chapter four #2
“What the hell?” I breathe deeply, turning in a circle, bottles of perfume, lotions, and potions scattered across the sink and shelves like a Macy’s store. “Gee, thanks for leaving some space for my stuff.”
I lift the toilet seat with a snap and piss, annoyed with all the girly shit surrounding me.
Women waste so much money on junk. Krystal once bought a lipstick that cost more than my hammer drill.
A damn lipstick! A drill makes me money and is put to good use; her lipstick probably ended up around Finn’s cock.
Performing a hygienic shake, I prepare to close the lid like I always do when I leave it up instead. Screw her! This is my bachelor getaway, and if I have to lift the seat, Riley can damn well put it down. Fair’s fair.
I grin, pleased with my act of rebellion, then have a shower, using Riley’s shampoo. It smells like mint and flowers, and I’m okay with that. Plus, we’re meant to be sharing.
Stepping out of the dwarf-sized shower-bath, I grab a towel and attempt to tie it around my waist, but it barely secures at my hip. Baffled, I wonder if I’ve accidentally picked up the bathmat instead, so I grab another towel and unravel it to find it’s the same size.
Why is everything so damn small? Yeah, I’m a big guy, but Jesus… this is ridiculous!
Not knowing how to neatly roll it up again, I do my best to fold and twist it like a fucking artistic donut before tossing it onto the sink.
I collect my clothes and head into the room, dropping them onto the bed and discarding the poor excuse for a towel on the floor, aware Riley could barge in at any moment.
To be honest, I don’t care. I’m not ashamed of my body, and I’m not about to stress over whether or not I should get undressed in my own damn cabin.
If she doesn’t want to see me naked, she can cover her eyes.
“Welcome, cruiselings!” a male voice blasts throughout the room. “My name is Paul, and I’m your cruise director.”
I jump out of my skin, cup my junk, and turn in a circle, searching for Paul, when the speaker above my head crackles.
“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.”
Sounds like a plan, so I unzip my suitcase, rifle through it for a shirt and pair of pants, and get dressed.
Roni took me shopping for “cruise clothes” a few weeks ago, because apparently plaid shirts, varnish-stained denim, and work boots aren’t appropriate for a vacation.
I put up a fight to begin with, but as always, my sister was right—I would have looked like an idiot if I packed what I usually wore.
Gathering my new suit and shirts, I make my way to the closet and open the door. “For fuck’s sake!”
Dresses, blouses, and more girly shit occupy almost every hanger apart from three on the end, one of them broken.
“Not gonna happen, sweetheart!” I shove her clothes across the rail, bunching them together, before hanging my suit and one shirt. If she thinks she’s going to hog our entire cabin, she’s sorely mistaken.
Krystal used to pull this shit as well—assume I wear the same thing day in and day out and therefore require no hanging space. Granted, back at home, I do wear the same thing day in and day out, but that’s not the point.
I’m supposed to be getting away from this shit. Bachelor lifestyle, remember?
Glaring at Riley’s clothing, I pull one of her shirts off the hanger and replace it with my own, and then I close the door and lay hers on her bed, happily rubbing my hands together before opening the top drawer in the closet to find it full as well.
“Fuck me!” Steam practically billows out of my nostrils until I wrench open the next drawer, which is empty.
Drawing in a deep breath, I hold it, count to three, then slowly exhale.
Calm the hell down, Wilson. She hasn’t completely disregarded you. She’s not Krystal.
I close my eyes and crack my neck, then head out onto the balcony and stare over the bay toward Lower Manhattan, where my ex is currently working.
A disgusting smog floats on the horizon, nothing but concrete, glass, noise, and traffic below it.
New York City is a smokescreen, full of rats and contamination, and I sure as shit can’t wait to get out of here. To escape and explore other places.
When Roni suggested the cruise for “sowing my wild oats,” I instead grasped the opportunity to further my knowledge for work. That said, I reluctantly embraced her objective as well, because she often knows me better than I know myself.
Maybe I do need to put myself out there again. Maybe not. Regardless, I’m looking forward to a change of scenery.
The ship’s engines rumble, the water below bubbling like a murky jacuzzi.
Seaweed floats to the surface among a slick of oil and some empty plastic bottles and potato chip bags.
I scoff, grinning at the garbage—not because it’s polluting the water, but because it’s reminiscent of this cesspool of a city.
“Good riddance,” I mutter under my breath to a place I resent and a woman I once loved.
Good riddance to bad garbage and bad people.
By the time I’ve reached Lido Deck, every man, woman, kid, and crew member has also made their way outside, the sailaway atmosphere now in full swing.
A band plays nautical-themed music while kids run around the pool, ice creams in hand, crewmembers mopping up in their wake. I dodge passenger after passenger, avoiding their novelty drinks with useless paper umbrellas.
Hopefully, when we’re out to sea, everyone will disperse, scattering to the many hubs of the ship.
The kids will go to kids’ club, the gamblers to the casino, the shoppers to the shops, and the sun lovers by the pools.
