which I’ve painted the same jewel-toned shade of reddish pink, stacks of marketing and travel books teeter on a trunk, while a Craigslist armchair squats under the window. It’s like National Geographic and Porthole Cruise magazine had a baby and that baby splatted all over my apartment.

But the truth is: except for a handful of trips to Colorado as a kid and one generic spring break in Cancún when I was nineteen, I’ve never been outside the Pacific Northwest. No, I’m not a fraud. I’m a marketing manager for a global adventure cruise line.

So all the posters and prints? Office swag. Thanks, Seaquest Adventures, for the cheap decorating.

It’s not that I don’t want to travel. When I took this job three years ago, I had high hopes of seeing the world. Then life happened. Career ambitions. Grad school. Student loans. The vague, persistent headache that is adulting. But mostly my career. It’s hard to take time out of the office when you’re trying to climb the corporate ladder and make director before the age of thirty.

Setting my dinner and drink on my Ikea coffee table, I plop onto the sofa and yank the elastic band out of my bun. My hair tumbles over my shoulders and I shake it out, massaging the roots to ease my sore scalp. I wish I could turn in right now, just crawl into bed and clock out for the night, but my task list is burning a hole in my to-do app. I won’t be able to sleep until everything is checked off, so I might as well get it over with.

Taking a sip of wine, I pull up the list and read the first item.

Task #1: Confirm Graeme posted British Columbia social media content.

I fish my laptop out of my bag and flip it open. Noodles hops up next to me and nestles against my thigh, purring. Thirty seconds later I’m scanning Seaquest Adventures’s Twitter feed. I shove a bite of quinoa salad into my mouth and chew. I barely taste it as I scroll. Scanning tweet after tweet, I put down my fork, eyebrows furrowing.

When I reach yesterday’s tweets, rage swells inside my chest. I log on to Facebook. Same. Instagram. Same. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Graeme.”

He didn’t do it. He said he would, but he didn’t. So freaking typical of Mr. High-and-Mighty Social Media Guru. I was right to make “confirm social media posts” the number-one item on my to-do list.