Chapter 22 #3
“They were all beautiful, I’m sure,” I say. “Probably all quite smitten with you too.”
“Who was?”
“All those pretty girls dancing with the charming and mysterious future writer in the cowboy hat.”
“Them? Sure,” he says, and I feel a twinge of heat despite myself. Don’t ask a question if you can’t bear the response. “But
I have a type.”
“Which is what? A penchant for girls in cardigans?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t appreciate a good cardigan. And—”
“The kind who hates spiders?”
“A girl with survival skills. Very attractive.”
“The helpless type high in self-loathing and poor self-esteem?”
His expression becomes puzzled. He pulls back to scan my face fully. “No, not that one. I’ve never met that one. I mean the
brilliant, down-to-earth one who keeps an unruly group of literary fools in line and has a heart too big for her own good
and makes me laugh and has an unnerving ability to break into places.”
“Oh.” I purse my lips. “That one.”
“Yes. That one.”
Nash’s eyes are tender.
He doesn’t pressure, doesn’t pull.
There’s never an urgency with him.
He just . . . waits, perfectly content to just be in this moment.
He has the self-assurance to look at me without wavering, to be confident in who he is and what he wants.
I grit my teeth.
It’s painful.
It actually feels like my heart is ripping apart, longing so much to trust him with my whole person and yet forced to withhold.
On the one hand, to kiss him right here, right now, so hard the chandelier falls, and on the other, to sleep at night with doors locked and both eyes open.
To fall in love with a potential murderer.
But who are we kidding? I fell in love with him a long time ago.
I can’t live like this. I can’t live like the others.
Like Neena beside me. Like Gordon.
How they can stand to drift together in and out, holding each other as partners while also considering each other a murder
suspect . . . one would think it impossible.
The world swirls around them and they look like they’re blissfully in the very center of it. Glittering chandelier overhead.
Dozens of readers in their chiffon and satin, eating and making merry on all sides. Gordon and Neena twirling round and round
in a rhythm of their own.
Gordon.
And Neena.
Cheek to cheek.
Nose to nose.
I slow.
Lean back and take a proper look at the two of them.
Neena’s got her sheer purple scarf wrapped around the pair of them. Gordon’s got his hand around her waist, fingers splayed,
as they move in rhythm. His gaze is so intent on her, well, he looks at her like he looked at the game when he saved the princess
and won the high score. He looks . . . well . . . if I didn’t know better . . . in love himself.
“I’ve always had a weakness for a man in a good hat,” I whisper.
“What?” Nash says, and I pull away, looking into his face.
“Neena said that when we got on the ship our first day. I thought at the time she was talking about the captain, but Gordon. I never imagined . . . Gordon. He was right there all this time.”
I remember the picture clearly. She was looking behind me just as the captain passed. The captain and Gordon wearing hats. I just assumed . . .
Nash follows my eyes toward the pair and together we watch.
“How long do you think it’s been going on?” I say.
“I don’t know,” Nash says. “They didn’t put up a fight when they were bumped from that flight to the German Book Festival.”
“That’s right,” I say, remembering. They volunteered themselves to hop off the overbooked flight like it was nothing. Acting like taking
a 3 a.m. flight was no big deal.
But of course it’s a big deal.
Taking a red-eye is of course a big deal.
“You remember what she said?” I say. “He volunteered to step off the flight and she jumped up a moment later and said, ‘Oh
fine. I’ll go. I wanted a Toblerone bar at the Duty Free anyway.’ Who gives up eight hours for a Toblerone bar?”
“I love Toblerones.”
“Everybody loves Toblerones. They’re delicious. But the point is—” I wave a hand out at the two of them. “Hang on,” I say suddenly, letting go.
I move toward our table.
“You want me to come?” he says.
“You want to stay here and dance alone?”
Together Nash and I make our way back to our table. Nobody notices or says anything, other than the occasional compliment
offered our—mostly his—way.
I slide into Neena’s old chair.
Nash slips down beside me.
“Help me look normal,” I say. “Make conversation. Laugh.”
I glance around. Everybody else is distracted.
Crystal is over by the bar chatting with the bartender.
