The invitation to the yacht party had been a big deal. For weeks, Mark had been regaling everyone with tales of his thrilling job as a marine biologist, complete with close encounters with sharks and daring rescues of stranded dolphins. Sarah had always been a little envious of his glamorous lifestyle. She pictured him, wind-swept and tanned, a true adventurer. Now, standing on the deck of the chartered vessel, watching Mark struggle to light a barbeque, she felt a prickling sensation spread across her skin.
“Need a hand, Mark?” she asked, her voice laced with a sweetness she didn't feel.
He jumped, startled. “Oh, hey Sarah! Uh, yeah, the wind’s a bit tricky.” He avoided her gaze. He was wearing a cheap, ill-fitting polo shirt, not the rugged gear she had imagined. His hands, usually immaculate, were smudged with charcoal. The smell of cheap lighter fluid filled the air, and a vein in her forehead began to throb.
The yacht owner, a portly man in a Hawaiian shirt, called out, "Mark, you got that grill going, or am I gonna have to do it?" Mark mumbled a response and looked at the ground. Sarah excused herself and wandered to the railing, staring out at the sparkling water, a knot forming in her stomach.