He’d want to go to breakfast, hopefully not the buffet, and of course there would be people; she did not want to deal with people; just the sound of somebody’s voice would’ve been too much right now. But there was no avoiding it. She was trapped. “Bingo!”
That was it. She wasn’t going to listen to this any longer, and she wasn’t leaving her room until she was ready. She stood up, her shoulders screaming, and walked into the bathroom. As soon as she closed the door, cutting off the sound of that enraging television program, it was like entering heaven.
There was a jacuzzi tub and a television controlled by a waterproof touchscreen, resting on the rim. She could also use it to set the temperature of the water, and the tiny jet streams that massaged her body when she turned the lights off and sank in.
This would be her sanctuary, where she would hide from the rest of the ship until Tim dragged her out by force. She laid her head down and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the water was cold, and the clock on the tablet said that it was three in the afternoon—a perfectly reasonable time to wake up after what she’d been through—at least in her opinion. She expected to be interrupted before then, and she probably was, but she must’ve slept through it.
She stood up, arms folded to the chill, toweled herself off, and pulled a robe off the door, so she could find something to wear. Her morning routine was simple, but when she went out with Tim, she took her time.
She took her makeup palette to the vanity and started working on her face, filling in craters, covering the band of freckles on her nose, the birth mark, near the outer edge of her right eye—little things that mucked up the perfect canvas she preferred.
When she was done, she brushed her dull hair into something resembling an orderly mess. It surrounded her head in a thin bush, which would have taken too much work to perfect.
She was nervous. She slept too long, and Tim was probably upset. Now she had to tell him that she lost her job—before the proposal, of course. If she waited too long, she could sour things and start having to worry about her survival.
She wanted to stall, but when she saw the white rose sitting on the coffee table in the living area, she knew that that would be impossible. He cared about the details. He kept everything simple and easy.
She walked out to go knock on his door. “Tim?”
“Hey, you there?”
No response. “Look, I’m sorry about before I fell asleep and I—ugh,” she groaned, pushed through and went inside. The bed was made. He must have already left to get food.
She went to pull her phone off the charger, expecting at least a good morning. It was blank. He was probably angry. She hadn’t said anything to him since the day before they boarded.
She had to call him, and she was too restless to sit down, so she paced around the living area, phone held to her ear. It rang three times before a voice answered. “Are you Lori?”
She cocked her head, jaw squared. “I’m sorry. I think I have the wrong number.”
She meant to hang up, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was a brief pause, before the voice spoke again. “Did you know?”
The question was more than infuriating. It was worth a vendetta. “No, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am...uh...”
She stopped herself. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she would have liked to. She knew what it felt like to be betrayed, and she wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone—that they were both hurt. Fighting wouldn’t help. She needed to get Tim out of her life. “Do you care?” she woman asked.
“Dear God, yes...I-I’m so sorry.”
“I’m pregnant,” she said, “and we’re married, so if you do care, you will stay away.”
“I-I will. I...”
Lori pulled the phone away from her ear. The screen was flashing. She hung up.
As far as Lori was concerned, that was the conclusion to Tim’s story. She wasn’t going to hear anything from him ever again. She didn’t want to. There was no lingering affection, no need to reach out. She’d trained herself to turn those petty complications off, because it was the only way she could survive.
Anger was safe, and she had a lot to be angry about. When she stepped off this ship, she would be homeless within two weeks unless she found a way to pay her landlord, even sooner if he followed through and predated a notice without her knowledge. She had no money—nothing.
This defined her life’s struggle. Men had been trying to make her a kept woman since she was younger. They meant it, all of them, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to be the center of their affection, their partner, their world.
But, one after the other, the men came, and they all promised her the moon. Then they drove home back to their wives or their girlfriends and told them the same thing. She had to learn early that she had to be strong and keep a part of herself, the part that really mattered, from getting involved in the relationship.
It never worked out. She wasn’t truly appreciated. Their relationship was a malicious lie—something disgusting and shameful. As far as they were concerned, it had no real value—she had no value—other than immediate gratification. When things went bad, if they got caught, or something made them question their lives, they would leave her to do the right thing. Because, apparently, being with her wasn’t the right thing.
This was her curse. Never, not in her entire life, had she been with an honest, loving man, who wanted her—not the idea of her, or revenge or sex—just her. And it was getting pretty difficult for her to believe that she was worthy of that.
She’d taken on so much of the guilt over the years. She was helping to destroy another person by helping the same man that they picked up after, whose children they raised, who they cried over and devoted years to. She knew that pain; she’d felt it; she spent nights by the window, wondering where he was, whether he was with somebody else, or if he even cared about what it was like to wonder. She would rather die—throw herself overboard, and let the sharks shred her to ribbons—than put anyone else through that kind of torment.
