chapter three #2
He smiles. “Correct.”
I continue, “Smoking is strictly prohibited outside of designated areas. But that’s okay because I don’t smoke,” I admit, winking.
“Oh, and if I see a person go overboard, I must shout ‘Man overboard’ three times and then find the nearest telephone and dial reception.” I scratch my head. “Have I missed anything?”
“No, ma’am. I’m confident you’ll be the safest passenger aboard.”
“I hope so. This is my first cruise, and I want to be prepared.”
He chuckles. “You’re off to a great start.”
After thanking him, I’m about to leave and explore when I spot Riley at the bar, hunched over a glass of amber-colored liquid.
He looks miserable, and I can’t say I blame him.
I was miserable too, given our situation.
Still am to an extent. But what good does it do to mope over the things we cannot change?
If Mom taught me one thing, she taught me that.
And while I’m still trying to master that particular lesson, I’ve learned to choose my moping battles more wisely—our vacation mix-up being one I can wave a white flag at.
Unable to walk away and just leave him there, I make my way to the bar instead. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, so why not break the ice, put our dilemma behind us, and get to know one another over a drink?
Splendid idea.
“Hey,” I say, as I awkwardly climb onto the barstool next to his.
He mutters, “Hey,” then rotates his head in my direction, and I swear a low growl reverberates in his throat when he realizes it’s me.
Recoiling just slightly, I fear I’ve made a mistake in joining him and that a white flag isn’t sufficient protection.
Perhaps I pissed him off in the cabin when I told him he couldn’t have sleepovers.
But then… it was a reasonable request. The cabin sleeps two, not three.
And if anyone should be pissed, it’s me.
He called me “cookie,” for Pete’s sake. Who does that?
Choosing to ignore his rudeness, because I have just as much right to be here as he does, I pick up the cocktail menu and inspect what’s on offer. “What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
Yuck!
I pull a sourpuss face. “I think I’ll have a… Manhattan.”
Take that, you Big Apple hater!
Riley’s brow hitches, but he doesn’t say anything, so I order my drink and then spin my stool away from the bar, admiring the tropical, novelty decor. “Have you done much exploring yet?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time for that, I guess.”
He nods, and I get the impression he doesn’t want company, his answers clipped, his attention still fixed on his glass.
“First cruise?” I ask, continuing to make unwanted small talk.
“Yep.”
“Me too.”
He doesn’t offer anything in return, so I persist. We need to get to know one another—it’s vital, since I won’t be able to fall asleep with him in the same room as me if I still view him as a complete stranger. “What destination are you looking forward to the most?”
“All of them.”
“None in particular? Personally, I can’t wait to see Paris. And Greenland. Oh, and Nova Scotia. There’s a Titanic museum there. I love all things Titanic,” I confide, and when Riley chuckles, I relax a little and spin back to face the bar. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re about to go on a transatlantic cruise, and you love all things related to an ocean liner that sank in the Atlantic?” he points out.
“Well, when you put it like that….” I accept my drink from the bartender and take a sip, almost choking as it burns my esophagus.
Oh my Lord! What is this? Moonshine?
I’m not normally a “drinker.” The odd glass of wine and celebratory Cosmo, yes. Pure ethanol, no.
Subtly pushing my glass aside, I eat the cherry garnish instead, then continue, “Modern-day ships are perfectly safe. Watertight bulkheads. Advanced radar technology. Sufficient lifeboats….”
“They can still sink.”
Nonsense. “Not cruise ships.”
“2012. Costa Concordia,” he deadpans, swirling his drink and downing the rest before gesturing to the bartender for another.
That’s somewhat uncomfortably recent.
Frowning, I protectively clutch my bag to my chest.
“You gonna take that thing everywhere you go?” he asks, side-eyeing me.
I squeeze it tighter. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. I’m just wondering if you’ve smuggled your pet chihuahua or rabbit onto the ship.”
I let out a small laugh. “Nope. Guess again.”
“Cocaine?”
I shake my head.
“Dead boyfriend?”
My insides freeze.
Riley’s eyes light up comically, and he points his empty glass at me. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he jokes. “Asshole ex is in there. You offed him, and now you’re getting rid of his remains.”
“That’s—” I swallow thickly. “That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is!”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
Sliding off the seat to stand, I want to tell him he’s the asshole, but all I can manage is “I’ll see you around.”
After I leave Riley to wallow in his misery—or to pick on some other poor passenger—I explore the ship, book some shore excursions, and sign up to do a behind-the-scenes tour.
It’s a first come, first served basis, and despite Riley being an inconsiderate jerk in the bar, I sign him up for the tour as well.
He could’ve refused outright to share the cabin, potentially forcing me off the ship, but he didn’t, and I can’t ignore that.
The app has both of our accounts listed for the same cabin, which I suppose would be super convenient for a family or friends who want to book things to do together.
I mean it’s convenient for me to book him on the tour too, so I can’t complain.
Plus, he seems the type who’d enjoy the tour and would be disappointed he missed out because he chose to get drunk instead of seizing the opportunity.
If I’m wrong, he can cancel and offer his spot to someone else.
No harm done. Especially since I scored us unlimited excursions at no extra cost.
