chapter five #2
The waiter hastily returns, apologizes, takes our orders, and buzzes off again.
“So, what’s the not-so-funny story?” Hugo asks me.
“About how Riley and I met?”
“Yes. Do tell.” He snuggles into his husband’s side and lifts a glass of red to his lips, which is when I notice a Cosmopolitan in front of me.
Pointing to it, I ask, “Is this mine?”
Riley slides it closer to me. “It’s what you were drinking on deck, right?”
“Drinking?” I laugh. “More like spilling.” I take a sip. “Thank you.”
“Tell us the not-so-funny story already,” Hugo urges. “I’m dying here.”
Giggling at his eagerness for gossip, I take another quick sip and fill him in. “We were booked into the same cabin by mistake.”
Ben bellows. “That is funny!”
“Not really,” I add. “Because we have to share.”
Kathy stops fussing over Avery and frowns. “Are you joking? That’s outrageous! Surely they have other cabins.”
“One of us would have to accept a severe downgrade, and neither of us wanted to,” Riley explains.
She wrinkles her nose. “That’s unacceptable.”
Oscar shakes his head. “We spend good coin on these cruises, and this is what we get… double-booked cabins and tardy table service.”
I understand their vexation; I was mad too.
But I wouldn’t exactly say the table service is tardy, because it’s not.
There are at least two hundred people on this level of the dining room alone, most of them pleasantly eating already.
Not to mention Guest Services was extremely apologetic about the double booking.
If they said, “Bad luck,” and offered no remedy nor form of compensation, then yeah, it would be outrageous and unacceptable.
Kathy tuts again. “I hope you got a refund.”
“We were looked after,” Riley offers before I can answer.
“So, you’re sharing, eh?” Ben claps Riley on the back, his eyebrows dancing, his grin sexually insinuative.
I all but snarl, as does Manny.
“We’re sharing the cabin, yes.” Riley leans back in his chair and squashes Ben’s dangling hand, the obnoxious man promptly removing it and subtly stretching his fingers.
I hide my satisfied smirk behind the rim of my Cosmo, Manny and Hugo doing the same behind their glasses of red.
“So,” Manny prompts after taking a sip, “all’s well that ends well then?”
Riley and I lock eyes, and I shrug. “So far, I guess.”
He clinks my glass with his, just as our appetizers are promptly served together with the kids’ meals, everyone happily eating while entertainment staff visit tables, performing magic card tricks.
“Where are you from?” I ask Kathy and Oscar as I dip my spoon into my soup.
“The Buckeye state,” Oscar says with pride.
Ben points his fork at him. “Home to the country’s best-ever athlete.”
I know who Ben’s referring to, because my mother was married to an NBA assistant coach when I was fifteen. And although I’m a huge fan of LeBron, I disagree with Ben that he’s the best-ever athlete to be produced by the State of Ohio. I also don’t like Ben. He’s arrogant, creepy, rude, and crude.
Knowing I probably shouldn’t bait the guy, I can’t help myself, and say, “You must be referring to Annie Oakley.”
He scoffs. “Annie Oakley? She wasn’t an athlete.”
“Of course she was.”
“She was a performer, love.”
“Athletes are performers.”
He scoffs again. “I’m talkin’ about the GOAT.”
I narrow my gaze on him, my spoon midway to my mouth. “She was, love.”
Manny presses his lips together, amusement shining in his eyes.
“She was no LeBron,” Ben snipes.
I sip my soup, ladylike. “Not the GOAT, I’m afraid.”
Riley chuckles.
“Let me guess,” Ben spits out, his arrogance stronger than the pungent aftershave wafting from him. “You’re a Bulls fan.”
A sugared smugness quirks my lip. “No.”
He furrows his brow. “Knicks?”
I nod.
“Well, if LeBron isn’t the greatest basketball player of all time, who is then?” He crosses his arms over his chest while glancing at the other men as if I’m a dim-witted woman with no expertise.
I deadpan, “MJ, of course.”
Hugo raises his glass. “Here, here.”
Oscar shrugs.
Zach drops his phone on his grilled cheese.
Kathy stifles her indigestion.
