The Jerk Who Saved Me: A Romantic Comedy

by Ellie Rowe

  I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the lounger. He mirrors me, ready to receive what I have to say. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s his and my history. Maybe it’s because I want to say it. Whatever the reason, I finally admit out loud, “I think I love her.”

  He considers that. “Yeah. I think you do, too.” He takes an enormous swallow from the bottle, then laughs long and loud at me.

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No, no, come on, man! You kidding me? I think it’s freaking fantastic!”

  “It’s not, though…” I stand and lean on the rail, looking down at the water passing around and under us. “What do I have to offer to a woman like Veronica?”

  “Have you tried offering her this whiskey? Made me fall for you.”

  “She hates my party-boy lifestyle. She hates my playboy image.”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that you were considering giving it all up?”

  “Not to mention I’ve got a bunch of years on her.” I can hear the futility of these excuses even as I offer them. The truth is, I’m afraid of being rejected by her. I’m afraid of being hurt.

  Bruce joins me at the rail. “Brother,” he says, “I ain’t a shrink. But as someone who blew up his life and went on an adventure, let me tell you this: you never regret it. Fame and money, they aren’t real. They’re out there somewhere.” He waves vaguely into the ether. “They’ll betray you the minute they get the chance. But life? Real life? And real love? Those will get you out of bed in the morning and keep you in pants.”

  “Thus saith the King?”

  “You’re fucking-A right.”

  “I dunno…” I turn back to look at the yacht. I think of the party that was raging here just a few days ago. “After so long being unchallenged through Michelin Star dinner dates with classy starlets, and one night stands with less classy starlets… Am I even ready to settle down with someone like Veronica?”

  That makes Bruce unleash his loudest, most boisterous succession of guffaws of the night.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”

  It takes a while, but he finally catches his breath. Leaning on the boat rail for support, he gestures with the bottle in his hand. This gesture seems to encompass the boat, the ocean, me, him, and all the adventures of the past few days.

  “Buddy,” he says, tears of merriment still in his eyes, “you call this settling down?”

  Thirty-Five

  Veronica

  “What?” I slap my hand over my mouth and pray I didn’t blow my cover. But my heart is hammering so loudly in my chest I may be found out anyway. I can still hear Bruce laughing, Hank seems to be chuckling with him. Oh, thank Christ.

  I remove my shoulders from my ears and try to relax. But I can’t. I can’t believe what I just heard, that Hank…that he… and me. I just came up for some air and to see what they were up to! Little did I know.

  And what now? Should I confront him? That feels like a terrible idea. What would I say? ‘A-hah I caught you being emotionally available and saying you’ve developed feelings for me!’ Swell. Now what?

  What’s worse, if I confront him now, he might ask me how I feel. This is far too much to deal with. I’m still coming down from my orgasmic high, and this is way above my paygrade. I cartoon sneak my way around the deck, listening for any sign I have been discovered.

  There’s lots of glass clinking and laughing so I feel safe enough to bolt around the side of the steps and scamper down the stairs. I feel like I’m in trouble, like I was almost caught stealing from the emotional eavesdropping cookie jar. Will I ever walk around this yacht without severe anxiety?

  I make a beeline for the suite and creak open the door (as if they could hear it from above deck). Squeaking it shut, I throw myself on the bed like a hopeless heroine and grab one of the goose-feather pillows to scream into.

  It’s not an angry scream, it’s more of a giddy scream to be honest. Hank loves me. Hank’s fallen for me. And fuck me if I don’t love him right back. After everything we’ve been through, he’s been at my side.

  So, what is this twisting feeling in my gut? Am I worried he was lying? Or that I’m not good enough, that I’m too old, too independent, that I’ll ruin things like my marriage? No. Full stop. Ross Yeats ruined that relationship.

  It’s all the subsequent ones that have been my doing. Or my undoing, rather. But this is different. This is Hank. My Hank. And if I love him (oh God) and he loves me (cue swarm of butterflies), what’s the problem?

