After slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops, I lunge for the door and throw it open, half expecting to see Leah on the other side. The hallway in front of our room is empty, though, except for the cleaning lady with her cart that’s blocking most of the hallway. My face burns again. The cleaning lady is going to see that guy in my room and know what happened. Everyone is going to know what happened.
Distressed at how badly my day is going so far (Ha! That’s the understatement of the year!), I pivot on my heel and head down the hallway in the opposite direction...not sure where it’s going to lead me. But heck, can’t be worse than staying in a tiny cabin with a strange guy I just slept with. And ultimately dealing with my best friend who let me do it in the first place.
Today I know how to find my way out to the boat deck and I do just that. As fast as humanly possible, brushing by tons of other passengers in the hallway, and trying not to cry.
Still, the tears sting at my face as I step out onto the deck. Instead of the blast of icy air that I am expecting, warm sunlight hits my face. My eyes widen in amazement—the landscape surrounding the ship is stunning—crystal blue waters gently lapping at the side of the boat, palm trees gently swaying on a white sandy beach in the distance.
I step slowly toward the railing, all signs of my hangover from hell (and nervous breakdown) completely disappearing. This view is the cure for all that ails you apparently.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, feeling the glorious sun on my oh-so-pale skin. The sound of the waves soothes me, lulling me into a state of calm and peace I have not experienced in ages—certainly not this morning. All the muscles in my body seem to relax and I find my arms opening to the sky. My facial muscles go slack, my mouth hangs open. I must be quite the spectacle because I suddenly hear a voice behind me say, “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
My eyes snap open and I stand up straight, craning my neck to see who is speaking to me. I spin in vain—the sun is so bright out here that everyone on the deck has halos around them. I shield my eyes from the blinding rays and discover a waiter standing in front of me with a pad, ready to take my order.
“Cocktail?”
I am about to nod and give him my drink order when I recall the state in which I woke up this morning. I know I’m on vacation, but it appears that alcohol has not been my friend on this particular trip. It’s single handedly been responsible for quite possibly the worst mistake I’ve ever made in my life.
“No, thank you,” I reply firmly. If I’m going to get through this trip without making any more dumb mistakes, I’m going to have to do it without alcohol. He shrugs and walks away.
I settle down on the nearest lounge chair and stare off at the approaching land. The once quiet deck is now bustling with activity, everyone emerging from their rooms, blinking at the brilliant sun, like hibernating bears after the winter months. Caribbean music is being piped in through the sound system on the deck, the warm breeze rippling through my tangled rat’s nest of hair.
The pool is off to my right—a moment ago it was empty—now it’s teeming with dozens of scantily clad women in bikinis. If I’m not mistaken, they’re the same women that were complaining the yesterday about the freezing cold air. I wonder if they’ve been camped out in the lobby for two days, waiting to emerge the second that it was warm enough.
That thought amuses me, a chuckle escaping from my lips involuntarily. I quickly glance around, hoping nobody heard me laughing to myself, thinking that I’m nuts. I find that no one is paying attention to me, thank goodness. They’re all splashing in the pool and laughing and dancing, too busy slurping their drinks and waving them in the air to notice me.
The sun is getting warmer, relaxing me completely. Before I know what’s happening, I’m fast asleep on the chair.
Until I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Care for a drink, ma’am?”
I glance to my right, startled. There’s another waiter standing there, ready to take my drink order. “No thank you,” I tell him sweetly. I feel a trickle of drool down my chin.
Oh no! How long was I asleep? Was I drooling?
“You sure? You look lonely without a cocktail,” he insists with a wink.
Geez, can’t a woman stay sober on a cruise? Don’t they lose money the more their passengers drink? Why are they pushing this? They must want to see me get drunk, lose my mind, and act like a fool!
“I’m fine. Really,” I insist, trying nonchalantly to wipe away the drool.
The waiter shrugs and turns to the woman sitting on the lounger next to mine. She happily orders not one, but two cocktails. A Pina Colada and a Mojito. Both sound delicious. And definitely appropriate cocktails to enjoy with the beautiful scenery that surrounds us. Within two minutes the waiter has delivered her drinks and she sips away in complete bliss.
Maybe just a small drink, I think to myself. The next waiter that asks me for a drink order, I’ll tell him that I would like a Pina Colada. Just a tiny one. It’s a crime to be in such a beautiful place without a Pina Colada, right? After all, I’m on vacation. I’m meant to enjoy this...I will just have to limit myself to one drink. That way, I won’t get out of hand, I won’t do anything stupid, I won’t—
“Excuse me.” I feel a tap on my shoulder. Ah, another waiter already. Excellent.
“Yes, I’d like—” I halt mid-sentence, in complete disbelief. Standing before me is the bartender from my bedroom.
“I hate to bother you, but I saw you sitting here and thought you could use a drink.” He holds up a Cosmo with a grin and a twinkle in his eye. “Unless you’re still hungover.”
“I’m not hungover. I’m fine.” I stare at him, willing him to disappear. I wish I had a magazine or something to turn to, that way he would know to go away.
