by Whitney G.
“What else are you supposed to say after that?”
“Hurry up and make me feel good, Big Bear.”
“Yes, that’s it.” He growled. Like a goddamn grizzly. He kissed the back of my neck—moving his tongue in circles, before pushing my head down onto the mattress. He whispered something about taking things slow, and then he began grinding his sweats against my jeans. Like all the other times before that we’d done this, I could only feel a small, hard nub between his legs, and I knew I was going to have another case of jean burn on my ass cheeks when he was finished.
“Babe, I feel like you’re not here in the zone with me,” he whispered into my ear. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.” I faked a moan. “Oh, yeah.”
“Oh yeah, Big Bear.” He corrected me. “Say it louder and growl with me.”
I didn’t respond to that.
He picked up the pace, and I felt my body begging me to do something more fulfilling with my time.
Something like sleep...
“Ohhh yeah,” he said. “Imagine me deep inside of you, slipping inside of your greedy wet sponge.” He grabbed at my breasts like they were detachable, growling even louder than before.
“Ahhh....” He grinded his nub against me a few more times, and then he let me go before flopping onto the bed.
I turned around and noticed that his entire face was coated in sweat as if we’d actually had sex.
What is that stain on the front of his pants? Did he really come after THAT?
I let out a sigh and grabbed a small towel from my bin, handing it to him.
“Was it good for you, Little Bear?” he asked.
I nodded, still refusing to verbally answer to that name.
We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was about to suggest that we grab an espresso from the dining hall, but he cleared his throat.
“Do you love me, Rachel?” he asked.
“What?” I raised my eyebrow. “We just met last semester.”
“So?” He sat up. “I can say with all honesty that I love you.”
“We barely know each other, Tate.”
“Well, that’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you before we arrived at the next port ...” He sat up. “I mean, even though what we just shared on your mattress was magical—just like all the other times, I don’t think you’re my soul, Rachel.”
“You mean your soulmate?”
“No, I mean my soul. Like, the other half of it.” He looked as if he was struggling to find the words. “I feel like you don’t get excited about the things I like anymore.”
I leaned against the wall. “Is that because I’m not always excited about all the dry humping?”
“It’s not dry humping, Rachel.” He looked offended. “It’s preparation for whenever we finally make love. Something I don’t think we’ll ever get to now.”
“Okay, but—” I sighed. “Outside of the preparation for making love, I thought we were on the same page about everything else.” Well, almost everything else.
“Ha!” He snorted. “I’ve written you tons of love notes on post-it paper, and you’ve never responded. Not once.”
“That’s because you write all your notes in Russian.”
“So? If you were truly in love with me, you would learn Russian,” he said. “It’s called Google translate.”
I didn’t bother reminding him that the Russian alphabet looking nothing like the English alphabet and I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“I find it quite telling that instead of you giving me the written devotion I need, you’d rather write letters to your friend Ethan back home.”
“For the umpteenth time, Ethan is not my friend.”
“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s your enemy who you supposedly can’t stand, yet for some reason, you write him letters all the time. Is that right?”
“We haven’t written each other in over three months.”
“And?” He stood up and walked over to my desk—sending envelopes flying everywhere as he yanked the left drawer open.
“Let’s see...” He picked them up one by one. “A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Richard Dawson? Who the hell is Richard Dawson?”
“That’s my dad.” I stood up and snatched that envelope from him.
He continued to pick up the letters, repeatedly saying Ethan’s name until he’d picked up the last one.
“This is over thirty letters, and that’s just during the time we’ve been dating.” He walked over to the bins where I kept all the mail I’d ever received, and then he picked up a few of those envelopes. “I don’t know what type of guy would keep up with your port schedule and send you letters at each one, but if I had a real-life enemy, I wouldn’t send him shit. Also, I need to be the only guy in my girl’s life. If anyone is sending her letters, it needs to be me.”
“It’s not like that, Tate. It’s just—”
“A natural habit.” He finished my sentence. “A natural habit from your childhood because you’ve both communicated like this since you were seven and a half years old, I know.”
“So, you finally understand?”
“Hell no.” He scoffed. “That excuse is utter bullshit.”
I rolled my eyes. I was tempted to tell him to read one of Ethan’s letters so he could see the truth for himself, but the possibility of not having a jean burn on my ass for a few months was looking pretty appealing right now.
“I honestly thought you were going to be the one for me, Rachel,” he said, returning the letters to my drawer. “I hope you find your soul soon, too.” He tried to kiss my forehead, but I stepped back.
“See?” he said, smiling. “You failed the final test. My real soul would’ve begged for forgiveness and a second chance.”
“I’m not begging you for shit.”
“My soul would never be this unapologetic.”
“Please get the hell out of my room, Tate. Now.”
“My soul would never speak to me like that either.” He shook his head. “She would love me enough not to utter a single swear word my way.”
I pointed to the door and waited for him to leave. Then I slammed the door behind him for dramatic effect.