  I need to make a list. Okay, maybe that makes me sound anal or whatever but I’m a writer damnit! And a virgo! If I write it all down and it’s staring me in the face, maybe I can sort through everything I’m feeling.

  I rummage around through the bedside tables and find a notepad. That’ll do. Clicking my pen, I snuggle into the luxurious bedspread to jot down my thoughts. It’s always been how I’ve processed things, and maybe at the end of it I’ll have an equally honest confession to give him.

  Mine will be well thought out, beautifully written and edited multiple times but it’s still honest. Just prettier. I write for a half hour or so and by the end of three pages I’m starting to see things clearer. Holy shit, I really do love him.

  Feeling a little giddy (and a little fucking crazy) I need a change of pace. It’s too dangerous to go onto the deck, not with all these goddamn feelings, so I settle for a shower. That porcelain has never done me wrong before.

  The first spray of hot water goes to work on my troubled thoughts. Oh yes. This is the kind of luxury a gal could get used to. And it’s exactly what I needed to calm me down. I take my time to lather, and test all of the different spray options on the showerhead.

  There are many. I’ve yet to attempt masturbating with the detachable shower head but before I get off this boat, I may have to give it a shot. Can’t imagine Hank would enjoy knowing I had fun without him. He seems to quite enjoy being the bearer of good things.

  The butterflies are back, reminding me of everything we’ve been through together. Hank makes love to me. We fuck too, don’t get me wrong, but when I need him to, he is completely and totally there with me, moving with me and finding every part of my body capable of feeling pleasure.

  Lord I’ve gotta get out of here before I really do have a date with that shower head. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. Water bill be damned. I wrap myself up in a big fluffy towel and rake my fingers through my hair.

  I think another page or two of writing should get me to where I can actually tell him how I feel. I can’t believe normal people can just say what they mean when they want to say it. Psychos.

  I throw open the door to find Hank. Drunk Hank. Standing on the side of the bed with my notepad in his hands. His nose has an unusual pink and the smell of good whiskey is like a cloud around him. He’s swaying a little.

  I already hate seeing him like this. It reminds me of something I worked hard to forget. It’s hard to look all cool and in control when you’re bracing your knees against the bed to make sure you stand up straight. Maybe I should’ve stuck with the showerhead after all.

  What bothers me more is the look on his face. He looks pissed. Like ‘veronica-just-tried-to-radio-for-help-and-almost-got-us-killed’ pissed. Why is he so pissed, and why the fuck is he holding my private notepad!

  “What’s this,” Hank asks me, his voice boiling in anger.

  “It’s the Mormon Bible.” I say dryly, and he is not amused. I sigh, “it’s just a notepad Hank. Just some things I was thinking about.”

  “You listened to me!” He accuses, his eyes red. “You snuck around and listened to me, without my permission?” Normally I wouldn’t have a chance at getting a hit off on Hank, but he’s wobbly. I’ll bet I could land an excellent smack right in that reddened nose.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even but thoroughly failing. “I happened to be coming up on deck, that’s not a crime is
it? You on the other hand, are clearly reading something that isn’t yours to look at!” I’m clinging to my towel like a stress ball, the fury raging up in me.

  “This is my notepad, sweetheart! See here, it’s got my monogram riiiight on it. What do you think you were doing listening to me at a time like that!” Hank snaps at me. It hurts so much I want to crumple. I know he’s drunk, I know he’s afraid and insecure but this hurts.

  “You think you can just waltz in here and listen in on my private conversations? Those words weren’t meant for you to hear! An’ this is my goddamn yacht!” Hank says defiantly, chucking the notepad on the bed. Something shifts inside of me.

  “Of course, Hank. You own everything on this fucking rich ass excuse-for-a-personality boat! You own the notepad, the pen, the deck that I’m apparently not allowed to walk on without a check in from you!” The tears are stinging my eyes and I don’t even really know what I’m saying anymore, but I charge on.

