She went into the salon and sat for five minutes with her eyes closed while the boat breathed around her. Then she opened them and answered three vendor emails on her phone and asked Destin for the next week's fuel projection, because the work did not pause to admire her feelings.
V.
Wednesday at four, Frank Calder's office held four people and not enough air.
Grant arrived first, without the aviators, in a pale blue button-down that made him look like a man trying out sincerity as a weekend hobby. Tomas sat with a notebook he might or might not use. Imani sat with nothing in her hands. She had decided empty hands were clearer. On the wall, the basin chart's colored pins looked suddenly like accusations.
Frank opened. "This is not a hearing. Nobody is on trial. Grant asked to apologize. Imani agreed to hear it. After that, we talk about conduct on the docks going forward, because I am tired of receiving texts that treat Quaywright like a rumor."
Grant cleared his throat. "Miss Jackson. I was wrong on the pier. I assumed you were crew. I spoke to you in a way I should not have spoken to anyone. I am sorry."
Imani waited. The apology sat in the room like a chair nobody had quite sat in yet. She could feel Tomas not writing, which meant he was listening with his whole body.
"Why did you assume I was crew?" she asked.
Grant's mouth opened. Closed. "You were walking toward the boats at boarding hour. You weren't dressed like a guest."
"I was dressed like a person who works," Imani said. "You are also a person who works. Nobody redirects you to a gangway."
"That's fair."
"It is not a debate point," she said. "It is the thing. You looked at me and sorted me into a category that made you comfortable. Then you enforced the category with a joke. Then you doubled down. The assistant had to say my name before you could imagine I belonged within ten feet of my own vessel."