“Listen, Violet, about last night—”
How does he know my name and I don’t know anything about him?
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, pulling my hoodie over my face. I don’t have my sunglasses perched on top of my head like I usually do. My sunglasses are somewhere inside the cabin. That horrible cabin where I made the biggest mistake of my entire life.
“I think you’ve been mistaken,” he tells me.
Gee, you don’t say?
“I said it’s fine. I’m going to go inside anyway,” I tell him, leaping to my feet.
I rush off through the door to the lobby before he can say another word.
VIOLET
I walk briskly toward the center of the lobby. Before plopping down on the nearest sofa, I glance around to make sure that he hasn’t followed me. D. Romano—the ruiner of my life.
Well, if I’m going to be honest with myself, I’ve ruined my own life. He’s just an opportunist who saw a hurting woman and decided to take advantage of it.
“I need to keep myself out of these situations,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” A man sitting in the wingback chair across from me lowers his paper.
“Sorry.” I wave my hand apologetically. “Just talking to myself.”
“Not a problem,” he says, smiling at me. “Hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look like you’re very upset. Are you okay?” He removes his reading glasses, folds them, and places them on the table next to him. His expression says, Tell me your troubles child. He tilts his head to the side and strokes his chin, observing me like a concerned father or college professor would (not the kind that Leah would sleep with, though).
I am suddenly overwhelmed by this stranger’s concern and kindness. Tears burn my eyes and the next thing I know, they’re rolling down my cheeks, rolling down the front of my hoodie, pooling in the cavern between my neck and my chest. Before I know what’s come over me, I’m sobbing and heaving and hiccuping. The man’s bright blue eyes widen, but he doesn’t run off. He reaches toward the end table and retrieves a tissue from the box. He offers it to me and I nod my appreciation as I accept it from his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” I manage to
say, although I don’t think my jumbled words sound anything like thank you. As I dab at my face, I peek at the man, still sitting, waiting for the crazy lady to explain why she’s on this beautiful vacation with breathtaking scenery, sobbing her heart out like she’s lost her best friend.
Which, maybe I have. I don’t know what part Leah played in this debacle. According to the bartender, it didn’t sound like she did much to keep me from making a mistake. I know how much she hates Richard and would love to stick it to him for the way he treated me the other day…actually, the way he’s been treating me for years.
But to join in? I mean, I don’t know that’s what she really did, but the bartender said she “helped out”. What could that possibly mean? I’m so completely disgusted with everything and everyone—my best friend, the bartender, myself. From this point on, I must manage to control myself, no matter what it takes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” the man asks me.
I shake my head. This poor guy is on vacation. Why would he want to listen to me babbling, and ruin his vacation?
Just then, yet another waiter swoops by. “Can I get either of you a drink?”
The man waves his hand and says, “Nothing for me, thank you. Perhaps the lady would like a drink though.”
The waiter turns to me and stares expectantly, waiting for me to answer. This is ridiculous! I can’t get away from these drink pushers!
“No!” I snap, and find myself dissolving once more into a fit of tears—tears so abundant that I can’t even see now.
“Is she okay?” I hear the waiter ask my companion.
“Not sure,” the man replies. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of it myself.”
“I hope it’s nothing I said,” the waiter says.
“I’m sure it’s not,” the man tells him. “She was upset before you got here. Maybe a cup of tea would help.”
The waiter sweeps away and next thing I know, the man is offering me more tissues.
“Thanks,” I say again, taking them from his outstretched hand. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose without any shame. I mean, I’m never going to make a good impression on this guy (not that I want to anyway), so what does it matter at this point? Boogers and tears are all he’s getting.
“You look like you’re having a rough day,” he observes.
“Ha,” I scoff. “I think I’m having a rough life.”
Then I quickly realize, I know nothing about this man—he could have a horrible life, one that I couldn’t even imagine, one that definitely doesn’t compare to the fact I stupidly cheated on my husband because I was too drunk to stop myself.
I wave my hand in front of my face dismissively. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean I have a terrible life. I’m just going through a difficult patch right now.” I offer him a smile so he can see that I am absolutely fine and I don’t need his pity at all. He can go back to reading his paper, or better yet, go find some single, divorced woman to chat up.
“I think we all can relate to that on this boat,” he tells me with a charming grin. He drapes his arm over the back of his chair. “Tell me about it.”
“I would hate to bore you,” I say with an uncomfortable laugh. What kind of sadist wants to hear a stranger’s sob story?
“I’m a novelist. I’m never bored. Other people’s life stories fascinate me,” the man tells me, as if he can read my thoughts.
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t find anything that interesting in my life. Dull, dull, dull. Nothing to sell books there.”
His expression morphs from concern to horror. “Oh no, I’m sorry if you misunderstood! I didn’t mean, I’m a novelist, like I’m going to sneak off and write about you. I just meant it by way of an introduction.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Usually I introduce myself with my name...not hi, I’m a speech therapist.”
“You’re a speech therapist? That’s super! I worked with a speech therapist on my last novel. It was about a woman with dementia and the man she loved coming to visit her in a nursing home.”
