Chapter 10
Now
Port of call: Honolulu, Oahu
Attire: resort casual
For the first time in my life, I consider being the kind of person who claps when the plane lands.
Following the bathroom incident, Liam and I spend the rest of the flight in silence, each pretending the other person doesn’t exist. But as soon as we land and we’re back in the presence of my family, Liam transforms from quiet and brooding to charming and effervescent, like he’s Mr. Potato Head swapping out his I don’t want to be here eyes for his caring, attentive ones.
Which is giving me major emotional whiplash.
But at least he’s committing to the bit, I guess.
Once we’re aboard the ship, we’re given leis (Bella makes an obligatory joke about getting laid), and Jonah instructs us to unpack and meet back for dinner at 5:30.
I’ve never been on a cruise before, so I’m not sure what to expect.
Bad comedy shows? Endless buffets? But as I soon discover, it’s literally a floating city.
Take-out sushi? Check. Mexican restaurant? Check. Want a massage? Swedish or hot stone? Swimming pools? There are four.
If Liam and I play our cards right, we won’t have to see each other for more than a few hours a day. Which is something I’m looking forward to until we’re inside the stateroom and I realize just how small it is. How hard—impossible—it will be to avoid each other.
“Um, who gets the bed tonight?” I ask, eyes dancing to the bed taking up approximately 85 percent of the room.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says, not meeting my eye. “You can have the bed.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, scraping a palm over his beard. After a pause, he asks, “Have you been sleeping better? I mean, are you still…?”
He doesn’t finish the question, but I know what he’s asking. He’s wondering if I’m still having nightmares.
My limbs turn loose and unsteady as flashes of memory play behind my eyes. Him holding my hand. Him tucking me into bed. Him stroking my hair until I’d fallen asleep. I’m here, it’s okay. You’re okay.
I hadn’t expected him to bring that night up. I figured it was an embarrassing one-time thing destined to be forever memory-holed by both of us. Though if there’s anything Liam’s succeeding at today, it’s surprises.
“I’m fine,” I say, looking away.
“That’s not what I’m asking. What happened the night you called me, that was serious.” Then, in a low voice I feel right in the depths of my core, he adds, “I’ve been worried about you.”
His words—or perhaps the concern behind them—slice through me, sharp and unyielding, a machete through my chest.
“We’re alone,” I tell him. “You don’t need to pretend to care about me.”
Liam’s hand rises like maybe he might reach out to me, but he thinks better of it and shoves it in his pocket. “I’m not pretending, Roslyn.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “What if I hadn’t gotten your call? What if I hadn’t been there?”
My emotional check engine light flashes on.
Though I’m not sure what strikes more of a chord. The flicker of something soft and vulnerable behind his eyes. Or that he’s right. What if he hadn’t been there? What if I hadn’t called him? And worse still, what if it happens again and there’s no one to call?
But I don’t want Liam to know that, so instead I say, “I don’t need you to take care of me.”
His mouth tenses. “You’ve made that clear.”
“Great. Then let’s pretend it never happened.”
“So we’re just adding to the list of things we’re pretending now?”
“I guess so.”
Our gazes lock, caught in a silent standoff until there’s a knock at the door announcing the delivery of our luggage, thus reminding me how badly I need to get out of this dress.
“I need to change, so can you turn around? Or close your eyes?” I ask, making a twirling gesture with my index finger.
Liam lifts one eyebrow. “You do know I’ve seen you undress probably thousands of times, right?”
My skin warms with unwanted thoughts of all the times he’s seen me undress, and all the times he did the undressing.
“I’m aware,” I say quickly. “But we’re not together anymore, so I think we need to avoid”—I gesture vaguely—“nudity.”
As much as I don’t want him to see me naked, or worse, see him naked, it feels a bit like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube.
I can pretend I don’t know about the tattoo on his left shoulder, or what he sounds like when he comes, just like he can pretend he’s not capable of drawing a map of my inner thighs with a cartographer’s precision. But that’s all it is. Pretending. One of many things we’re currently pretending.
“I’ll be in the bathroom. Just tell me when it’s”—he drags a hand through his hair—“safe to come back out.” Then he spins on his heel and retreats.
As soon as he’s gone, I peel myself out of the dress.
I’m tugging on another—something flowy that meets my brother’s criteria of resort casual—when I notice Liam’s phone light up on the nightstand, announcing a new notification.
I’ve never been through his phone before because we’ve always had a relationship built on mutual trust and respect, but now that we’re broken up and I know he’s got condoms in his wallet, I can’t help the bubble of morbid interest expanding inside me.
What if it’s a woman?
Katie?
There’s a dusty corner of my brain that already knows I shouldn’t look. That I’m simply not mature or evolved enough to handle finding out Liam has a girlfriend. But if he’s seeing someone, wouldn’t it be better to know about her? So I don’t get blindsided later on?
I look over both shoulders before sneaking a peek at the screen.
