CHAPTER 8
Murphy
Peering around the corner that leads toward the Asian Grille, I detect no traces of anything sparkly. No one decked out in cruise ship buttons. No one with grabby little hands that have explored nearly every inch of my body in the past forty-eight hours. I don’t think I’ve ever been touched that much with my clothes on. Philip has officially rewritten the definition of determined.
He said he’s allergic to shellfish, though, so this should be a safe bet for the last place I’d find him. I’m fucking starving, which considering how much I paid for this trip when I could have saved the money for a bigger down payment on a new tractor, I should be stuffed to the gills. I’m an adult. I can’t hide in my room and waste away because I’m being stalked by a… a boy who wants a Build-A-Bear, daddy model number thirty-seven.
Walking like my ass is on fire, I make my way to the hostess podium and blurt out, “One! Table for one!” before the young man in the bowtie can even get a word out.
He recovers from my outburst and nods. “S-sure. Right this way.”
Walking over the threshold, I sigh in relief as though it’s a victory line. Finally. A fucking meal. A real meal, in peace, not overpriced vending machine snacks or a rushed dinner with Philip’s hand on my leg.
He… tried to feed me. Actually spooned my cherry fluff and tried to feed it to me. I am not alright.
We pass by a few occupied tables. The place is fairly empty being that it’s only four in the afternoon and people who don’t have stalkers are probably still well-fed from lunch. I’m seated at a table near one that hasn’t been cleared yet, but I have no concern over the diligence of the cleaning staff’s promptness at the moment. The waiter comes, and I place my drink order, informing him that I’ll have the buffet. I am not waiting another second to eat.
Getting up from my chair, I balk when I nearly crash into a hand carrying a loaded plate of food.
“Murph,” Jesse blurts, rearing back and catching a crab leg as it tumbles off his heap.
“Jesse.”
My skin grows hot as we stand awkwardly, blocking the space between tables. All I can see is that silver fox’s hands all over him from when I took a stroll on one of the pool decks yesterday, trying to wear Philip out. A stranger, touching my Jesse.
‘Not your Jesse,’ my common sense reminds me. It does little to tamp down the return of my agitation.
I got groped by a sparkly minion and Jesse got a rubdown. It’s not exactly fair.
“What are you doing here?”
Frowning, he glances down at his plate. “Eating.”
Shaking my head at myself for my crap line of questioning, I move to make my way around him, but he tries to advance. Huffing, I stop. “Well, I haven’t eaten yet, and I’d like to change that if you could move.”
“I need to get to my seat,” he whines like I’m the one being difficult, but when I look at where he’s pointing, I am now convinced that fate has a sick sense of humor. It wasn’t an uncleared table from a previous guest that’s right next to mine. I know what Jesse can do to a buffet. Of course, he went up for a second helping the tight-ass. I still can’t get over him ponying up hot tub money to chase after me.
Sighing, I turn to the side and let him pass. If I ever take a vacation again, I’m not telling a damn soul, and I’m traveling by pack mule so there will be no paper trail left behind for anyone to discover my whereabouts.
I fill my plate mindlessly, unaware of what I even grab. Try as I might to ignore him, my only thoughts are of the fact that I’m going to have to consume an entire meal right next to the person I came here to avoid.
Taking my seat, I breathe in the aromas of my food to comfort my growling stomach. I can do this. I’m so famished that I shouldn’t even notice that the man who both makes my pulse quicken and my blood boil is only three feet away from me.
The moan I produce around my first bite of flaky tilapia shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is. If Jesse knew the moans I made over the last few weeks every night that I tried not to think about him, he wouldn’t be sitting here. Between Philip telling me about his three cats, his photo booth job, his mother, and the complete history of the productions he’s been in at his local theater, I shouldn’t have had a moment to think, but I couldn’t squash all my thoughts of Jesse. They’re probably the only thing that allowed me to tolerate Philip’s company for as long as I did, preoccupying my mind through his incessant and excitable ramblings.
I don’t know how to fix things with Jesse, and I don’t even think it has anything to do with him or that he came on this trip. Yes, he invaded my privacy. Yes, he ignored the fact that I said I wanted space, but the longer I stew on it, the more difficult it becomes to find fault in his actions. He just wants to be my friend like he always has. It’s not his fault I’m the one who doesn’t know how to do that anymore. It’s not his fault I fell for his charms, even if he never intended to use them on me.