But there was something about her. She didn’t know what it was—a way of moving or talking maybe—something that screamed, ‘slut.’ She was what she was, and she couldn’t change it. She tried to keep her distance when she was dating—live independently, refuse money and gifts--anything they could use to make her feel obligated. or force their way into her bubble. Even then, things always turned out the same. It was a part of who she was.
That’s what had her bunching herself up under the covers, fight off thoughts so she could sleep. She didn’t care about Tim, not now that she had found out what he was. She cared about whether or not she could face herself.
That kind of fear could have driven her to addiction, promiscuity, a life of self-destructive behavior. But she wasn’t that kind of person. She didn’t rebel. She wanted to be good; she just didn’t know how.
It became a crippling dread. No place was safe, because wherever she went that beastly quality would follow her. It was a part of her—who she was—and she couldn’t escape it. She didn’t want to breathe, move or even think. She wanted to forget her existence and the world around her—the world that denied her love.
3
It became a matter of necessity. Had Lori been able to do so, she would have put herself in stasis, ceasing all bodily functions that would force her out of bed. But she couldn’t ignore her stomach. She didn’t eat anything at all the day before, except for the bagel she shoved in her mouth on her way to the pier. Now it was well into the next afternoon, and she needed something.
She couldn’t leave, though. Nothing could get her to step out of that suite, not until the trip had ended. She pulled the tablet out of the bathroom and scrolled through the home menu, until she found the room service button. Good, it was there, and wonder of all wonders, everything from the buffet could be delivered directly to her room.
She could gain twenty pounds in peace, and there were so many options—sandwiches,
burgers, salads—all the main, American fare, among other things. But that wasn’t what interested her initially. It was the ice cream bar—a menu of its own, with a backdrop of a scoop of chocolate ice cream plopped into a martini glass. There were six-hundred flavors, three-hundred different toppings, and it was all covered in the cost of her ticket.
They had brownies too, seven types—chocolate, white chocolate, raspberry, macadamia nut, chocolate chip, and the ultimate beast: triple layer fudge a la mode. Those last three words spelled out a world of different possibilities. She could put whatever ice cream she wanted on top.
Then there was House of Lo Mein, where she could choose from sixty different toppings to add to her noodles, which was exactly what she did. She even ordered herself a pack of Newsports, something she hadn’t done in years, because why not? She was on a luxury cruise; indulgent behavior was expected, if not required, and they made it so easy.
She didn’t have to call anybody or see them. She pressed a button, and her cart would be left for her in the living area, along with a complimentary bottle of champagne. When she saw it, she paused. She didn’t want to spend the night crying and worrying about what was going to come, and that was exactly what would happen if she finished that thing; still, a quick glass sounded nice.
She poured herself one, threw out the rest, and took her cigarette back out to the balcony. She’d never been out on the water before. She’d lived next to the ocean her entire life. She swam, she made several attempts at surfing, but she never actually got in a boat and drove out.
It was a disorienting sensation, stepping out into the wind, knowing that the only thing keeping her from falling into the water was a pair of rickety bars. Everything was bolted down, the two lawn chairs, the table, even the ashtrays—except her, and she felt like she could fall off at any second.
She decided, instead, to enjoy her cigarette in the bathroom, using the toilet to flush the fumes every time she blew the smoke out. Her first hit had her clutching the wall for support from lack of oxygen; the second, sitting on the rim of the tub, ready to fall over. Rather than wait through the sickening rush, she decided to get rid of it and enjoy her noodles and ice cream, while she decided what to watch.
It wasn’t anywhere near as fulfilling as she thought it would be, so she ordered another bottle—on-the-house, just like last time, and wound up laying underneath the covers, crying and holding the card she’d found when she went out to get it. It said: I love you. There’s never been anyone else. Come to dinner tonight.
There was a dress too, which she didn’t expect. It was red velvet with what she thought were rhinestones, but they weren’t. They were diamonds, the bodices silk. There was no tag on them, either. They weren’t made for people to pick up in a store. The custom-stitching, the attention to detail, the way the fabric was arranged into the perfect pattern—he must’ve had her measurements sent to a designer. It might as well have been couture.
All for a kept woman, somebody he couldn’t even trust enough to tell that he was married—pregnant too, which meant that he’d been sleeping with her while he—she grabbed the stem of the empty bottle next to her, wailing and threw it at the wall. “FUCK YOU!”
It shattered from the force of the metallic plating behind the wallpaper. Tiny shards spread throughout the room, embedding themselves in the carpet, underneath the bed, in front of the door. Somebody was going to have to clean that up. At least she wouldn’t be the one paying for the damage.
She took a second to breathe and wiped her tears away. She wasn’t this woman. She didn’t cry over anyone, even if it was just because she was angry. She never allowed herself to do that. And Tim, he was the worst. He was sick enough to fool her—the woman who simply could not be fooled.
No, he wasn’t worth this. With a surge of comfortable anger, she picked up the tablet and tapped the button marked ‘Account.’
