chapter five
Holy shit! Maybe he could be Ralph Lauren billboard material.
The grumpy Gargamel certainly does clean up impeccably well: a crisp white shirt with navy buttons and stitching, collar up, cuffs rolled to his biceps, charcoal pants hugging his thighs and ass. I’m tempted to glance back for a second look but hurry to the cabin instead.
Freshly showered in reasonable time, I smooth my dress down my thighs while waiting in line outside the main dining room, then I stretch onto my tiptoes, trying to spot him.
When he said he’d see me here, I assumed he’d wait for me and we would eat dinner together, get to know one another better, and then go over some more rules and boundaries.
But maybe I got the wrong idea. Maybe he meant we’d see each other in passing, or maybe he only informed me of the sailaway dinner on the off chance I didn’t know about it, which, strangely enough, I did not.
When it comes to preparation, I’m methodical.
Diligent. I have an annual subscription to Daily Planner, and I’m a seasoned color-coder and annotator, so I’m mystified at how I missed this “unmissable” event.
Then again, my plan for the next eighteen days is to simply eat when I’m hungry and to order room service here and there.
Mealtimes are never a priority, because I seldom have time.
Eating is always an afterthought really.
Scanning the line again, I give up my search. The guy is certainly polarizing. Hot and cold. Engaging one minute, stand-offish the next. So I guess it’s no surprise he’s ditched me to eat alone… or with someone else.
He’s also grossly untidy.
When I returned to the room to get ready for dinner, his clothes and towel were on the floor, and the toilet seat was up.
I slammed it down and then refolded a towel he rolled into a ball and had thrown into the sink as if it were a laundry hamper.
And then I found my blouse tossed onto my bed, which sent my blood boiling…
until I went to hang it back up, only to find I’d unintentionally taken up most of the hanging space.
Oops! My bad.
Most guys don’t need the space women do, but perhaps I’d been wrong about that as well.
What am I doing here, alone, waiting in a line for dinner I don’t particularly want to eat?
Contemplating leaving and grabbing a quick bite from the buffet on my way back to the room, I inch out of the line when the couple in front of me are escorted into the dining room.
“Next please,” the hostess says, waving me toward her.
I perform an impromptu what-do-I-do tap dance before abandoning my escape and shuffling forward.
“Hello, ma’am. Welcome. May I have your room number?” she asks.
“Uh, yes. Of course. It’s 10143.”
She scans her computer. “Ms. Wilson?”
“That’s me.”
As I’m about to say, “Table for one, please,” she collects a leather-bound menu and cradles it to her chest. “You’re the last to arrive. Please follow me.”
Last?
I look at my watch; I’m not even late. I’m never late. And if I’m last to arrive, who’s first, second, third, and….
Wait! Does she mean I’m the last diner for the session? Oh goodness, how embarrassing.
“I’m sorry I’m last,” I say, scurrying behind her and past waiters and waitresses rushing about, carrying trays the size of hula hoops stacked with dishes covered in domes.
We stop and move aside, allowing one of them to pass, his head barely visible above the tower of food he’s so expertly balancing.
She continues walking, so I follow, the clang and clatter of cutlery and crockery playing a culinary melody. Chandeliers sparkle two floors above, while large gold pillars etched with aquatic mythological figures gleam on either side of the room. It’s rather grand, chaotic… and rocky.
Skipping a few steps to avoid landing in a gentleman’s lap, I have no choice but to use the back of his chair to balance myself.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
He chuckles. “Someone hasn’t found her sea legs yet.”
I pull an eek face. “I’m not sure I own a pair.”
“First time cruising?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Just give it a day or two. You’ll find them in no time.”
“I hope you’re right.” I let go of his chair and summon the sheer will to walk with at least a little bit of poise.
No doubt resembling a penguin, I continue to totter, splaying my hands out at my hips while silently cussing myself out for wearing heels.
Five-inch stilettos on a floating structure…. Are you crazy, Riley?
“Here you go, Ms. Wilson,” the hostess announces as she pulls out a chair at a large circular table, numerous strangers seated around it.
I stumble again before bracing myself on another poor gentleman’s chair. “I think there’s been a mista—”
Other Riley stands and takes the hostess’s place.
“Oh! I didn’t see you. Th-Thank you,” I stutter, offering everyone a meek wave.
“Can we order now?” a little girl asks.
I recognize her from the dock, sans her I Love to Cruise tee.
Her mother pats her leg. “Yes, Avery.”
“About time. I’m starved,” her brother grouches, his face buried in his iPhone.
I lower into my seat, and Riley pushes me in before taking his seat next to mine.
“Do you know these people?” I whisper.
