The Salt Stains on the Glass

Billie sat inside, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee she didn't want. She watched Samuel through the large, salt-stained window. He was out on the deck, leaning against the railing, smoking his third cigarette in twenty minutes. He was just a shape, a dark jacket hunched against the wind, but she could picture his expression perfectly: that tight-jawed, defiant look he got when he felt cornered. It was a look she had been seeing a lot lately.

The fight had happened in the car, waiting in the ferry lineup at Tsawwassen. It had been brewing for weeks, a low-pressure system of sighs and clipped sentences, and it had finally broken. It was, of course, about the money.

It was always about the money now. The twenty thousand dollars he’d borrowed from her parents for his ‘import-export’ idea, which had turned out to involve a container of counterfeit designer bags seized by customs at the Port of Vancouver. The money was gone. Utterly, irrevocably gone.

Billie watched a mother try to coax her toddler away from the window. The little boy had his hands pressed flat against the glass, mesmerized by the churning water. That was how Billie felt: pressed up against something huge and powerful that she couldn't control, watching the person she cared about get pulled under.

Her parents hadn’t been angry. That was the worst part. They had been disappointed, their quiet, upper-middle-class disappointment far more searing than any outburst of rage could have been. ‘We trusted your judgment, Billie,’ her father had said, and the words had felt like a physical blow. She had vouched for Samuel. She had told them he was smart, that his plan was solid. She had been blinded by affection, by a desperate desire for him to succeed on his own terms.

She hated thinking about it, but the class difference between them had always been there, a quiet, unspoken thing. Her childhood of ski lessons and summer cottages versus his of apartment buildings and summer jobs. She’d always tried to pretend it didn't matter, but the loan had dragged it out into the harsh, unforgiving light. It had turned her into a benefactor and him into a project. A failed project.

Outside, the wind whipped Samuel's hair across his face. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright before being beaten back by the damp air. He wasn't looking at the view—the dark green smudges of the Gulf Islands sliding past—he was staring down at the white-capped waves.

He felt sick with shame. Not just for losing the money, but for asking for it in the first place. He could still hear the condescending warmth in her father’s voice. ‘We’re happy to help you get on your feet, son.’ He wasn't their son. He was the scrappy friend from the wrong side of the tracks, and he had proven their unspoken assumptions right. He was a bad investment.

He had hated every part of it. The lunch at the yacht club where he’d made his pitch, feeling clumsy and uncouth in his one good shirt. The way Billie’s mother had asked him about his own family, her questions like delicate little probes searching for signs of good breeding. He’d played the part, smiled, talked up his non-existent business acumen, and he had walked out with their money.

And he’d been so sure. The contact in Shenzhen was reliable, the product was high-quality imitation. It was supposed to be a quick flip. A way to finally get some capital, to get out from under, to prove to Billie—and to himself—that he could be something more than a series of charming but ultimately failed schemes.

He knew Billie was watching him from inside. He could feel her gaze like a weight on his shoulders. He didn't know what to say to her. ‘Sorry’ was a pathetic, useless word for a mistake that size. He had broken something more than the bank; he had broken her trust in him, and her family's trust in her.

He finished his cigarette, flicking the butt into the churning wake of the ferry. He watched it disappear, a tiny piece of debris in a vast, indifferent ocean. That’s what he felt like.

A Bridge of Glass and Steel

Steeling himself, he walked back inside. The warm air of the lounge felt suffocating after the clean cold of the deck. He saw Billie at a table by the window and walked over.

He slid into the seat opposite her. She didn't look up from her coffee cup.

“We’ll be in Duke Point soon,” he said. His voice sounded rusty.

“I know,” she replied.

An announcement crackled over the PA system, advising passengers with vehicles to return to the car deck. The spell of silence was broken. People began to stir, collecting jackets and children.

“Billie,” he started, not knowing what would come next.

She finally looked at him. Her eyes weren't angry. They were just… tired. Deeply, profoundly tired. “What, Terry? What is there to say? You’ll pay them back when you can. I know. We don't have to talk about it.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, leaning forward, his voice low and urgent. “We don’t talk about it. We just let it sit here. I can’t breathe, Billie. I feel like I’m drowning every time I look at you.”

“And how do you think I feel?” she shot back, her voice just as quiet but laced with steel. “I’m the one who has to face my parents. I’m the one who looks like a fool. You think this is easy for me?”

“I never said it was easy!”

A family walking past gave them a curious look, and they both fell silent. The moment was gone. The horn of the ferry blew, a deep, resonant blast that signalled their arrival. They were there. But they hadn't gotten anywhere.

They stood up and walked towards the stairs leading down to the car decks, a careful foot of space between them, an unbridgeable chasm.