chapter four
OTHER RILEY
After Riley left me in the bar, I felt like an asshat.
It wasn’t her fault the cruise line fucked up.
It wasn’t her fault my life had gone to shit and that my wife of fifteen years ditched me for her hot-shot lawyer colleague.
And it wasn’t her fault I was getting a divorce.
Hell, it wasn’t my fault either, and yet for some reason, I felt responsible, because I struggled to direct my anger at the correct target, which isn’t my new roommate.
“You suck, Wilson,” I mutter, as I swirl the glass of bourbon in my hand before draining the last drop.
For the past two years, I’ve become bitter and lost, constantly mourning a life I adored and worked hard to achieve, a life my wife Krystal ruined.
We’d been together since high school. Two peas in a young, na?ve, lovesick pod. We’d built a home together, shared our life’s aspirations, and we’d been inseparable since the moment we met. She owned my heart for as long as I could remember… until she ripped it from my chest and tore it to shreds.
According to her, we’d “grown apart” and “lost our spark.” Apparently, our small-town, “simplistic” life wasn’t enough for her anymore. She wanted hustle and bustle instead. A corporate adventure.
More like an adventure between her legs on her office desk several times a week with Finn.
Cracking my neck from side to side, I roll my shoulders, willing my anger and tension to ease, a trick my sister Roni has been helping me master.
She says it releases trapped emotional trauma, or some shit like that.
Do I believe her? Not really. But I do it anyway, because she’s the champion of Zen.
She has a room full of gems and crystals, and she often burns plants from the garden and fumigates my home.
It’s outright annoying and stinks, but I don’t stop her, because nothing else I’ve done so far has worked.
Since my split with Krystal, my vision has been nothing but red, black, and then red again, but thanks to Roni and her pushy Zen-like ways, I’ve slowly come to realize my divorce is a clean slate—I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.
My life was paved before me, my future set, my heart whole…
until it wasn’t. And now my sister and mother are helping me piece it back together, most of those pieces once again intact, with the exception of one, which will always belong to my daughter, Imogen.
A child runs past the bar, her laughter echoing throughout the room. I smile, but my face is tight. Strained. My sweet baby angel never saw the light of day, never squeezed my thumb or burped on my shoulder. She never laughed as I chased her, and she never would.
At twenty-six weeks’ gestation, Krystal and I were forced to say goodbye to her four years ago, and perhaps that’s when we said goodbye to our marriage as well. Regardless, that life as I knew it is over, and I have the divorce papers in my suitcase to prove it.
I just have to seal them with a signature.
Roni suggested I get away and live it up on a whirlwind cruise to reset and sow my wild oats, because my oats had always been domesticated.
In all honesty, I have no idea how to sow wild oats.
It’s not a lifestyle I’ve ever entertained nor ever wanted to entertain.
According to my sister though, I owe it to myself to at least try.
So that’s what I’m here doing—trying to enjoy the single life. Trying to put the past in the past where it belongs. And trying to leave my resentment and anger back in the States, which I haven’t quite managed to do yet.
Slamming my empty glass on the bar top, I hang my head.
Riley didn’t deserve me being a jerk to her.
She’d been great about the cabin mix-up, when most wouldn’t have.
Sure, she tried to dump a bucketload of rules and boundaries on me, but I can’t blame her for doing so.
We’re gonna need them—some of them—and I’ll agree within reason.
Whatever she needs, because she could’ve refused to share the cabin, and she didn’t in the end. Credit where credit is due, I guess.
She’s also undeniably hot as fuck.
Damn!
I draw in a deep breath, my throat rumbling on the exhale as I recall her legs and ass in those tiny denim shorts.
Perfect skin. Sleek. Slender. I’d been ready to sow my wild oats all over her on top of the Lagoon Bar, but she doesn’t seem like the wild-oats-sowing type either.
There’s something fragile and sad about her—her eyes red from crying—and it pains me to think I’m the cause because my presence is ruining her “special” trip.
No doubt I am, but in a way, she’s also ruining mine.
Maybe I’m wrong and she’s just a spoiled, stuck-up snob. A well-to-do Manhattan princess. My gut tells me that’s not the case, and instead, like me, she’s been through something, recently—the telltale signs are hard to miss.
“Would you like another?” the bartender asks as I trace the rim of my empty glass with my fingertip.
