Chapter Ten
Ten
OBVIOUSLY, I DISAGREED.
While we shuffled forward in the snaking check-in line, I explained all about imprinting, and how it wasn’t just for ducklings, and how my problem all along was that I’d accidentally imprinted on Finn.
I recounted all the information I’d gathered from both Ashley’s expert testimony and the internet.
And even though Cooper had known about my epic, endless Thorn Birds–style crush at the time—because everybody knew, except for Finn himself—I told Cooper something he didn’t know.
That Finn had been my first kiss.
“Finn was your first kiss?” Cooper asked, seeming baffled.
“Do you want me to tell you about it?” I asked.
“Absolutely not.”
I shrugged. “The point is, it happened on the same day that my dad really let me down in an epic way, and if you’ve read any Freud—”
“I haven’t.”
“—you’ll recall that parental relationships are, like, a huge thing.”
I hadn’t read any Freud, either, to be honest.
I went on, undaunted. “And so the perfect storm of all that excitement mixed with all that abandonment on the exact same day made an emotional lightning flash that bound me to Finn Turner and Finn Turner only—forever.”
Ashley had explained it much better.
But Cooper didn’t buy any of it. He said, and I quote, “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s science,” I insisted.
“It’s bullshit,” Cooper said.
And so we just kept arguing.
We argued about it all the way through the line.
And then we argued up the gangway.
And then we argued as we journeyed into the bowels of the ship to look for the cabin I’d be sharing with Cousin Harmony.
We argued so hard, I barely noticed the boarding process.
We argued so hard, I forgot to keep looking for Finn.
But here’s what I do remember: I remember arriving at my cabin and finding a party-store flowered lei hanging on the door handle.
I remember moving it aside to use my key and then pushing open the door.
And then I remember my eyes getting blasted with the sight of Cousin Harmony and some random dude—tangled up like octopi on the tiny built-in desk in our windowless room … making out.
WANNA KNOW HOW my entire body reacted to that?
With a hearty Hell, no.
I leapt back out of the room on pure instinct—turning as I yanked the door closed behind me and landing chest-to-chest against both Cooper and his tweed vest.
Sorry—gabardine.
The impact slammed Cooper back against the hallway wall behind us—and then me into him. For a second, we were pressed against each other like that, face-to-face, while our brains tried to catch up.
“What just happened?” Cooper finally asked as I pushed myself back onto my own two feet.
“Harmony was in there,” I said, still a little breathless.
“Okay,” Cooper said, like Not that shocking.
“In there,” I amended, “and hooking up with some guy.”
Now that was a little shocking. “Already?” Cooper said, checking his watch. “We just boarded.”
“Maybe they met in the check-in line.”
“What do you mean by ‘hooking up’?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“Were they naked?”
“I’ve already blocked it out, so we’ll never know.”
At that, the door to our cabin opened, and Harmony stepped out—her clothing ill-buttoned and a bright welt of a hickey blooming on her neck. She had dark hair, a heart-shaped face, cat-eye eyeliner, and Elizabeth Taylor vibes.
“Oh, hey,” Harmony said.
There was a guy out of focus behind her, buttoning his shirt.
“Hey, Harmony,” I said.
“I guess you’re here,” she said.
“I guess you are, too.”
“Oh, I’m definitely here,” Harmony said, glancing back at her gentleman friend. Then she looked down at the flowered lei looped over the door handle. “You didn’t see the lei?”
“I saw it,” I said. “I just didn’t know it was yours.”
“It’s mine,” Harmony said.
“Ah. Well.” What to say? “It’s very pretty?”
“I’m using it like a sock,” Harmony said then.
Cooper and I glanced at each other.
“A sock?” I asked.
“You know. Like in college. If there’s a sock on the doorknob…?”
But I didn’t know. “Why would anyone put a sock on a doorknob?”
That’s when Cooper nudged me.
But too late. Harmony launched into a full explanation. “People put socks on doorknobs for their roommates if they’re having sex in the room and don’t want their roommate coming in and ruining everything. Like you just did.”
Oh.
“Why a sock, though?” I asked.
“I get it,” Cooper said. “It’s like a doorknob condom.”
I glanced sideways. “Please don’t ever say doorknob condom again.”
Cooper’s shrug was almost playful. “That just makes me want to say it more.”
Harmony went on: “And since pretty much everything about the cruise industry is pure evil, from the sewage they dump into the ocean, to the way they exploit their workers, to the chances of all of us getting murdered—which are like fifty percent—I am not thrilled to be here, at all, and I’ll be putting that lei to use as much as possible to console myself. ”
“The chances of us all getting murdered are fifty percent?” Cooper asked.
