Page 16 of The Vacation Mix-Up
Since my split with Krystal, my vision has been nothing but red, black, and then red again, but thanks to Roni and her pushy Zen-like ways, I’ve slowly come to realize my divorce is a clean slate—I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. My life was paved before me, my future set, my heart whole… until it wasn’t. And now my sister and mother are helping me piece it back together, most of those pieces once again intact, with the exception of one, which will always belong to my daughter, Imogen.
A child runs past the bar, her laughter echoing throughout the room. I smile, but my face is tight. Strained. My sweet baby angel never saw the light of day, never squeezed my thumb or burped on my shoulder. She never laughed as I chased her, and she never would.
At twenty-six weeks’ gestation, Krystal and I were forced to say goodbye to her four years ago, and perhaps that’s when we said goodbye to our marriage as well. Regardless, that life as I knew it is over, and I have the divorce papers in my suitcase to prove it.
I just have to seal them with a signature.
Roni suggested I get away and live it up on a whirlwind cruise to reset and sow my wild oats, because my oats had always been domesticated. In all honesty, I have no idea how to sow wild oats. It’s not a lifestyle I’ve ever entertained nor everwantedto entertain.According to my sister though, I owe it to myself to at least try.
So that’s what I’m here doing—trying to enjoy the single life. Trying to put the past in the past where it belongs. And trying to leave my resentment and anger back in the States, which I haven’t quite managed to do yet.
Slamming my empty glass on the bar top, I hang my head. Riley didn’t deserve me being a jerk to her. She’d been great about the cabin mix-up, when most wouldn’t have. Sure, she tried to dump a bucketload of rules and boundaries on me, but I can’t blame her for doing so. We’re gonna need them—someof them—and I’ll agree within reason. Whatever she needs, because she could’ve refused to share the cabin, and she didn’t in the end. Credit where credit is due, I guess.
She’s also undeniably hot as fuck.
Damn!
I draw in a deep breath, my throat rumbling on the exhale as I recall her legs and ass in those tiny denim shorts. Perfect skin. Sleek. Slender. I’d been ready to sow my wild oats all over her on top of the Lagoon Bar, but she doesn’t seem like the wild-oats-sowing type either. There’s something fragile and sad about her—her eyes red from crying—and it pains me to think I’m the cause because my presence is ruining her “special” trip.
No doubt I am, but in a way, she’s also ruining mine.
Maybe I’m wrong and she’s just a spoiled, stuck-up snob. A well-to-do Manhattan princess. My gut tells me that’s not the case, and instead, like me, she’s been through something, recently—the telltale signs are hard to miss.
“Would you like another?” the bartender asks as I trace the rim of my empty glass with my fingertip.
I look up and shake my head. “No thanks, man. I’ve had enough for now.”
He nods, so I leave him a tip, then make my way out of the bar, knowing I need to unpack, have a shower, and then scope out the ship and, apparently, “the local talent.”
When Roni helped me plan the cruise, she pointed out several singles’ events on the itinerary: a singles’ nightclub, speed dating, and some fancy High Tea on the Seas.Just the thought of doing that shit feels desperate, but then what would I know? Until two years ago, I’d never been a single adult.
“Going up?” a woman asks as I’m about to bypass the elevator for the stairs.
If I were any good at being a single, wild oat-sower, I’d respond with,“I prefer going down.”But I’m not any good, not yet anyway, so I blurt, “Yep,” and reluctantly follow her into the death box.
“What deck?” she asks.
“Ten, thanks.”
She presses the button for me, and we smile at each other, her long eyelashes fluttering. They remind me of spider legs, and it kinda gives me the creeps.
“Enjoying the cruise so far?” she prompts, casually leaning back on the railing while propping her foot against the wall.
I chuckle; what a stupid question. “We haven’t cruised yet.”
“The ship, silly.” She giggles. “Are you enjoying the ship?”
Her spidey eyes skate over my chest and arms before landing on my face again, and even though I’ve been a married man for almost half of my life, I’m not naïve enough to mistake her unmistakable flirting.
“The ship is great,” I say. “But I haven’t seen much of it yet. Just a bar.”
“Good place to start.”
I nod. “It is.”
Focusing on the illuminating numbers on the panel above the door as we ascend the decks, I will them to move faster. Elevators are the devil’s cubbyhole, and if I ever end up stuck in one when it breaks down, I’ll more than likely pass out.
Heat surges the length of my spine, simmering at my nape.
