Page 15 of The Vacation Mix-Up
Tempted to say yes, because Ilovepeanut butter, I bite my fingernail and decline, opting not to get inebriated on day one. I’m fond of my liver, and I’d much prefer it not to dissolve. “No, thank you. Maybe next time.”
He places my drink down, kind of bows, backs away, then turns to collect a few empty glasses on a nearby table.
Picking up my glass, I sip my pretty pink drink while reading the genre of the first manuscript: a modern-day, Greek mythological romance. My curiosity piques. I adore Greek mythology.
Confused, because Georgia would normally automatically reject a romance submission of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand words, I scroll further to the agent’s name, a frustrated sigh whooshing past my lips.
No wonder she sent this to me. It was submitted by her sister—the Wicked Witch of the West.
Knowing I’ll have my work cut out for me when I shouldn’t, I stab the touchpad again when a male voice suddenly bursts from the speakers above my head, scaring the absolute bejesus out of me.
“Welcome, cruiselings! My name is Paul, and I’m your cruise director. We’ll be setting sail in just a few minutes, so I hope you’re ready for a fantastic vacation. While the captain navigates us out of the harbor, the party is about to get started on Lido Deck. So head on up, grab yourself one of our delicious cocktails, and put your dancing shoes on. I’ll see you all soon.”
The engines rumble to life, so I finish reading Georgia’s email and type a reply, obediently telling her I’d be glad to read over the manuscripts, even though “glad” couldn’t be further from the truth. And by the time I snap my laptop shut, the ship is slowly drifting away from the dock.
Collecting my bag and what’s left of my drink, I make my way to the railing, the water swirling and bubbling below. A mix of excitement and melancholy twists within my chest, my heart skipping over its usually sullen beat.
Leaving my motherland to explore other parts of the world is both daunting and exhilarating, mostly because I’m culturally and ethnically challenged—a side effect of strict goals focused solely on fiction and publishing for as long as I can remember. School, college, internship, NYC—it’s all I know. I can identify a sentence written in passive voice and make it active without a blink, but ask me to voice a sentence in any language other than English, and I’d fail miserably.
Actually, that’s a lie. After receiving my cruise ticket from Mom, I googled how to say “Where is the bathroom, please?” in French, so, perhaps I wouldn’t fail and ultimately soil myself.
At least… I hope I won’t.
Taking the stairs to deck sixteen, I shade my eyes from the sun, marveling at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge as we cruise toward it, the grand structure majestically spanning New York Harbor, growing more prominent and imposing the closer we get to it.
Exhilaration peppers my skin.
The ship’s horn blasts.
I almost pee my pants.
Giggling, the realization of why my mother desperatelywanted me to go on this cruise hits me—just like her often swift but lovingly playful slap to the back of my head.
A lump of regret forms in my throat, and I swallow. She knew my life was all work with no play. No adventure nor culture. I just pray she didn’t think I was unhappy, because I’m not.
Lonely? Sure. But happy? Mostly.
At least, Iwas… before she died.
chapter four
OTHER RILEY
After Riley left me in the bar, I felt like an asshat.
It wasn’t her fault the cruise line fucked up. It wasn’t her fault my life had gone to shit and that my wife of fifteen years ditched me for her hot-shot lawyer colleague. And it wasn’t her fault I was getting a divorce. Hell, it wasn’t my fault either, and yet for some reason, I felt responsible, because I struggled to direct my anger at the correct target, which isn’t my new roommate.
“You suck, Wilson,” I mutter, as I swirl the glass of bourbon in my hand before draining the last drop.
For the past two years, I’ve become bitter and lost, constantly mourning a life I adored and worked hard to achieve, a life my wife Krystal ruined.
We’d been together since high school. Two peas in a young, naïve, lovesick pod. We’d built a home together, shared our life’s aspirations, and we’d been inseparable since the moment we met. She owned my heart for as long as I could remember… until she ripped it from my chest and tore it to shreds.
According to her, we’d “grown apart” and “lost our spark.” Apparently, our small-town, “simplistic” life wasn’t enough for her anymore. She wanted hustle and bustle instead. A corporate adventure.
More like an adventure between her legs on her office desk several times a week with Finn.
Cracking my neck from side to side, I roll my shoulders, willing my anger and tension to ease, a trick my sister Roni has been helping me master. She says it releases trapped emotional trauma, or some shit like that. Do I believe her? Not really. But I do it anyway, because she’s the champion of Zen. She has a room full of gems and crystals, and she often burns plants from the garden and fumigates my home. It’s outright annoying and stinks, but I don’t stop her, because nothing else I’ve done so far has worked.