The screen that popped up was filled with lines of information. She saw his real address at the top, located in the foothills north of the city. That made a lot of sense. He was supposed to be rich, and he’d been pretending to live in a cheap one-bedroom. She thought it was to save money. He wouldn’t be the first rich man she’d met that made ridiculous sacrifices to save money. He must’ve rented it, so he could have a love nest.
His work and cell phone numbers were also there, neither of which she recognized. What she didn’t recognize was the last four digits of his credit card number, marked as an added expense account. It was attached to her room’s key card, and it could be used on every corner of the ship, including their stores. She was tempted to find out whether or not that included the ATMs.
That was too risky. There would be cameras, and he’d probably call the police. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t use the card, though. She could still order things to the room, anything she wanted, in fact, and that would probably prove to be useful later on. But it wasn’t the fulfillment that she was looking for.
This was petty. She wasn’t upset about Tim. What he did was disgusting, but after years of this, she was convinced that it was the nature of the male beast to betray the ones they love. She cried, but of one thing she was certain. It wasn’t because of Tim. It was because she was tired of doing thing. She didn’t know why it kept happening, and she didn’t think she could stop it.
4
The sun shining through the porthole was a hammer and chisel, pounding away at her eye socket, spreading its violent tremor through her head, down her spine and into her limbs. When Lori begrudgingly opened her eyes, she hated herself for what she’d done. There was glass scattered around the room, and an ice cream martini melting on the side of the bed, next to a full pack of cigarettes. They waiting to be drenched. That was the first thing she did.
She ripped the pack off the floor, threw it into the bathroom sink and turned on the water. She had no business buying those things—drinking—for fuck’s sake. She was the designated driver in life. Now she was the drunk puking in back, crying over an idiot that never gave a shit about her. There was nothing to worry about.
There was a bright red, crumpled up opportunity laying on the floor, and it was worth more money than she’d ever seen. It would change her life, get her out of the ghetto, and give her time to find the right job—not this sadistic circuit of diners and burgers and joints—a real job.
But that wouldn’t matter if she couldn’t move past this. She wasn’t going to find love; she was going to have to accept that, and in order to do that, she was going to have to learn to shun it. She couldn’t think of a better place to learn to hate love than a ship full of couples trapped together.
There was an itinerary waiting for her in the living area. She promised herself that she wouldn’t use it. When she told Tim that she would go, he sat down on the phone with her that evening, forcing her to go through a list of what they were calling ‘Relationship Enrichment Courses.’
When she heard those three words, she thought he was throwing her into the seventh circle of hell. Images of crying drama queens and therapists giving ultimatums were enough to make her second guess their journey.
But when she saw the list, it seemed innocuous enough. There were sewing and quilting classes, painting—things that people always wanted to try but never got the chance. Tim had his preferences, and so did she. She wanted to cook. It was the one thing they argued about.
Tim went through the list, trying to convince her to take each class until he found the right one, but it wasn’t cooking. It was ballroom dancing She was furious about that, and he kept insisting on taking yoga.
He had a million fake reasons. He gave her this speech about wanting to be centered, so she suggested meditation. He quickly shifted to worrying about his body. He wanted to be more flexible. She told him a few classes wasn’t going to do anything other than make him sore. He went on a rant about a fake article he read, saying that men who do yoga basically look like Hercules. He even started going through muscle groups and different exercises
. She agreed to go to shut him up, but she knew he wanted to take that class for one reason: so he could women in tight pants bend over.
It was enough to make Lori want to skip breakfast. She hated having to eat what other people made, especially when she was going out. Having worked so long in the industry, she knew the kind of things that happened behind the curtain. There was no consideration for hygiene or quality; appearances mattered at the nicer restaurants; there were standards that had to be followed; even then, a piece of meat dropped on the ground was still usable, so long as the debris was cleaned off, and there was no sign that it had been tarnished.
That was foremost on her mind when she finally opened the door and stepped out of the hall, wearing tight jeans and a loose shirt, with a map in hand. The buffet was two decks down, between a bar and promenade entrance, so servers could feed the beasts laying outside.
She didn’t need the map; everyone she saw seemed to be heading in the same direction. There was line that took up a quarter of the decks, filled with couples holding hands, hissing, arguing, whispering in each other’s ears.
There was a punk near the back, wearing a cheap tank to and a pair of black shorts that hugged his hips. He had earbud in his left ear, while his wife, oblivious to what he was doing, chattered on excitedly. When Lori took her place, he turned to let his eyes slide down her shirt.
She gave him an icy look. “Hey!”
His wife squealed and hit him upside the head. “God, Sherrie, can’t I at least look?”
Standing in front of him, there was a man, orange with hair the color of thick, red wine. He looked like he was in his sixties, and he was wearing a yellow polo and khaki shorts. He turned around with his chest puffed out, and bellowed, “You should be ashamed of yourself. This woman is here because she’s patient enough to deal with you. That can’t be easy.”
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 24