A mild breeze whisps across my face as two glass doors part, allowing me to step outside onto the fourteenth deck.
Island-themed music blasts from speakers surrounding the pool, kids excitedly chase one another, and parents relax on sun lounges, brightly colored cocktails in hand.
I weave in and out of the chaos and take a seat under the shade of a cabana, when I’m instantly approached by a waitress.
“Can I get you a drink, ma’am?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
She nods and moves on to the next passenger until someone accepts her offer, so I set my bag down and take out my laptop, when another waiter approaches.
“Can I get you a drink, ma’am?”
Holy alcoholism! Do they want everyone drunk on this cruise?
Feeling obligated to say yes, I order a Cosmopolitan, hoping it will deter any more waiters from bothering me when they see it on my table.
We’re due to set sail at any moment, and since the Wi-Fi connection is strong while we’re still in port, I need to check my emails.
Georgia hasn’t texted or called, which is unusual, given her penchant to dismiss personal time and space, so when I open my laptop and find a message from her flagged Urgent, I’m not at all surprised.
Of course, it’s urgent. Everything to do with her is urgent.
Slumping back in my seat, I click on it to find two attached manuscripts with a request for me to give them a “quick read-through” while I’m gone.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I spit out, glaring at the screen.
It all makes sense now. The Wicked Witch of the East has already given me two submissions to read through, hence why she was atypically accommodating of my leave. But it turns out she plans to work me just as hard, whether I’m in the office or not.
Stabbing my finger on the touchpad, I open the first attachment, taking note of the word count.
One hundred and thirty-eight thousand words?
“Peanut butter!” I curse under my breath, already fearing that pacing will be an issue.
“I’m sorry, ma’am?”
Blinking, I snap my attention to the waiter standing beside me, serving tray in hand, my Cosmo balanced on top of it. “Pardon?”
“You said peanut butter. Did you want that cocktail instead?”
“No, no.” I swish my hand at him. “I’m just cussing,” I explain.
Momma hated the F-word, so she taught me to swap “motherfucker” for “peanut butter.”
“Wait a minute! There’s a peanut butter cocktail?” I ask.
“Yes.”
My tummy twirls with excitement as I stare at him in awe at the possibility.
“Would you like one, ma’am?” he prompts.
Tempted to say yes, because I love peanut butter, I bite my fingernail and decline, opting not to get inebriated on day one. I’m fond of my liver, and I’d much prefer it not to dissolve. “No, thank you. Maybe next time.”
He places my drink down, kind of bows, backs away, then turns to collect a few empty glasses on a nearby table.
Picking up my glass, I sip my pretty pink drink while reading the genre of the first manuscript: a modern-day, Greek mythological romance. My curiosity piques. I adore Greek mythology.
Confused, because Georgia would normally automatically reject a romance submission of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand words, I scroll further to the agent’s name, a frustrated sigh whooshing past my lips.
No wonder she sent this to me. It was submitted by her sister—the Wicked Witch of the West.
Knowing I’ll have my work cut out for me when I shouldn’t, I stab the touchpad again when a male voice suddenly bursts from the speakers above my head, scaring the absolute bejesus out of me.
“Welcome, cruiselings! My name is Paul, and I’m your cruise director.
We’ll be setting sail in just a few minutes, so I hope you’re ready for a fantastic vacation.
While the captain navigates us out of the harbor, the party is about to get started on Lido Deck.
So head on up, grab yourself one of our delicious cocktails, and put your dancing shoes on. I’ll see you all soon.”
The engines rumble to life, so I finish reading Georgia’s email and type a reply, obediently telling her I’d be glad to read over the manuscripts, even though “glad” couldn’t be further from the truth. And by the time I snap my laptop shut, the ship is slowly drifting away from the dock.
Collecting my bag and what’s left of my drink, I make my way to the railing, the water swirling and bubbling below. A mix of excitement and melancholy twists within my chest, my heart skipping over its usually sullen beat.
Leaving my motherland to explore other parts of the world is both daunting and exhilarating, mostly because I’m culturally and ethnically challenged—a side effect of strict goals focused solely on fiction and publishing for as long as I can remember.
School, college, internship, NYC—it’s all I know.
I can identify a sentence written in passive voice and make it active without a blink, but ask me to voice a sentence in any language other than English, and I’d fail miserably.
Actually, that’s a lie. After receiving my cruise ticket from Mom, I googled how to say “Where is the bathroom, please?” in French, so, perhaps I wouldn’t fail and ultimately soil myself.
At least… I hope I won’t.
Taking the stairs to deck sixteen, I shade my eyes from the sun, marveling at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge as we cruise toward it, the grand structure majestically spanning New York Harbor, growing more prominent and imposing the closer we get to it.
Exhilaration peppers my skin.
The ship’s horn blasts.
I almost pee my pants.
Giggling, the realization of why my mother desperately wanted me to go on this cruise hits me—just like her often swift but lovingly playful slap to the back of my head.
A lump of regret forms in my throat, and I swallow. She knew my life was all work with no play. No adventure nor culture. I just pray she didn’t think I was unhappy, because I’m not.
Lonely? Sure. But happy? Mostly.
At least, I was… before she died.