Just as I asked, “Why did you RSVP yes, then?”
Between the two questions, Harmony chose mine. “For the gambling,” she answered.
I nodded, like Huh.
“The point is,” Harmony went on, “you’ll be seeing this lei a lot. Get it? Because I’ll be getting lei’d.”
“Got it,” Cooper and I said at the same time.
“You’re welcome to use it, too,” Harmony said.
“Thank you?” I said.
Just then, the man in the room walked up behind her.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked.
“Oh,” Harmony said, turning to squint at him like that was a good question. Then, going on vibes, she said, “Kevin?”
But the guy shook his head. “Kyle.”
Then there was a funny silence while Harmony and Kyle turned back to stare us down—until we realized they expected us to leave now.
“Oh-kay!” I finally said, all singsongishly cheerful, like we’d just wrapped up a productive meeting. “I guess we’ll just let you two … get back after it, then. And I’ll circle back around on that lei situation a little bit later.” I started to turn but then asked, “Can I leave my suitcase?”
Harmony wrinkled her nose. “Now’s not a great time.”
“Got it,” I said.
Then Harmony gave me a thumbs-up.
And slammed the door.
GREAT NEWS. COOPER had a single.
But we had to go up five floors to get there. From steerage, as they would say on the Titanic, to accommodations much more befitting an aristocrat in a tweed vest.
Except an aristocrat would have taken the elevator … and we took the stairs.
At the base of the first flight, rolling my giant suitcase behind me, I stopped and looked up, like Nope.
But Cooper just turned back, grabbed the suitcase for me, and kept going.
And so, after standing still for a minute in protest, I followed—making sure to vigorously clomp the clompy platform sandals that Ashley had insisted I wear for my “silhouette.”
“They invented these things called elevators,” I called after Cooper as we hit the next level.
“I don’t love elevators,” Cooper called back, not slowing.
“Is it the ease, or the convenience?”
“This is better for your body,” Cooper insisted.
“Define better.”
By flight three, I had kicked off my shoes. By flight four, I was breathing hard. And by the time we reached Cooper’s floor, as I thought about how much more fun Harmony—of all people—was having at this moment than I was? Actively cranky.
“So now I’ve met Harmony,” Cooper said as we paused at his door.
I nodded. “My whole family calls her Grumpy Cat.”
“She wasn’t scowling today.”
I bent forward and rested my hands on my knees to catch my breath.
“What does she do for a living?” Cooper asked next.
“I have no idea,” I said. “All I know is nobody likes her.”
“You should room with me instead,” Cooper said.
Yeah—that wasn’t happening. “Why are we even up here?” I asked. “You’re not with the wedding block?”
“I need a balcony,” Cooper said.
“A balcony?” My room with Harmony didn’t even have a window.
“Yeah,” Cooper said as he touched his key to his lei-less door.
He opened it and gestured me through—and I wasn’t five steps in before I was overcome with envy.
I hadn’t seen much in those panicked seconds when I’d entered my own cabin just now, but I’d seen enough to know it was—again: windowless. And also about the size of a jail cell.
This place, on the other hand, was a stateroom for dignitaries.
I positively leered at it. It had a double bed, with sconces, a patterned carpet, ambient lighting, and a full wall of sliding glass doors that opened onto a luxurious balcony overlooking the harbor.
Plus a champagne bottle chilling on ice with two glasses on the bedside table. Not even kidding.
“You ‘needed’ this room?” I asked, walking to open the balcony door.
“Yes,” Cooper said, following me.
We stepped out onto the balcony and looked down at the harbor below.
“Define ‘needed,’” I said.
“I have a condition where I need two exit points at all times.”
“You mean your claustrophobia?” I asked.
“I don’t have claustrophobia,” Cooper said.
“Yes, you do.” Our whole neighborhood knew that.
“I have cleithrophobia,” Cooper said. “Which is not the same thing.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a fear of getting trapped.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Claustrophobia.”
But Cooper shook his head. “Claustrophobia is a fear of small spaces.”
Huh. Interesting. “Your phobia should rebrand,” I said. “It sounds like a knockoff.”
“I agree.”
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“No one has,” Cooper said. “It’s very niche.” Then he added, “My case is mild, if that’s any comfort.”
“Who needs comfort?” I said, glancing back toward his room. “You’ve got the best cabin of anyone.”