Now I’m really suspicious. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Nicholas Sparks, would it?”
He laughs, throwing back his head so I can see his gleaming white, perfectly straight teeth. Not a cavity to be seen either—someone had perfect oral hygiene. I bet he even flossed without his dentist reminding him. Or maybe he just has dentures. Actually, that’s probably more likely, given his age.
“Nicholas Sparks? I wish. Or at least, I wish I had his paycheck. Nope, I’m just an unknown author. I self-publish mostly. I have a boring old day job to pay the bills. I’m a psychologist.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I honestly think you should have opened with that for an introduction. I’d be much more inclined to spill my guts to a psychologist than a novelist. You must hear the most incredible stories in your job.” Definitely more interesting than my story, that’s for sure.
He shrugs. “Not really. I usually only hear what people want me to hear. Believe it or not, most people tell me what they think I want to hear. A lot of my patients are pretty miserable people, but they come into my office and try to pretend their lives are perfect for some reason.”
“Well, that’s stupid.”
“I agree. It kind of defeats the whole purpose of therapy. And I seem to suck at dragging things out of people—especially the people who pay money to talk to me. Most of my clients only come to therapy a few times before they quit. They just want meds most of the time and I can’t prescribe them. They never tell me much of anything that I can help them with. I’m more likely to hear interesting stories from people who are just chatting with me in the lobby of a beautiful cruise ship, not talking to me like a psychologist.”
“So it is about interesting stories.”
He leans back and ponders my accusation. “It’s about whatever you want to tell me. I’m here to listen. That’s all. No strings attached. If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen. Maybe I’ll even have an insightful suggestion for you. I’ve got nothing else going on right now. If you don’t want to share, I’ve always got my good old friend The New York Times to keep me busy.” He taps the newspaper for emphasis.
“Thanks,” I say, just as the waiter sets a tray with a steaming mug on the side table next to me.
“What’s this?” I ask while blowing my nose for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour.
“Tea,” the waiter says, glancing at the pile of tissues on the coffee table. “For your cold.” I have forgotten that the man asked him to bring me tea.
“I don’t have a cold!” I call out. He scurries away without acknowledging me. “I just have a rotten best friend who lets me make terrible decisions,” I mumble to myself as I reach for the sugar packet on the tea tray. Maybe a cup of tea would do me good.
With shaking hands, I rip open the sugar packet—white crystals scatter nearly everywhere…except for in my cup. “Dang it.” The coffee table looks clean—it’s probably cleaned fifty times a day. I sweep the stray sugar into my palm and dump it into my cup.
I stir the tea with the spoon that was left on the tray and timidly lift the mug to my lips. It’s hot, but it feels soothing on my cracked and dry lips.
Dang it. I drank way too much last night. I’m never drinking again.
“Well, I wouldn’t have had too much to drink if my stupid best friend hadn’t dragged me on this stupid cruise and then abandoned me to go on a stupid date,” I mutter.
I look up from my tea and notice the guy is surveying me with amusement. “What?” I snap at him. “You’ve never talked to yourself before?”
“Oh no, I have,” the man says with a wave. “I think that talking to yourself is essential for survival. In fact, I’m suspicious of people who don’t talk to themselves. Or at least, people who claim not to talk to themselves.”
“No, I think there are actually people that don’t talk to themselves,” I say and take another sip of the scalding tea. “They don’t have children. Or at least, they don’t have
children that live with them and make them crazy.”
The man laughs nervously. “I don’t have that problem, but I still talk to myself.”
“Lucky you. No kids? Or kids out of the house already?”
His face falls and he drops his head. I realize that I must have insulted him, or brought up a sore subject.
“I’m...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, that’s okay,” he says, lifting his head. “The kids are mostly with my ex. I get them for a week in the summer, but that’s it. My ex-wife moved to Colorado with her new husband. And since she has sole custody of the kids, I couldn’t fight it. I’m a once-a-year dad basically.”
I am horrified. He only gets to see his kids for one week a year? That’s beyond terrible. I couldn’t imagine only getting to see my kids seven measly days out of a three hundred and sixty-five day year.
“I’m sorry. It must be hard.”
The man shrugs. “It is. It’s terrible. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss them. Unfortunately, it’s the price we have to pay for divorce.”
I detect a little bit of bitterness in his voice, but I don’t comment. I just gulp the tea, burning the roof of my mouth while he goes on. “I feel like I’m missing the best parts of their lives, you know?” I nod into my mug of tea. The waiter must have boiled this water on the surface of the sun.
“How old?” I ask.
“They’re only five and seven, so they’re going to forget me in no time. Her new husband is going to raise them, and eventually they’ll start calling him Dad, and I’ll just be like some cool uncle they visit once a year and go fishing with.”
Something about that statement hits me in the solar plexus. I suddenly can imagine being ripped out of my kids’ lives, and being replaced by some bimbo from Richard’s gym. Before I know what’s happening, I burst out into tears. Again.
Best Friends & Other Liars Page 16