  “And you can own all that Hank and you can tell yourself that makes you important but you don’t own me Hank, you don’t own me or my feelings or my heart and you never fucking will!”

  We both look at each other, shocked for a moment by what we said. I’m the first to move, I’m the sober one anyway. I grab my clothes in a huff and turn to face him at the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He asks as he stumbles around the bed.

  “I can’t even bear to look at you right now. I’m sleeping someplace else. Enjoy your suite asshole.” With that I stomp outside and slam the door shut as loud as possible. It was tricky work considering I had an armful of clothes, was trying to keep my towel up and slam the door with a passion.

  I stomp my way down the hall and around the corner. There are so many rooms to choose but I don’t have the time or brain space to care. I just want to get behind a closed door before he comes barging out and after me. If he even cares enough to come after me, I think with my teeth clenched.

  I throw myself behind one of the doors and into a smaller room. I lock myself in for good measure and slump on the side of the bed, hugging my knees close to me. With no one to be strong for, I put my head in my hands and I cry. I know, pathetic right? But, dammit, I’ve earned it.

  My head is spinning. I can’t keep doing this. This whiplash of emotion, first I think I’m about to confess my feelings to this man, this amazing man who’s saved my life on several occasions…only to be here. Crying. Alone.

  It’s been all of five minutes and I’m already filled with regret. If Hank shows up now…I’d let him in. With open arms. I’d walk everything back to fix whatever we just broke.

  Thirty-Six

  Hank

  Oof.

  I wake up with a head that feels like it weighs a million pounds and a mouth full of cotton balls. Just opening my eyelids takes a goddamn monumental act of will-power and strength.

  How many bottles of that whiskey did Bruce and I go through? I do some fuzzy math in my head. I come up with a number somewhere around ‘a lot’, plus or minus ‘a shit-ton’.

  Everyone knows the quickest way out of a hangover is a little ‘hair of the dog’. In my travels, however, I have discovered another and much more enjoyable remedy. So I roll over in bed to see if I can nuzzle Veronica into administering a little TLC…

  Only she’s not there. Her side of the bed isn’t even warm.

  Shower?

  No. Nothing but quiet coming from the bathroom. I wrack my brain, which again takes an almost superhuman amount of strength given the hurt I’m feeling. Something starts to come back to me…

  Oh shit. Right. We had a real knock-down, drag out fight last night, didn’t we?

  Very little of what was actually said is clear to me. I remember her notepad. I remember being angry at her for eavesdropping. I remember her being mad about the notepad. I remember both of us being furious over the sneaky way we found out that we were both secretly in love with each other.

  Wait, the now-sober-me asks the memory of drunk-me, is that really what we fought about?

  What, drunk-me retorts, you thought we’d get shit-faced and have a fight that makes sense?

  Love and whiskey. What could go wrong?

  After a hot shower I start to feel a little bit more like a living human being. A few more pieces of the argument from last night fall into place, as well. It got pretty heated. Pretty mean. We said some shitty things. How much of it can we walk back?

  Well, if there’s one thing every actor gets good at, it’s being resilient in the face of adversity. You don’t survive long in a career filled with rejection and bad reviews without knowing how to push ahead.

  Besides, I’m a charming devil. There’s very few people capable of staying mad at me for long.

  I look for Veronica in all the cabins. Before knocking on every door, I mentally rehearse my apology. Every room is empty, though. She’s nowhere to be found. A bit of panic creeps into me. It also occurs to me that Veronica is just crazy enough to abandon ship. Steal a dinghy and try to make it home by herself.

  Rushing up the stairs to the deck turns out to be a mistake. I have to pause a moment while my stomach rights itself. My eyes have to do their own gymnastics, because the sun is way too fucking bright. I take a deep breath of sea air, trying to get myself functioning properly.

  “Hank!”

  Bruce is way too loud for my hangover-addled head. He’s also way too chipper for someone who had at least as much whiskey to drink last night as I did. Although, he has been subsisting on that island-swill for years. Must have a hell of a tolerance by now. Lucky bastard.

