chapter ten
RILEY
Riles detours us into one of the atrium’s glass elevators, and even though I can see out of it, the confined space still jitters my pansy-ass knees.
“I love these things,” she says, peering down as she presses herself to the glass like a demented starfish.
I stay near the door. “Y-Yeah, they’re cool.”
She lets go of the railing and faces me. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
As she assesses me through the slits of her eyes that are full of suspicion, the turning cogs in her head must click into place as she blurts, “You were serious when we went to Guest Services… about being claustrophobic?”
“I was. Clearly, you weren’t.”
“Of course not. I just didn’t want to be moved to a cabin on deck three.” She dismisses her fib as if it’s irrelevant. “Is your claustrophobia bad?”
“It can be.”
“Why do you keep getting into elevators then?”
“Because my sister told me to.”
Riles steps forward and clasps my forearms, her grip firm but kind.
“What are you doing?” I squeak like I’m going through puberty as she coaxes me forward, my balls bouncing up deep into the pit of my stomach.
“Come closer to the glass.”
Until now, I’ve managed to keep my cool while traveling in the death boxes, rooting myself near the door, focusing on the numbers lighting up, and acting as if I were any other passenger. My dignity has remained intact, my phobia private.
“Nah,” I choke out, trying but failing to remain impassive. “I’m good near the door.”
“You won’t feel so enclosed if you look out into the atrium.” She gently tugs my arms, her smoky-gray eyes encouraging and without judgment.
I go to back away, but I’m fucking cornered.
“Trust me,” she says. “I promise.”
Unable to escape, I let her lead me to the glass while stupidly sucking in a breath and inhaling her please-lick-me perfume. My head swims, my knees unlock, and I nearly fucking collapse.
“Is this helping?” she asks.
Hell no!
“S-Sure,” I stutter, willing the damn elevator to stop so I can get the hell out.
“See?” She gestures to the atrium, her chest rising as she inhales. “There’s no walls closing in on you. Breathe, Riley. Embrace the vast space.”
I do as I’m told, breathing in and out, my balls the size of acorns.
“Phobias are awful. Trust me, I know. I’m equinophobic.”
Diverting my gaze from her breasts, which are providing a better distraction than the vast space I’m supposed to be embracing, I choke out, “What’s that?”
“Fear of—” She pauses and smiles the kind of cheeky smile Poppy is exceptionally good at. “—horses.”
Laughter leaves my throat in a whoosh, and for the slightest moment, I forget where I am.
“Kidding. I love horses. Just not the ones named Ben.” She winks at me when the doors open, then pats my back as if I’m a kindergartner who refrained from pissing his pants. “You did good.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, attempting to stride confidently out of the glass prison.
“Hey! Don’t downplay it. I’m being sincere. You did good. Phobias are silent stranglers. An invisible noose.”
I scoff. “I rode an elevator up six floors, Riles. That’s hardly good.”
“Nonsense. You’re facing your fear, which is more than I can say for myself.”
Curious about what she’s afraid of, apart from the ship setting sail and leaving her behind, I ask, “How so?”
“I might not be equinophobic, but I am chronomentrophic.”
Chrono-whatever-she-just-said isn’t something I’ve heard of before, so I scratch my head.
“Fear of clocks,” she explains.
Clocks? What’s so scary about clocks?
We enter The Grill, and Riles scans the menu on the board as if she didn’t just admit a timepiece terrifies her.
“Clocks?” I probe, trying not to laugh, because she didn’t laugh at me.
“Yeah. But not all clocks. Just the ones that tick loudly. It’s as if they’re a bomb ready to detonate. It scares the bejesus out of me.”
My favorite childhood book springs to mind. “Perhaps I should call you Captain Hook, then?”
Her head slowly turns in my direction, exorcist style, her eyes narrowing menacingly. “Please don’t.”
I raise my hands. “I’m joking. I wouldn’t.”
“Good. Because if you do, next time we’re in an elevator together, I’ll hit the Stop button.”
Every nerve ending in my body sparks with dread, mostly because of the don’t-fucking-mess-with-me look on her face.
But the thought of being in an elevator with Riles again, provided it’s moving and made of glass, doesn’t petrify me as much as it should.
In fact, I can think of a few things to do as a distraction.
“Riley!”
Blinking, I meet her eyes. “What?”
“I said, what are you having?” She gestures to the waiting server behind the counter.
“Uh…” I rub my beard. “Double beef, double cheese, L-T-M, fried onions, and barbeque sauce. Fries on the side. And a Bud.”
“Ooh, me too.” She spins back to face the guy. “Sorry, can I have that instead? But no Bud. I’ll stick with my Pepsi.”
“Certainly. Coming right up.”