A cracking sound pierces the air. Glancing over, I wince, watching him trying to break open a crab leg with a metal seafood cracker. That man should not eat food that requires a two-step process. I’m about to break my code of silence and offer to help when a hunk of meat flies through the air and slaps me in the eye.
“Fucking A,” I mutter, swiping flecks off my cheek and butter from my eyelid.
“Shit. Did I get you?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“Sorry. They’re slippery.”
When I de-butter, I can see the worry on his face. Since when has Jesse ever looked worried about talking to me? I hate that I’ve caused that. And I hate that my instinct is to reach over and swipe my knuckle across his cheek to reassure him. This newfound well of affection needs to be capped if I hope to survive this trip with him or live in the same zip code when we get home.
“Just try not to Julia Roberts me again. Okay?” I say calmly, which earns me a smirk.
We eat in companionable silence for a few moments, silent other than the disturbing sound of his crab legs being massacred. How many did he fucking grab?
“So, where’s your friend?” he asks.
“Huh?” I don’t understand. The only person I know is sitting right next to me.
“The little guy with all the accessories,” he elaborates, sweeping his hand diagonally across his chest, making me realize he’s talking about Philip and the buttons on his satchel.
“Hilarious,” I mutter. “Not my type. He was just following me around.”
“Looked kind of like your type yesterday,” he mumbles, talking to his crab leg.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shaking his head, he scoffs. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
What the hell is this about? “No. Tell me.”
Sighing, he tosses a shell down and picks up another one. It’s only now that I notice he’s got one of the linen napkins tucked into the collar of his T-shirt, using it as a bib. He’s wearing his boots with knee socks and camouflage cargo shorts. It will be a miracle that anyone on this ship thinks he’s gay or doesn’t mistake him for a maintenance worker. At least I haven’t seen his Dew Drop shirt make another appearance.
“You don’t have to lie to me or hide shit from me. I was just making conversation. If you don’t want to tell me about your hookup, just say, ‘Jesse, I don’t want to talk about the guys I hook up with’. It’s not that difficult. I’m a big boy. I can respect your boundaries.”
Is he for real? “This from the guy who followed me on a gay-only cruise after I told him I wanted some time to myself.”
“Oh, my gosh!” he groans to the ceiling. “Do you want me to leave the restaurant? I didn’t know you’d come in here. There’s like twenty other places to eat on this ship. How was I supposed to know which one you were going to eat at?”
“You’re completely missing the point,” I snipe, stabbing at my potatoes, hating that he’d actually give me space if I wanted to hook up with Philip. What do I expect? That he’d fight for me? “And what about you? Where are your new friends?”
“Grandpas Walt and Darnell?” he asks, his face scrunching up.
Grandpas? Ew. I don’t even want to know if that was by request or if it’s Jesse’s description. “Mm. On a first-name basis with them already, are you?”
“Well, what else would I call them?” he laughs, making me feel like a jealous brat. “They’re super cool. They’re an old married couple on vacation, and they knew I was having a bad day, so they took me under their wing.”
“You told them you followed me here?” I gape. Did he seriously out himself and they still latched onto him?
“Yeah.” He shrugs, looking completely unfazed. “I just said we grew up together, and that I came along for moral support.”
“Wait. Do they know you’re straight?”
Frowning, he chews his lip and moves his food around with his fork. “No. I didn’t think that was important. I mean, it’s not like they asked or anything.”
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“You were getting a freaking back rub, Jesse,” I angry-whisper. “On a gay cruise. From a gay couple. They weren’t taking you under their wing; they were fluffing up your feathers.”
“Huh? What does that even mean?”
“I’m saying, be careful.”
“Be careful of what? Of getting good advice and compassion from two baby boomers? They shared their snacks with me and invited me to their cabin to play chess. What’s dangerous about crackers and chess?”
Pressing my palms to my ears, I pinch my eyes shut. Does he hear the shit coming out of his mouth? It’s like a bad retelling of Hansel and Gretel.
“Jesse… just do yourself a favor and stay away from them. Okay? There’s plenty of complimentary food included with the cruise. You don’t need snacks from two strange old guys who are clearly trying to lure you to their room.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go—his indignant scoff, the kind where he gears up for one of his pouts.