And Riley simply says, “Slam dunk.”
After an unusual but mostly pleasant dinner, Ben desperately tries to encourage us all to accompany him to one of the nightclubs. I’d rather shave my head and do The Hokey Pokey naked, so I decline and slip away, making my escape to the theatre.
“Wait up!” Riley calls out from behind me.
I stop until he catches up, then continue walking, my steps impatient and unsteady.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“The Welcome Show.”
“Me too.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You do realize it doesn’t start for another twenty minutes, right?”
Momentarily fixated on the cerulean swirls of his irises—his eyes are definitely blue, not gray—I divert my gaze. “I do.”
“So why are you rushing?”
“Because I don’t want Ben to change his mind about the nightclub and follow me instead. And because I want to get a good seat before they’re all taken.”
“Fair enough.”
The ship tilts with the swell, and I stumble before righting my footing.
“Do you need help walking?” he mocks.
“No,” I snap, and he holds his hands up defensively, an arrogant but endearing smirk lifting his lips. Wanting to change the subject, I say, “Dinner was… interesting.”
“Your choice of footwear is even more interesting.” He glances at my feet as if my heels are hideous.
Offended, I gripe, “There’s nothing wrong with my shoes.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with them. I just said your choice to wear them is interesting, given we’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean. You can barely stand, much less walk.”
“I can stand and walk just fine, thanks.”
He smirks again. “Whatever you say, cookie.”
I halt my unsteady steps, still managing to stumble. “Stop calling me that.”
“Why? What’s wrong with cookie?”
“My name is Riley.”
He deadpans, “Yeah, I know.”
“So call me Riley.”
“It’s confusing.”
“How is it confusing?”
“Because I’m Riley too.”
“So? I’m managing just fine. Why can’t you?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Because I can’t. It’s weird… and because I like cookies.”
My eyebrow hitches.
“Ease up. I don’t mean it like that.”
“Is that so?”
“You bake cookies. It’s fitting.”
“It’s annoying.” I continue walking, focusing on balancing my stride.
“You look like you’re performing a WAT.”
“A what?”
“Exactly.”
Exasperated, I shake my head and rub my temple. “What’s a what?”
“A Walk-and-Turn test… for an officer… to prove you’re not inebriated.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. I’m just trying to find my damn sea legs.”
“Where’d you lose them?”
I clench my fists, almost ready to punch him or, alternatively, jump overboard. “Are you always this irritating?”
“Are you always easily riled?” His eyes light up, and he points at me. “That’s it! Riles. That’s what I’ll call you.”
I suck on my teeth. At least it’s not cookie. “Fine. I can live with that.”
We continue toward the theatre, soon entering the grand, three-story auditorium with luxurious velvet curtains and seats, brass railings, and sculpted architraves.
“Wow!” I exclaim, carefully descending the steps toward the stage, my hand secured to the railing. “This is extravagant.”
“It’s what we’ve paid good coin for,” Riley says, his tone pompous.
Glancing over my shoulder, I shoot him a knowing smile. “You heard Oscar say that too?”
“I did.”
“Like I said, dinner was interesting.”
“Yeah. A bunch of spoiled, self-entitled fools.”
“Hey, Hugo and Manny are nice.”
“Yeah, you’re right. They are.”
Taking a seat midway to the stage, Riley sits beside me, even though there are plenty of empty seats available. Not that I mind… as long as he doesn’t revert back to calling me cookie.
“Do we always have to share a table with them?” I ask.
“I assume so. It’s prebooked for the same time every night.”
“Surely we can choose who we eat with? Just Manny and Hugo, for instance.”
“I think you’ll find Team Ohio won’t go back there again.”
“True. That just leaves… Horse.” I facepalm. “What an idiot.”
Riley leans back in his seat and rests his ankle on his knee. “So, MJ’s the GOAT, huh?”
I chuckle. “He sure is.”
“You know your NBA.”
“Kind of.”
“Do you play?”
“No, not really. Well, I haven’t in a very long time. My stepfather was an assistant coach for the Knicks when I was a teenager, so we lived and breathed the game for a while.”
He pulls an “impressive” face. “He still coach?”