Jackie’s writing in her notebook, stiffly doing her best to push off a staff member trying to persuade her to dance.
Ricky’s now in the corner reading with the spider climbing up the wall.
I wait for the perfect moment, casting my eyes around the room, then drop my hand below the table.
Neena’s purse.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get off this ship?” I say, all the while carefully unzipping the purple
pleather.
Nash warily assesses my hand digging under the table, while I urge him with my eyes to stay focused on my face. “I’m . . .
uh . . . intending to step on land, grab you, and shoot a thousand miles in the opposite direction of here.”
“Barring you aren’t the murderer, I think that’s an excellent plan.”
“Should we grab a coffee in Barcelona first?”
“Can’t imagine why we wouldn’t.”
“Want to swing by Ireland on the way home?”
“I can be persuaded.”
My fingers tickle against a box of tissues, an unidentified number but seriously way too many tubes of lipstick, a sewing
kit, two books, and a loose deodorant without any top. Then my fingers curl around the capsule and I pull it out.
Got it.
“Are they still preoccupied?” I say, eyes on him.
His eyes dance around while I unscrew the pill bottle. “Yes.”
The bottle is half full, and as I tip it over into my hand, half a dozen pills spill out.
Six round white pills. Unidentified.
I bring them to my nose and sniff.
Then, to Nash’s horror, I pop one in my mouth.
“What are you—?”
I grin.
Pop another one in and ruthlessly clamp it between my teeth.
Everything clicks into place.
Lightning strikes of clues now, and I decide to chase them.
I look over to Jackie, who is scribbling away in her notebook.
Then Ricky, who has somehow guided the spider into a glass.
Crystal, who is over at the bar, bragging to everyone now about one of her life stories.
It’s a classic case.
Hugh’s The Last Detective.
Everybody is guilty, ergo no one is.
“Kiss me,” I say.
“What?” he says. He raises his brow, eyes dancing around for clues, gazing from me, to the pill between my teeth, to the air around
us. “What happened? Why now?”
“Four reasons,” I say. “Because you’re not the killer. Because I love you. Because, I have realized in all this, I love myself.
And you know what? I deserve this. I deserve good things. And lastly, because I’ve read about how smell is uniquely powerful
in triggering vivid and emotional memories, and I for one will be drinking peppermint tea every day to remind me of this.
Exact. Moment.”
Nash’s hands envelop mine. I can see him processing my words with each passing second he gets closer. A light reaches his
eyes. Then a twinkle. Then a smile. “Peppermint kiss, you say?”
I grin. Crack the peppermint in my mouth. “A peppermint kiss,” I repeat.
“That does sound refreshing.” His eyes drift down to my nose, then lips. A smile tugs up his lips and I feel my heart race,
the moment stretching.
I don’t wait.
I can’t.
I don’t have another millisecond of patience in me.
I reach up, grab him by the collar, and pull him toward me. My breath catches as his hands gently cup my cheeks. His thumbs
brush lightly over my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
I draw his lips to mine, brushing lightly. His beard tickles my cheeks. He leans in further, his hands cupped around my face.
My fingers curl into his flannel.
Sparks fly.
Maybe it’s on the outside. Maybe a transformer blew and the chandelier will fall down any moment. Maybe the candles have tipped
over and the tablecloths are on fire. Maybe the world is in absolute chaos and the whole ship is about to go down.
Or maybe it’s all just inside.
But whatever it is, I hold fast to Nash with the same ferocity as he holds fast to me, in the hope of never letting go.
I guess that’s what happens when four years of waiting finally comes to an end.
When we break apart, the room is spinning, the dancers are spinning. My head is spinning. But Nash is still right here. His
head bent over mine. Forehead to forehead. So close our noses graze.
“I love you, Pip,” he whispers in a peppermint haze.
“I love you too,” I whisper back.
I bite my bottom lip.
Inhale one more breath of this incredible moment.
Then stand. “Be right back,” I say.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Nash says as I begin to stride off.
“To find the last clue and see if I’m right,” I say and begin running. Over my shoulder I cry, “And if I am, to kill somebody
myself.”