Walking over to my wall-calendar, I wrote the words “break up” in bright blue ink, placing them right in the center of today’s date. This was my umpteenth relationship since boarding this ship, and not a single one of them ever resulted in anything more than an eventual breakup.
In all of my relationships, we only scratched the surface level. We learned enough small facts about each other to feel like we were more than casual strangers, but our foundation was never built on anything stronger. At this point, I’d accepted that all semester-at-sea relationships were a way to pass the time until the next voyage. And I knew that by the time I jumped into my next one, I’d forget all about the one that came before.
I took a seat at my desk and flipped through my latest mail, finding a recent letter from Ethan. I hesitated to open it, wanting to save it for after we returned from next week’s port at South Africa, but I couldn’t resist.
DEAR RACHEL,
My girlfriend was cheating on me. I would say thank you for the heads-up, but I caught them fucking in her living room, so I would’ve found out whether you gave me your unwanted opinion on the situation or not.
Since you brought up my accolades, allow me to correct you on a few things: 1) I was voted Mr. Popular for FOUR years in a row. (I’m the only freshman to ever achieve this feat at Azul Mar High, and I’ve never needed to stuff the ballot box since you’re the only person in the entire school who didn’t vote for me.) 2) My car is a 1968 Alfa Romeo Spider which is the best classic car of all time. (It has to do with the fact that the only thing you’ve ever “driven” is a bike, and you’ve still managed to get into multiple car accidents.) 3) I do run shit on this campus, but seeing as though you’ll be spending your next year of college on a bo
at—again, you’ll never know the truth. (Everyone at this school knows who I am, Rachel. Everyone. It’s time to stop lying to yourself.)
Thank you for the unnecessary advice about my now ex-girlfriend. Then again, I’m not sure I should ever take advice from someone whose boyfriend dry humps her three times a day and makes her call him Daddy Bear. (Or is it Big Bear?)
I tried to send you some itch cream for your chafed ass, but it didn’t clear Japan’s customs. (If you’d like, I can send you and your boyfriend a few porn flicks so you can know what real sex is like.)
Forget You,
Ethan
PS—I’m starting to think that the closest you’ve gotten to sex this year is through the pages of one of your romance books. Is that why you own so many? (If so, allow me to share my latest short love story: Rachel Dawson murmured as Daddy Bear rubbed his cock against her jeans. Moaning louder, she shut her eyes and decided that her life had been absolutely pathetic all the way up until this point, so there was no point in changing it now. THE END)
PSS—Epilogue: She lived happily ever after with her Daddy Bear, and he taught her how to come in her pants, too. ☺
UGH!
I tossed his letter across the room and groaned. I stared at it for several minutes, as if it was going to get up and place itself where it belonged, then I finally picked it up.
With the exception of our most recent correspondence, I kept all of Ethan’s letters in a locked trunk. And whenever my newest shipment of romance books was read from cover to cover, I made time to re-read his letters since he often bragged about how much fun life was on the “real campus.” He’d always had a way with the written word, and I never did understand why he was pursuing a major in business instead of writing. Not that I gave a damn what he did with his life, though.
I reorganized all the envelopes Tate had touched, making sure they were in order by date received, and then I made a new space for them in my trunk.
When I was finished, I took out a new purple envelope and a blank sheet of paper—ready to fire back a response, but the lights in my room flickered, and the ship began to rock.
I don’t need to respond to this since there’s only one port left, and I’m not telling him that I’m coming back for my senior year. It’s not like I’d ever hang out with him on campus anyway.
I moved onto my bed, resisting for all of ten minutes before rolling over and picking up my vibrator...and a romance book.
Track 3. Should’ve Said No (2:41)
Rachel
WEEKS LATER, I SNAPPED a few final pictures of the SS World Odyssey as I disembarked for the last time. I made sure to capture several shots of the rock wall that I often climbed alone, the towering decks that I walked every morning, and the part of the ship I was certain to miss most. The stern where I spent most of my down time sipping coffee and writing letters to “friends” who hardly ever wrote back.
Tucking my camera into my bag, I let up my umbrella and walked to the luggage holding area. I pushed my way through all the teary-eyed reunions and found my two suitcases. One for the romance books, one for the clothes.
I pulled out my phone and saw what I hadn’t seen for more than minutes at a time in over three years. Actual bars for cell phone service.
I scrolled down to my father’s name and hit call, hoping like hell he wouldn’t answer.
“Rachel?” He crushed my hopes after one ring. “Rachel, you’re back today?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. For some reason, I thought it was tomorrow.”
Because I told you it was tomorrow. “Well, no. I just got off the ship, and I’m about to catch a cab to my apartment for the fall. I can send you the address when I get there.”
“Well, if you want to wait twenty minutes or so, me and Stella can come and get you. It looks like it’s about to storm.”
“No, that’s okay.” My stomach churned at the mention of his second wife’s name. “I’ll get a cab and hit you up later.”