“Lure? They didn’t lure me. They asked me in broad daylight. Politely, I might add,” he says testily, shoving a crab cake in his mouth. “But I declined because I didn’t want to impose on their couple’s vacation. And I was hungry and hadn’t scoped out the layout of the ship yet because I was looking for you, mistakenly thinking that my friend might be going through something right now and need his best friend nearby. They had crackers. They offered. I accepted. End of story. Geez. You make it sound like they want to cut out my kidney. First, you ghost me at home, now you’re picking on poor Walt and Darnell. I’m starting to think you have trust issues.”
I stare at him chewing like an angry baby for approximately thirty seconds, waiting to see if his lightbulb will come on before I can’t take it anymore. Ghost him. I didn’t ghost him. I… Fine. I fucking ghosted him, but that’s not what’s important right now.
“They don’t want to play chess with you, you knucklehead. They want to make a sandwich!”
That gets his jaw to stop moving. Cheeks stuffed full, he turns and looks at me, brows furrowed. “Sandwich? No. Darnell had salami, and we put it on crackers,” he garbles around his mouthful.
“It’s a singles cruise. You said they’re married. Why would a married couple come on a singles cruise? Think about it.”
“They said they take cruises to spice things up. I think it’s sweet that they go on adventures at their age. Just because people get old doesn’t mean they should stay home and knit. Man, Murph. You’re really in the dark. You should take your mom somewhere this winter. I bet she’d love to get out of Wenatchee for a while.”
Growling in frustration, I stab at my food, the overwhelming scent of seafood suddenly starting to make me sick. It has to be the seafood because if I conjure any more mental images of those two ‘grandpas’ luring Jesse into their throuple suite with snacks, I might lose my damn mind.
“Whatever. I warned you,” I grumble, refusing to look at him.
Silence grows between us. I don’t even hear shells cracking anymore. Good. Maybe it’s sinking in.
“Sandwich?” he mutters under his breath, sounding mystified. “What kind of sandwich?”
Ugh. I can’t.
“A fucking Jesse sandwich!” I explode, letting my fork clatter to my plate. “You’re the fresh young meat between the bread.”
“A Jesse sandwich?” He gapes at me, but then gasps, “Nooo!”
And there it is. Houston, we’re a go for launch. About freaking time.
I give him a deadpan stare and utter one word, “Back rubs.”
“Nah, no way. They can’t be… They wouldn’t. They’re so…”
The light over the hostess station reflects off of something, the glare snagging my attention. Oh, sweet sparkling baby Jesus. He found me.
“Shit,” I hiss, ducking my head and shielding my brow with my hand. Then I remember I have a giant beard, so hiding my face will do fuck all to conceal my presence from Philip.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Murph? What’s wrong? Is this about the sandwich thing? Because I seriously don’t think—”
“No!” I whisper. “It’s not about your damn sandwich! Stage five clinger. Twelve o’clock. At the hostess station.”
“Who?” he asks, oblivious. “Oh, it’s that little guy you were hanging with. The one with all the buttons.”
“Is he looking over here? Did he see me?”
“He… Uh, yeah. Looks like you were just spotted. What’s up? Did it not go well with him?”
“Shit. I need to leave.” Panicking, I get up and turn my back on the entrance, even though I swear I just heard a ‘There you are!’
Hooking my hand under Jesse’s armpit, I tug him up. “Quick, get up. Walk me out.”
“But I’m still eating.”
He’s going to argue with me right now? It’s like I have a husband, but without the sex… or the back rubs.
“Jesse, I’m begging you. If you’re my friend, get your ass out of that seat and save me from this guy. He’s already picking out wedding decorations and probably has a shrine of me in his cabin. I swear.”
“Whoa. You move fast,” he mutters, but I let it slide because he stands.
“Murphy! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Philip sulks, making my skin prickle.
Fuck. He’s close. Like, five feet away close.
“Dude, are you alright?” Jesse whispers, eyeballing me like I’m about to pass out.
I do not want to spend another evening with Philip fixed to me like a barnacle. He stuffed his hand in my back pocket this morning while we were strolling around the deck like my ass was a LoJack device. This cruise is starting to feel like a violation. The only thing that could save me is a cockblocker, but I haven’t even had a minute to talk to anyone else here besides Jesse.
Besides… Jesse…
“Hug me,” I blurt. Before he can respond, I wrap my arms around him, tucking my face in close to his.
“Murph?” he asks, sounding confused even as his hand pats my back like it’s instinct from years of friendship. Nothing has ever felt more comforting.
“Stage five clinger,” I reiterate. “I’m cashing in on your moral support offer if it still stands. I’m sorry I was a dick. Just… please, don’t leave me.”