FROM: DR. HIRAM GROSSE
RE: RESEARCH POSITION OFFER
Dr. Woods,
It was great talking to you yesterday afternoon. We’re thrilled at the prospect of you joining the team in London at the Institute of Cancer Research this coming spring…
I stop reading.
Wait. What?
I blink once. Twice. I can’t fucking breathe.
Liam’s moving to London? As in England?
“Roslyn? Can I come back out?” Liam calls, his voice muffled through the door.
I jump away from the phone and rearrange my face into something normal before calling back, “All clear.”
As soon as he sees me, his brows draw together. “What’s wrong?”
There’s a part of me that wonders if I should just keep it to myself, pretend I didn’t see it. But another part of me knows that if he’s moving across the world, then we need to talk about it.
“Are you taking a job in London?” I ask after a beat.
His attention drops to his phone, then back to me. Comprehension slogs through his features. “Did you look at my phone?”
“I just saw the email notification pop up,” I tell him. “I didn’t read any further.”
His posture stiffens and I can feel him trying to figure out how to respond. Finally, he says, “I haven’t accepted the position yet, but yes. I’ve been offered a job at the Institute of Cancer Research in London.”
His words crash over me in disorienting waves.
We haven’t even signed papers or told my family. Most of his stuff is still at the house. And he’s already planning a whole new life in a different country?
“What about your job at the university hospital?” I ask. “I thought you were happy there.”
He drags a hand over his beard. “I mean, it’s a great job, but this position has more upward mobility and access to more research funding and…” He pauses, drawing a breath. “And as you know, I haven’t got permanent residency in the US.”
For years, Liam’s been extending his O-1 visa, a special visa for people doing outstanding work in their field, but we never got around to getting him permanent residence. It didn’t seem urgent. Now that feels like a massive oversight.
“Can’t you apply for a green card?” I ask. “Or extend your visa?”
He shifts uneasily. “I could, but I think it would be best for me to move. Besides, this position is offering to pay for me to get licensed in the UK. So it’s a win-win really.”
A win-win.
The words scrape against my insides like nails on a chalkboard.
“So you’re moving back…” I can’t hold back the flinch. “Permanently?”
He looks away. “I’m not sure yet.”
My heart lobs in my throat. I knew that divorce would mean separate lives, separate futures. But this all feels too fast, like we’ve taken an unexpected sharp turn, and now I’m spinning out.
“Is this about your parents?” I ask. “Did you hear from them?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “No. It’s about me.”
“So you actually want to move to London?”
There’s a brief hesitation, the tiniest of cursory breaths like he’s watching to see what I’m going to do before he says, “I haven’t been to England in over a decade. I think it will be good for me to go back, to start over somewhere else.”
Somewhere else. He says it like that’s all this is, a thirst for adventure, but I know what he really means.
He means somewhere without me. And I don’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken that this is what it’s come to.
That things are so unbelievably fucked up that he needs to put six thousand miles between us.
“Were you going to tell me?” I ask. “Or were you just going to call me from the airport when you were on your way?”
He sighs, exasperated. “Come on, Roslyn, don’t be like this.”
“Like what?” I ask, my voice ratcheting up as my heartbeat creeps into my throat. “I just found out you’re moving to London, and you didn’t think I should know?”
He massages his temples. “Of course I would have told you. But it’s not even a done deal yet.”
I can’t help but note the tiny waver in his voice, the way his eyes shift downward.
It’s a foreign look on his usually certain expression, and part of me wants to pause, to unpack the unspoken concerns bracketed in the deep lines on either side of his mouth.
But another part of me knows it’s not my problem anymore.
Our marriage is over, and despite whatever emotional baggage might come with him moving across the world, this isn’t my business. Not anymore.
“I assume my grandparents don’t know?” I ask after a beat.
He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “No. They don’t.”
I guess I ought to feel happy. I finally have some dirt on him.
Something I know my grandparents will be upset about, especially given that my grandfather got him his current job at the university hospital.
Instead, I feel like everything is suddenly on fire and I don’t have a moment to collect my things before the flames swallow me whole.
I wish I hadn’t seen the email. Or the condoms in his wallet. I wish I could go back in time, to before we had this conversation. To before everything fell apart.
“I’m gonna head to the pool,” I say, reaching for my sunglasses and room key, desperate to leave, to be anywhere but this cabin with him.
“Aren’t we meeting your family for dinner?”
“Not until five thirty, so you can do whatever until then, but I’ll be at the pool taking advantage of the all-inclusive alcohol package,” I tell him, already taking large strides toward the door.
“Don’t drink too much,” he calls after me. “You don’t want to get sloppy in front of your family like on Thanksgiving last year,” he adds, catching my eye.
He says it like he wasn’t a little bit drunk too. Like we didn’t go home and eat grocery store pie straight from the tin. Like he didn’t kiss my forehead and carry me to bed at the end of the night. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe he doesn’t want to remember. And frankly, neither do I.