Once that happens, and I pray it does, I’m sure it won’t feel so crowded and suffocating, because I need to let go and breathe—something I haven’t properly done for many years.
Spotting the Verrazano-Narrows bridge looming ahead, I take the stairs to deck sixteen and walk closer to the bow, when I catch sight of Riley, shielding her eyes from the sun, ready to look up as we pass beneath it.
Her denim shorts hug her ass, showcasing her sexy legs, her T-shirt snug against her breasts.
She has a body that could make a grown man cry, and if I were a crier, no doubt I’d be sobbing where I stand.
But… I don’t cry—not anymore. My tears dried up four years ago, and they haven’t fallen since.
I wander closer, wanting to speak to her, because she’s the only person I kinda know, but also because I was a dick to her in the bar and don’t want things to be more awkward than they already are.
Apart from her barking orders at me and hogging ninety percent of our cabin, she isn’t all that bad to be around.
So I step up beside her, the noise of the traffic on the bridge roaring overhead, then echoing as we sail underneath it.
I read on a forum that the Oasis of the Seas is too tall to pass under the bridge, even at low tide, and the only way it can is because it has a retractable funnel.
Our ship isn’t as tall, but I do know there’s not much more than ten feet from the tip of the radar mast to the road deck of the bridge.
It’s impressive, or maybe stupid. There’s not much room for error.
I open my mouth to speak, then close it again, because it’s useless—she won’t hear me anyway.
So I watch her instead as she sucks in a nervous breath before smiling her relief as the shadow of the bridge disappears and the sun once again hits her face.
She’s cute, her eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning, her cheeks forming into little apples.
“Holy shit!” she whispers, clasping her chest. “That was close.”
I lean down, my mouth hovering near her ear. “Lucky it’s low tide.”
Riley shrieks and stumbles, so I reach out and grab hold of her to prevent her from falling on her pretty ass, pink sugary shit spilling from the glass she’s holding.
“Jesus!” she says, her wide eyes searching mine as if I’m either Superman or a sexual predator. “You scared me.”
Unable to tell which one she suspects I may be, I help her steady herself and quickly let her go. “Sorry.”
She puffs out a breath. “I nearly fell off the ship.”
I chuckle. “You can’t.”
“What do you mean I can’t?”
“It’s impossible to fall off the ship.”
“No, it’s not. People go overboard all the time.”
“Unless you climb the rails, someone throws you over, or you step onto a chair or some stupid shit like that, you can’t just accidentally fall overboard.”
She blinks as if what I’m saying is a bunch of baloney.
It’s not.
“I’m serious,” I say. “You can’t.”
Placing her now-empty glass on a nearby table, she reaches into her bag, and I get ready for her to pull out whatever it is she’s hiding in there—a taser, perhaps. But she pulls out a tissue instead.
My anticipation deflates.
“Should I be worried you know so much about falling off the ship?” she asks, side-eyeing me suspiciously while wiping her hands and legs.
“Should I be worried you might test out my theory?”
“So it is a theory then?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
Riley laughs, then tosses her tissue in a nearby trash can. “Feeling better, are we?”
I run my hand through my hair, readying my apology. “About before, I—”
“It’s fine. I get it. Neither of us planned for our vacation to be the way it’s shaping up to be. I was mad; you were mad. It is what it is.”
Shocked, I press my lips together, a grin spreading across my face. I’d expected her to force me to my knees, to grovel and beg for her forgiveness. And hell, I might’ve done it for the sake of peace.
“Okay then,” I choke out. “Truce?”
She holds out her hand. “Truce.”
We shake.
“You look nice,” she says, eyeing me from top to toe. “Where are you off to?”
“We’re going to dinner,” I say as if she doesn’t have a choice.
“We’re? As in you and me?” She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, cookie, but we have a reservation in the main dining room.”
Her head tilts with confusion, and I get the impression she knows nothing about the sailaway dinner, which strikes me as odd. She seems the type who would carry an hourly planner with scheduled bathroom breaks.
“A reservation?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “What are you talking about?”
“The sailaway dinner.”
She slides her cell from her back pocket and checks the cruise app, as if to call my bluff. “Huh. You’re right. I must’ve missed that.”
“Yes, I know.”
Rolling her eyes at my audacity, she continues to scroll her screen. “What time is the reservation?”
“In an hour.”
“Oh. Okay. Perhaps I will go then. But I need to shower and get ready first.”
“I just had one, so knock yourself out.”
In keeping with our ceasefire theme, I could be honest and admit to using her shampoo. But she might try severing my head from my neck again, so I save that little mishap for another time.
“Thanks. I better head downstairs then.” She goes to turn but stops instead. “I take it there’s a dress code tonight?”
“Sure is. Smart casual.”
“Well—” She subtly rakes her eyes over my body. “—you’ve certainly nailed that.”
Blushing like a teenage boy on his first date, I slide my hands into my pant pockets and rock back on my heels.
She smiles. “See you there.”
I smile back. “You will.”