“Okay, well...” He paused. “I’m so glad you’re back home safe, and I’ve enjoyed the correspondence and pictures that you frequently sent home. I also appreciate you using the ship’s phone to call me every other Sunday. It almost feels like you never left.” He was quiet again. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, Dad.” I ended the call, feeling a familiar ache in my chest. Whenever the two of us spoke, the words “I love you” always rang hollow, and I always felt like something was missing.
As the soft drizzle became a downpour, I made my way to the taxi platform and waved down the first yellow car.
“Where to, Miss?” The driver opened the back door for me before placing my luggage into the trunk.
“235 Beach Tree Cove.”
He nodded and sped off onto the street.
As he drove, I stared out the window and took in all the things I truly missed about this town. The open-air cafes that lined Main Street, the boutique hotels and carnival pier that sat on the tourists’ side of the beach, and the white sand that stretched along the entire side of our town’s beautiful coast. Even in the pouring rain, the town was perfectly picturesque, and I couldn’t wait to explore it all over again in the sunlight.
Half an hour later, the cab stopped in front of 235 Beach Tree Cove, and I double checked to make sure the address was correct. I gave the driver a tip for rolling my luggage to the front door, and the second he drove away, I rang the doorbell.
No answer.
I rang it again.
No answer, again.
Confused, I knocked on the door as hard as I could.
It immediately swung open, and I found myself face to face with Meredith Green, a girl I’d shared a voyage with the previous semester.
“Rachel Dawson?” She smiled. “I can’t believe you’re finally off the ship! What the heck are you doing here?”
“I’m living here, remember?” I handed her an olive branch that I’d preserved from Greece. “I sent you a letter in the mail and told you I was willing to be your roommate. I can get the deposit money from my dad tomorrow.”
“Huh?” She looked confused, but she opened the door. “I never got a letter from you, Rach. I swear. And I already have a roommate.” She scratched her head. “Why didn’t you send me an email or hit me up on Facebook?”
I resisted the urge to groan. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly some people (some of the very people who’d experienced Semester at Sea) forgot that the ship didn’t have Wi-Fi, and from what I remembered, she spent the first five days of her voyage crying about not having access to Facebook.
Before I could give her the nicer version of my thoughts, she laughed.
“Oh, duh!” She hit her forehead with her palm. “No Wi-Fi and no Facebook. I’m so glad I’m off that goddamn thing. I had to wait four whole months to share my pictures online, and I felt like I was going to die. Let’s see if I can find your letter.”
I followed her into the living room, looking around at the piles of clothes and trash bags that covered every inch of the floor.
“Is today a laundry day?” I asked.
“Ha! No, I haven’t gotten around to cleaning since I moved in. I’ll have to do it after classes start next week.”
A blue-eyed Siamese cat purred and sat atop her high pile of bras, and I followed her into the kitchen.
She opened a cabinet under the sink, and I squinted at the rusty roach and rat traps that were sitting under the pipes. At the dying beetle that was waving its legs as a final sign of life.
“I have so much unopened mail,” Meredith said, pulling out two grocery bags full of envelopes. “There are credit card applications, bills, and the IRS keeps sending me the same Urgent Tax Notice envelope month after month.”
“Um.” I cleared my throat. “You may want to open the ones from the IRS sooner than later.”
“Eh.” She shrugged. “It just gets so overwhelming. If someone wants me to read something, I don’t get why they can’t just send an email. The
IRS can do the same, you know?”
“Yeah...” I noticed ants crawling across her countertop. They were making a line toward crumbs of Fruit Loops cereal. “My letter should be in a purple envelope.”
“Well, that makes this a lot easier.” She dumped the mail bags onto her other counter and pulled out two of my stationery envelopes.
“Wow!” She stared at them for several seconds. “These are really pretty!”
“Thank you.”
“I honestly can’t believe you took time to write me something!” She smiled and walked over to her tea kettle, ignoring the line of ants. “I’ve never gotten a letter from a friend in the real mail before. I want to make sure I savor it properly.”
“You want some tea?” she asked, pulling down two cups.
“I’d love some.”
She handed me one with a tea bag and I nearly gagged. There was a ring of yellow crust and a dead ant on the inside of it.
When the water boiled, she filled our cups and sat on the counter. Then she opened my letter and read it aloud as if I wasn’t already aware of what it said.
Dear Meredith,
Happy Birthday from the SS World Odyssey! I hope you’re having a great time on land, and I hope you have a few strong shots in honor of your special day!
With Love & Sails,
Rachel Dawson
“Awww!” She smiled and tore open the second one.
Dear Meredith,
I hope this letter finds you well! I’m writing you because as you know, the Wi-Fi on the ship is nonexistent and I wanted to make sure I reached out long before the fall semester begins. You mentioned needing a roommate before you left, and I’d love to be the one! I can pay for the first two months’ rent and the security deposit at the rate you mentioned the second I return this fall.
Write back and save my room,
Rachel Dawson
“Aw!” She stared at the letter. “Your handwriting is so pretty, Rachel. I wish I could write like this. Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t help you with a place this semester. Then again, you could’ve tried sending an email when you got to a port city, and maybe I would’ve been able to hold a spot for you.”