“No,” he whispers back.
“So why are we sitting with them?”
“Because, apparently, that’s what sailaway dining is all about… meeting other passengers.”
“Right.” I sit up straighter and pick up my menu. “Hello.”
“Everyone, this is Riley,” Riley says, and I can’t tell if his clipped tone is because he’s as hungry as the kids and I’ve unintentionally made them wait to order, or because we’re “meeting other passengers” he doesn’t want to meet.
Two men sitting opposite us narrow their eyes curiously, one of them flicking his wrist and swirling his finger at us. “You’re both named Riley?”
I glance at my namesake, my lip quirking. “Yes.”
The man grins as if we’re newborn babies and then unfolds his napkin and lays it over his lap. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Hugo, and this is my husband, Immanuel, but you can call him Manny. We’re on our honeymoon.”
“Congratulations,” I offer. “Pleased to meet you both.”
The mother beside me butters a bread roll and slides the plate in front of her daughter. “I’m Kathy. This is my husband, Oscar, and these are our children, Avery and Zachary.”
“Zach,” the boy snipes, his focus still glued to his screen.
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Teenagers.”
I smile as if I understand what teenagers of today are like, but apart from once being a teenager myself, I haven’t the slightest clue. I never owned a phone back then, and I was scarcely ill-mannered toward my mother.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’m eight,” Avery interrupts. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Avery!” Kathy pats her leg again. “Don’t be rude.”
The little girl shoves the bread roll into her mouth and goes back to coloring her picture, practically murdering her crayon as she aggressively mashes it into the paper.
“The name’s Ben, but most people call me Horse, ’cause I’m hung like one,” a boisterous voice says from the other side of Riley.
I lean forward to get a better look at the self-proclaimed Mr. Ed, but he leans back instead and holds out his chubby calloused hand behind Riley’s chair.
Anyone who feels it necessary to discuss the size of their genitals to strangers at a dinner table is certainly not someone I’d normally shake hands with, but I do it anyway, graciously lying when I say, “Nice to meet you.”
“Ditto, love.” He waggles his eyebrows, then rests his arms on the backs of Riley’s and Manny’s chairs. “So where we all from?”
“Jersey,” Hugo says.
Ben snaps his fingers at him. “Yankees or Phillies?”
I cringe; I hate finger snapping with a passion. It’s obnoxious. Georgia does it on the daily, and it grates my nerves.
Hugo hesitates as he says, “Phillies?”, his eyes wide as if his answer could somehow be incorrect.
Riley tips his glass of beer toward him. “Good man.”
“How ’bout you, Ben?” Manny asks, angling his body closer to his husband and away from Ben’s intrusive dangling arm. “Where are you from?”
“Michigan.”
“Tigers?” Riley asks.
“Fucking damn straight.”
Hugo covers his mouth with his hand and dips his head, his eyes bouncing in their sockets.
Unable to bite my tongue, I hiss, “Ben!”
“Yes, love?”
I tilt my head toward the kids, and mouth, “Language.”
His brow pinches before he realizes what he said. “Oops. Sorry, squirts.”
Zach doesn’t bat an eyelid, and neither does Avery. In fact, Kathy and Oscar don’t either, both of them intently studying their menus.
Okaaay, then.
“And how about you two?” Hugo asks Riley and me. “Where are you from?”
We both go to speak at the same time, so I close my mouth and offer my hand for Riley to answer first. “You go.”
“No, ladies before gentlemen.”
Huh. Perhaps he does have manners.
Smiling appreciatively, I place the menu down and lay my napkin across my lap. “I’m from Manhattan.”
“And I’m from Philly,” Riley offers.
Ben scrunches his face. “Long way to go for hook-ups.”
“Oh, we’re not together,” I explain. “We just met. Actually, it’s a funny story.”
Riley scoffs. “I wouldn’t exactly call it funny.”
I let out a mild laugh. “I suppose not.”
“Mom, I’m hungry,” Avery whines.
“Okay, sweetie.” Kathy tuts and waves a waiter down, almost grabbing his shirt as he hurries by. “Can we order? My children are hungry.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am. I’ll be right with you,” he says, graciously flustered.
I offer the waiter my thanks, something Kathy failed to do, before he hurries off again.
The service staff buzzing about remind me of bees, each table a flower they must visit, their duty essential for the enjoyment of others.
I’ve always been fond of bees: such harmonious, unappreciated, hard workers.
“What are you going to have, dear?” Kathy asks her daughter.
“Pizza.”
“Why don’t you try something else?”
“I don’t want anything else. I want pizza.”
“Of course.” She winks. “You can have what you want.”