I look up and shake my head. “No thanks, man. I’ve had enough for now.”
He nods, so I leave him a tip, then make my way out of the bar, knowing I need to unpack, have a shower, and then scope out the ship and, apparently, “the local talent.”
When Roni helped me plan the cruise, she pointed out several singles’ events on the itinerary: a singles’ nightclub, speed dating, and some fancy High Tea on the Seas.
Just the thought of doing that shit feels desperate, but then what would I know?
Until two years ago, I’d never been a single adult.
“Going up?” a woman asks as I’m about to bypass the elevator for the stairs.
If I were any good at being a single, wild oat-sower, I’d respond with, “I prefer going down.” But I’m not any good, not yet anyway, so I blurt, “Yep,” and reluctantly follow her into the death box.
“What deck?” she asks.
“Ten, thanks.”
She presses the button for me, and we smile at each other, her long eyelashes fluttering. They remind me of spider legs, and it kinda gives me the creeps.
“Enjoying the cruise so far?” she prompts, casually leaning back on the railing while propping her foot against the wall.
I chuckle; what a stupid question. “We haven’t cruised yet.”
“The ship, silly.” She giggles. “Are you enjoying the ship?”
Her spidey eyes skate over my chest and arms before landing on my face again, and even though I’ve been a married man for almost half of my life, I’m not na?ve enough to mistake her unmistakable flirting.
“The ship is great,” I say. “But I haven’t seen much of it yet. Just a bar.”
“Good place to start.”
I nod. “It is.”
Focusing on the illuminating numbers on the panel above the door as we ascend the decks, I will them to move faster. Elevators are the devil’s cubbyhole, and if I ever end up stuck in one when it breaks down, I’ll more than likely pass out.
Heat surges the length of my spine, simmering at my nape.
Why didn’t I use the stairs?
I shuffle from one foot to the other.
Roni, that’s why.
She’s spent the past year encouraging me to take small leaps of faith, because life is short, and if you don’t leap every now and again, you won’t go anywhere. Thanks to her, I’ve leapt into five fucking elevators today. Five! And I’m far from feeling liberated.
“You here with family?” the woman asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’m flying solo.”
Her eyebrows rise, and I wish I hadn’t been so forthcoming. But then isn’t that what I’m here to do? Be forth-cumming?
“How ’bout you?” I ask.
“I’m travelling with my bestie.”
I nod again as if to say, “Of course.”
She drops her propped foot to the ground and twists a lock of her hair around her finger. “I’m about to get my swimsuit on and check out the adult oasis. You should join me. It’s looks amazing.”
“I—” The elevator dings, and the doors spring open, so I waste no time in getting the hell out. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Fluttering her spidey lashes again, she waves her fingers, so I wave mine, immediately dropping my hand once the doors close.
What are you doing, Wilson?
Although tall and with a delightful chest, she’s not my type. Too young, too eager. But then maybe young and eager is what I need—what Roni thinks I need.
Surely not!
Considering the woman’s offer as I slide my card into the door lock, I decide I’m not in the mood for a swim, instead preparing for a potential Riley “rules and guidelines” attack.
“Riley, you here?” I ask, tentatively stepping inside the cabin. “Hello?”
When she doesn’t answer, I exhale my relief, remove my lanyard, and toss it onto my bed, my hands coming to rest on my head as I scan the room.
A suitcase is propped against the wall, pajamas neatly folded on her bed, a stuffed dog placed in front of her pillows.
I’m tempted to pick it up and give it a squeeze, but she explicitly told me not to touch her stuff, especially her bag.
I search the room like a sniffer dog looking for drugs, eager to find it.
Not knowing what’s inside is fucking irritating.
None of my business, of course, but I want to know what she’s hiding.
Maybe it’s because we’re sharing a room, and if she’s an international drug smuggler, I could be implicated.
Accessory before the fact, or some shit like that.
Not that she seems the narcotics-dealing type, but then Krystal didn’t seem the cheating-whore type either.
Fuck it! I’m done with lies and secrets. Not at home, not with Krystal, and certainly not on my vacation.
Practically ransacking the room, I search under her bed and in the drawers of her bedside table but come up empty-handed, most likely because she still has the damn bag glued to her side. So I give up—for now—and enter the bathroom to take a piss, stopping dead in my tracks.