We wait a few minutes before our burgers are ready, and then we head outside to the deck, finding a free table in the corner by a window.
“This is a great spot,” she says, setting down her plate and soda. “No wind. No kids.”
I take a seat opposite her. “You don’t like kids?”
“No, I do. I just prefer to eat my dinner away from their splashing. I think I drank chlorine with my Cosmo yesterday.” She takes a sip of her drink. “How ’bout you? Do you like kids… when you’re not drugging them?”
A passing passenger almost trips and performs a double-take at me.
Riles smirks.
I smirk back. “Yeah, I do.”
She awkwardly lifts her burger—which is almost as big as her head—and assesses it, ready for a bite. “Do you and your partner have any?”
My throat goes dry, so I pick up my beer and take a long swig, mentally calming myself to say, “No. I’m single.”
Her enthusiastic munching stops, and she mumbles, “But you said—”
“I didn’t say I was or wasn’t.”
“Wait!” She swallows, sauce dripping onto her chin. “So you don’t have a partner?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I’m getting a divorce.”
“Oh.” She dips her head and takes another bite. “I’m sorry.”
I dunk a fry in ketchup and pop it into my mouth. “I’m not.”
Riles doesn’t insist I elaborate, even though I can tell she’s itching to by how her eyes—swimming with the reflection of the water in the pool—bounce back and forth. But she doesn’t request further information, and I appreciate it.
Everyone I know knows the truth. The pastor.
The coffee shop owner. The local handyman.
Every damn person in Buxtonville. They know about Krystal and Finn, about Imogen and how neither of us recovered from losing her.
They know everything. All I want is a conversation with someone who isn’t aware of the deepest, saddest parts of me.
And I finally have that.
She takes another sip of her soda, and the sauce on her chin glares at me like a beacon. I have the overwhelming urge to wipe it off for her, so I go to reach out when she collects her napkin, presses it to her mouth, and hums, “Yum. You chose good.”
I chuckle. “I can see that.”
“Don’t judge me. I’m starving.”
“How can you be starving? There’s an endless supply of food on this ship.”
“I know! But all I’ve eaten today is that bagel I had at breakfast. Oh, and a juice.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.” She swishes her hand at me. “I was too busy seeing all the things I wanted to see in Halifax.”
“And you forgot to eat?”
She shrugs. “I’m used to it. Happens all the time. As long as I get my coffee first thing in the morning, I’m fine.”
For as long as I can remember, Mom made it her priority to make sure Roni and I had a hearty breakfast and ended our day with an even heartier dinner.
“A full belly leads to a full day and a good night’s rest, kids. Eat well, live well,” she often said while placing home-cooked meals on the table. So hearing Riles “forgets” to eat as if it’s perfectly acceptable churns my well-nourished stomach.
“You shouldn’t skip meals,” I remark.
Her brow bunches. “It’s not like I do it on purpose. Most days, I grab something on the run. Other days, I’m too preoccupied. Like today.”
“Food is important.”
She steeples her fingers, one solitary eyebrow hiked. “Are you saying I’m too thin? Because thin-shaming is as bad as fat-shaming.”
“I’m not body-shaming you, Riles. Your body is perfect.”
Her cheeks flush pink, her jaw dropping just slightly before she snaps it shut and awkwardly rubs her neck.
Enjoying my ability to make her blush, I control the satisfaction that wants to burst onto my face and continue speaking so she understands what I am trying to say. “Food is fuel, and we need fuel to function.”
“Ahh…” She pops a fry into her mouth. “You’re one of those fitness-freak types, aren’t you?”
This time, my eyebrow hikes. “Are you fitness-shaming me?”
She giggles. “No. Clearly, it’s working for you.”
Stretching back, I think I fucking blush too, so I look out at the ocean, the sky dotted with orange clouds, the water beneath it a rippled mirror. Canada, as big and beautiful as she is, sits as a blip on the horizon. And for the next day, there will be nothing but sea and sky.
“So you’re a fitness junkie?” she probes.
I shake my head. “No. I just look after myself.”
“Well, believe it or not, I look after myself too.”
I’m not sure I believe her, especially if nutrition is an afterthought for her, so when I don’t agree or argue back, she takes another monstrous bite of her burger and grins sarcastically at me, lettuce and beef poking out from between her teeth.
I laugh.
“Did you grow up in Philly?” she mumbles.
“Yeah. Born and bred.”
“Does Veronica and Poppy live there too?”
“They do. They live with Mom, two streets away.”
“And your dad?”
“He passed away years ago.”
Riles chokes, so I stand, ready to pat her back.
“I’m good,” she coughs out, raising her hand.
I retake my seat and slide her soda closer to her.