  He wanders over to me, a mug of coffee in one hand and some toast in the other. He’s found a bathing suit somewhere and is gleaming with tanning oil. “Bro, I don’t know what you did last night,” he says, mouth full of toast, “but you’ve got to fix it. Pronto, ya get me?”

  Ooooh, boy. Things might be worse than I thought. “What did she say to you?”

  “Say to me? She didn’t have to say anything to me. The way she’s acting says plenty. What happened?”

  “It’s a little fuzzy, but I think ‘idiocy’ happened,” I say.

  “Ohh,” Bruce says knowingly, “you were being yourself again, huh?” He guffaws loudly. It sets off an avalanche of aches in my brain. “Well,” he goes on, “you better go take your lumps.”

  I manage a nod. In need of some aid, I steal his coffee cup from him, down most of it in a few swallows. The burns it leaves going down my throat feel like a penance. Coffee’s not exactly ‘liquid courage’, but I’m hoping the caffeine gives me some clarity.

  Without another word to Bruce, I wander the deck until I find Veronica. She’s at the bow of the boat, staring into the water. I give myself a moment just to contemplate her. The emotion I feel looking at her urges me to do what must be done.

  Namely, fix this at all costs.

  I rehearse my apology one more time. Then I carefully walk up beside her. “Hey.”

  Her silence is stony. The anger radiating from her is strong enough to sink this ship if she wanted it to.

  I proceed with caution. “So, I think I fucked up last night, and I want you to know I’m sor—”

  “Save it.” Her voice has a tone I’ve never heard from her before. It sends a cold chill through my veins.

  I clear my throat and try again. “I know that I hurt you—”

  “Hurt me? No, Hank. You didn’t.”

  “I… I didn’t?” Wait. Can’t be that easy.

  It isn’t. “You helped me. Really, I should thank you.” She finally looks at me. But there’s not a shred of gratitude in her voice or her eyes. “You saved me from fucking up my life for a second time.”

  “Please, let me –”

  “You were out of line last night.”

  “I know.”

  “And when you came at me like that, drunk, angry, paranoid. Accusing me of things…”

  “I mean, you were eavesdropping on me –” I mumble, realiz
ing even as I say it that I’m not helping my cause.

  “You reminded me of how badly my ex-husband used to treat me.”

  It’s like a dagger between my ribs. Very few things hurt as much as when a woman you love accuses you not just of being an asshole, but of being the same kind of asshole as the asshole she just left.

  I have no response, so she continues. “When I left him, I vowed I would never let that happen again.”

  “Veronica… I’m sorry.”

  “No, Hank. Don’t apologize. Look at this boat. You’ve got a good life. Rich. Famous. Carefree. All the young pussy you can handle. You don’t need me in your life. And the truth is, I don’t need you in mine. We both know it. It’s stupid for either one of us to pretend otherwise.”

  Wow. I’ve had some kiss-offs in my time. None have burned like this one.

  Then she twists the dagger, adding, “Good thing is, you’ve got the makings of a great movie and I’ve got one hell of an article.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond. Just turns and walks away. I watch her go. She disappears below decks.

  I catch sight of Bruce, who was clearly spying on us, because he gives a little start and slips around to the stern, out of sight. I can’t be mad at him. All my anger, I focus on myself.

  Suddenly, it feels like I can’t breathe. My chest constricts. My throat closes up. Either I’m having some sort of allergic reaction or…

  Or my heart is breaking.

  Huh. I’ve been in a few movies where I played a guy who gets his heart broken. Thought I gave a couple good performances.

  What I’m feeling now makes me realize what a hack-job I did in those parts. This is like my heart is shattering inside my body and heavy chunks of it are smashing down on my stomach. It literally fucking hurts.

  I look at my yacht. The symbol of my lifestyle, which she had to bring up once again. What the fuck. It’s like every time I try to get close to this woman she throws my partying in my face. Is it my fault that I’ve been successful? Am I supposed to apologize for that?