“No. I don’t think so. Last I heard, he retired. He’s no longer my stepfather. Hasn’t been for many years.”
“Right.” He raises his hand to his chin and rubs it. “So other than being a cookie-baking, heel-wearing Knicks fan, what else are you into?”
“Firstly, I’m not a cookie baker. I just bake them for my egomaniacal boss. They contain ingredients that placate her, which is best for me.” I rest my hands on my lap and awkwardly tap my fingers. “And secondly—”
“So you roofie your employer?”
I snap my head toward him. “I do not roofie my employer.”
“Sounds like you do.”
How rude!
Crossing my arms over my chest, I silently pray the show will commence.
“I roofie my niece,” he says as if it’s perfectly fine to do so.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My niece. I roofie her with hot milk before bed.”
Blinking, I shake my head, confused.
He smiles. “She’s six and doesn’t know how to shut up. Talks my ears off for hours. She also doesn’t appreciate a bedtime before midnight, so… I roofie her.”
“With milk and only milk?”
He chuckles. “You should see your face. Yes, of course with only milk. Who do you take me for?”
I relax into my seat. “Well, I don’t exactly know you, do I? You could be a pervert.”
“So could you.”
Taking umbrage, I hiss, “I’m not a pervert.”
“Neither am I.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
We sit in silence as the lights dim, and our cruise director, Paul, takes the stage, welcoming us aboard.
“Good evening, cruiselings. We have a very special show for you all tonight. It is one of many and my personal favorite.”
The lead-in of “We Will Rock You” by Queen blasts from the speakers, Paul stomping his foot twice and then clapping once to the beat, prompting the audience to do the same.
I oblige; I like Queen.
“So without further ado,” Paul shouts, “please put your hands together for our entertainment crew!”
He backs off the stage as four men and four women dance onto it, all of them dressed in leather costumes with studs, their hair teased with no doubt an entire can of hairspray.
They sing and dance for the next forty-five minutes, covering songs from Bon Jovi, Bonnie Tyler, Guns N’ Roses, and Def Leppard to name a few.
I happily sing along, because I love ’80s rock—Mom was a big fan.
When I was younger, every Sunday afternoon, she’d blast her favorite albums while cleaning the apartment, often using the broomstick as a microphone while she was “Livin’ on a Prayer.
” If I wasn’t helping her with the housework, I was cramming for an exam to “Is This Love” by Whitesnake.
The show catapults my nostalgia, but I embrace it, knowing Mom would want me to. If she were here, she’d be rocking an air guitar, embarrassingly so. I dip my head, missing her silly antics.
Riley doesn’t sing along, instead occasionally tapping his fingers on his thigh, his knee bouncing to the beat. I figure he likes ’80s music too. Either that or he’s bored.
When the show ends, we follow the crowd out of the theatre like ants leaving a nest.
“That was great!” I chirp, still on a high. “When I get back home, I’m going to make it a priority to see as many Broadway shows as I can. Would you believe I’ve only seen one?”
He slides his hands into his pockets. “And you live in Manhattan?”
“I know. It’s pathetic. I’m a recluse. Mom is always on my back about—” I cut myself short, nearly choking on my words—I’d spoken them in present tense.
“Your mom is always on your back about what?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I blurt.
Heat climbs my limbs and simmers at my chest, my sea legs now grief legs, my balance much worse than before.
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, desperate to stay calm or disappear into thin air.
If I vanish, I won’t have to admit out loud to a stranger that Mom is no longer in my life, that she can longer talk to me and tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.
That she can no longer hug me at any moment.
No longer breathe. I’m not ready for that conversation, for the pity, for the truth.
Trying to breathe—because I can and I should—I feel like the air entering my lungs is almost non-existent, containing no actual oxygen.
“You okay?” Riley asks, his hand gentle as it squeezes my shoulder.
“Uh….” I step back and blink, the foyer tilting. “Um… no. I feel sick. It’s too… uh… rocky. I think I’ll go back to the room.”
Spinning on my heel, I don’t wait for him to respond.
I need to be alone.
I need to cry.
And I need my anti-nausea meds.