Page 22 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Because, apparently, that’s what sailaway dining is all about… meeting other passengers.”
“Right.” I sit up straighter and pick up my menu. “Hello.”
“Everyone, this is Riley,” Riley says, and I can’t tell if his clipped tone is because he’s as hungry as the kids and I’ve unintentionally made them wait to order, or because we’re “meeting other passengers” he doesn’t want to meet.
Two men sitting opposite us narrow their eyes curiously, one of them flicking his wrist and swirling his finger at us. “You’re both named Riley?”
I glance at my namesake, my lip quirking. “Yes.”
The man grins as if we’re newborn babies and then unfolds his napkin and lays it over his lap. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Hugo, and this is my husband, Immanuel, but you can call him Manny. We’re on our honeymoon.”
“Congratulations,” I offer. “Pleased to meet you both.”
The mother beside me butters a bread roll and slides the plate in front of her daughter. “I’m Kathy. This is my husband, Oscar, and these are our children, Avery and Zachary.”
“Zach,” the boy snipes, his focus still glued to his screen.
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Teenagers.”
I smile as if I understand what teenagers of today are like, but apart from once being a teenager myself, I haven’t the slightestclue. I never owned a phone back then, and I was scarcely ill-mannered toward my mother.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’m eight,” Avery interrupts. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Avery!” Kathy pats her leg again. “Don’t be rude.”
The little girl shoves the bread roll into her mouth and goes back to coloring her picture, practically murdering her crayon as she aggressively mashes it into the paper.
“The name’s Ben, but most people call me Horse, ’cause I’m hung like one,” a boisterous voice says from the other side of Riley.
I lean forward to get a better look at the self-proclaimed Mr. Ed, but he leans back instead and holds out his chubby calloused hand behind Riley’s chair.
Anyone who feels it necessary to discuss the size of their genitals to strangers at a dinner table is certainly not someone I’d normally shake hands with, but I do it anyway, graciously lying when I say, “Nice to meet you.”
“Ditto, love.” He waggles his eyebrows, then rests his arms on the backs of Riley’s and Manny’s chairs. “So where we all from?”
“Jersey,” Hugo says.
Ben snaps his fingers at him. “Yankees or Phillies?”
I cringe; Ihatefinger snapping with a passion. It’s obnoxious. Georgia does it on the daily, and it grates my nerves.
Hugo hesitates as he says, “Phillies?”, his eyes wide as if his answer could somehow be incorrect.
Riley tips his glass of beer toward him. “Good man.”
“How ’bout you, Ben?” Manny asks, angling his body closer to his husband and away from Ben’s intrusive dangling arm. “Where are you from?”
“Michigan.”
“Tigers?” Riley asks.
“Fucking damn straight.”
