Chapter Four
Four
It doesn’t really start to hit me until after my main course.
Something heavy lingers in the pit of my stomach, and it’s not the food.
My vision grows spotty, my hands feel clammy.
Is it insanely hot in here?! I’m starting to hyperventilate when a gorgeous dessert is placed in front of me, the kind you pour hot chocolate sauce onto to melt the sugar dome.
All I can think about is how there’s no air in here, and I need to escape.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I practically launch myself from the restaurant onto the front deck, where a warm breeze tangles in my hair, and stride straight up to the bow of the ship. I grab hold of the railing and lean against it, dropping my head. A seamless line of moonlight stretches out before me.
Breathe. Come on, breathe.
It’s really over. All of it. Not just the good parts, the bad parts too. It’s a cocktail of regret, sadness, relief and freedom. And I don’t know how to handle it.
Mike is the only long-term partner I’ve ever had and now it’s done it feels like a huge chunk of me, the person I became in the time we were together, has fallen away.
Fuck’s sake. Just breathe.
Who am I without him? I’ve made myself so busy at work since that fateful day that I haven’t allowed myself to stop and let it sink in.
Now it feels like I’m actually sinking.
Ugh. God, I can’t breathe.
I run one hand over my chest to see if I can somehow swipe this pressure away and find that my playsuit is damp. The sea is calm tonight so it can’t be sea spray.
It’s me.
I’m crying.
Hysterically.
What a fucking embarrassment!
I wipe at my cheeks, cursing myself.
Breathe. Just breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
I lean even further over the railing, listening to the hum of the engines, the chop of the waves. Blood rushes to my head. I try to control my racing heart, but I swear with each breath it gets harder and harder to find any air.
“Uh, excuse me, miss?” a voice comes from behind me.
I can’t even turn at this point – too afraid it will steal the last bit of oxygen from my lungs. Blood is rushing in my ears, making every sound gargled.
Just stop crying, you imbecile. You have an audience!
“You know,” he continues, “you really don’t want to do that.”
“Wha-at?” I practically choke out.
“That water is much colder than you think.” I don’t know why he’s telling me this. Does he think I’m going to jump? I attempt to take a deep breath but I’m officially out of air.
I’m going to die.
“Er, can I help you to the bench?” he asks.
I don’t respond, but a moment later, I feel a large gentle hand on my shoulder.
“It’s ok,” he says. “I’m just going to help you take a seat, alright?
” I allow him to pivot my body away from the railing, leaning into his touch.
I find myself nodding, clutching my chest. I can barely see through the tears.
I allow him to guide me towards a bench, where I manage to collapse, panting, sobbing, utterly beside myself.
“Hey, I need you to focus on what I’m about to say, ok?” he says, crouching down in front of me. “We’re going to explore your senses. Ground you again. If you can, tell me what you can hear.”
I gasp for air. “My heart… beat,” I manage to get out. The blurry shape in front of me places two soft hands on my shoulders. The gesture is weirdly stabilising.
“Good. What else?”
“Your voice.”
“More. Close your eyes if it helps. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”
I do as I’m told, finding solace in this man’s voice.
“The hum of the yacht. Waves. People in the restaurant.”
“Good. You’re getting it. What can you feel?”
“My playsuit. My hair on my shoulders. The bench.”
“And now think about your feet. What are they attached to?”
“My ankles?”
“Really?”
“I…”
“Just kidding,” he laughs gently, dropping his hands. “What are your ankles attached to?”
“My shins?”
“You’re maybe being slightly too specific now,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Let’s go from legs. What are your legs attached to?”
“My torso?”
“And then?”
“My neck. Then my head…”
“Correct. Open your eyes,” he says as if I’ve passed a test.
I blink them open slowly. My limbs and fingers feel like they’ve been filled with lead but my breathing is noticeably calmer.
“What can you see?” he asks. I blink rapidly, wiping the tears from my eyes and allowing my vision to clear.
I meet a pair of warm light brown eyes, a sturdy straight nose and a defined, neatly shaven jawline.
But his most noticeable feature is the wild, dark-gold curls that tumble down over his forehead.
Oh, holy fuck.
“You,” I say.
“Good. What else?”
“No, I mean, it’s you! Again!” I’m too mortified to do anything other than cover my face with my hands. “You can leave now, thank you.”
He’s quiet for a second. “Ok…? I feel like I’m missing something here.”
“I’ve got this,” I say, looking up at him through bleary eyes and attempting to dismiss him with my hand. I can barely raise it.
I very much haven’t got this.
And it’s clear by his concerned frown that we both know I’m lying.
He tilts his head almost sympathetically.
It only sets me off again. I quickly wipe at my eyes with the balls of my hands.
“Hey, come on. It’s alright,” he says, rising to his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets, giving me ample space to escape if that’s want I want.
“Can I at least help you to your room, or something? I can’t just leave you here.
It wouldn’t sit well with my conscience.
Or I can find a female attendant if you’d prefer? ”
I press my face into my hands again, curling forward. I muffle, “No. That’s even more embarrassing. I just want to hide.”
“Ok, sure. Where?”
I let out a ragged breath. “My room would be good.” I look up at him and he nods, offering me his arm.
“Great, then let’s get you to your room.”
It takes me a minute to steady my wobbling knees, but when I finally do, he gives me a reassuring smile.
He’s steady. He’s also very tall. I’m five foot nine, five eleven in heels, and he’s still a few inches taller than me. I peek at his face discreetly – he’s handsome.
I clasp his bare forearm, a splatter of light hair and tanned skin under my fingers. He leads me towards the cabin lift and asks for my room number.
I hesitate. “You’re not some cruise ship murderer, right?”
“If I was, would I tell you?”
I nod. “Fair point. Room twenty-three.”
I’m trying to find the words to explain myself, or rather, the state I’m in, when he stops abruptly and I realise we’re already at my door.
“Here you are,” he says, gently releasing me. “Do you have your key?”
I tuck my hand into my bra and fish it out. Holding it out for his inspection.
He fights the urge to smile, the corner of his lips twitching. “You ladies always have the best storage solutions.” Then as I let myself in, he says, “Will you be ok? I can ask them to send a female attendant to your room?”
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. I’m tempted to deflect, confront him about his oafness in Venice. But maybe now isn’t the time. This has already been mortifying enough. “Oh. No. Thank you, but no. I’ll be ok. I’m just… tipsy.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything else, running his hand through his hair and stepping backwards as if he’s waiting for me to close my door.
I test my theory, checking in the peephole once it’s closed.
He finally turns, strolling towards the main staircase, tucking his hands in his pockets.