Page 15 of Total Dreamboat

Hope

I have always loved Elvis for his kitsch factor. Now I love him for allowing me to cuddle with Felix.

By the time the fake King takes his final bow, I feel so light I’m unsteady on my feet.

But as Felix and I walk back into the lobby with Lauren and his sisters, I realize my wobbliness isn’t just crush endorphins. The boat is rolling—gently but noticeably—back and forth.

And then it surges to one side dramatically. A senior with a walker in front of us grips the wall for balance.

“Shit,” I say.

“Something wrong?” Felix asks.

“I meant to get one of those seasickness patches and I forgot.”

“Give her yours, Felix,” one of his sisters says. (I feel terrible, but I’m completely baffled as to which one is Prue and which one is Pear.) “You know the rules of the sea,” she goes on. “Save the women and children first.”

“I’m not sure that’s hygienic,” he says.

“I’m refusing to wear one,” the other sister says. “They can make people go mad.”

“You’re already mad, so that shouldn’t have scared you off,” Felix says.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Sophie Blyth wore one last year on Mungo Roland’s yacht and went completely off her head. Shouted at everyone all week and refused to eat anything but raspberries. Mungo said he was tempted to leave her in Mustique to find her own way home.”

To me, the most remarkable part of this story is that she knows someone named Mungo. Followed closely by the fact that Mungo owns a yacht.

The ship rocks again.

“Am I imagining it, or is the rolling getting worse?” I ask.

“It’s definitely getting worse,” says the sister who knows Mungo. “Do you get seasick?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll probably be fine.” I hope, anyway.

“I’m sure they have patches at the infirmary,” Felix says. “Shall we go see if we can find one?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea.”

“I’m off to the casino,” Lauren says. “There’s nothing like saucy conversation with a handsome stranger at a craps table.”

“Ooh, can we join you?” an unidentified sister says.

“Of course,” Lauren says happily. “Do you two want to meet us there after the infirmary?”

“We’ll see,” Felix says. “I hear Hope here has a gambling problem. Not sure she can be trusted.”

“Is that true?” Prue/Pear asks.

“No, actually. Betting terrifies me.” As someone with no financial cushion, the proposition of losing money is not something I equate with “fun.”

“No!” the sister exclaims. “You must learn! We’re absolute whizzes at blackjack. We can teach you. Prue once won forty grand in Vegas at a hen do.”

Ah. So the one talking is Pear. She has slightly shorter hair and a mole just under the left side of her mouth. I commit this to memory.

“Promptly blew all the money on a handbag,” Felix says.

“I did not ‘blow’ the money,” Prue says primly. “I bought a Birkin. They appreciate.”

She looks at me as though for corroboration.

I nod, trying not to give away my horror at the idea of a purse costing more than half my annual salary. Even Lauren does not traffic in that level of luxury.

Yet, anyway. By the way her eyes have lit up at this story, I’m sure she aspires to.

“Well, good luck at the casino,” I say. “Maybe we’ll see you there in a bit.”

Felix and I walk down the hall toward the elevators.

“Sorry about Kitty and Lydia,” he says when we’re out of earshot.

For a second, I’m confused.

And then I am incredibly delighted.

“Was that a Pride and Prejudice reference?”

“I’m told you like British literature.”

“Does that make you the Lizzie Bennet of this metaphor?”

“Hmm. Always fancied myself more of a Jane, actually. Because of the tattoos.”

“Oh, that’s right. Jane had the two full sleeves.”

“And M R . B I N G L E Y across her knuckles.”

“That’s how he knew she was the one.”

“Do you have any tattoos?” he asks.

“Afraid not.”

“I have a few.”

“I actually noticed.”

“Weird. They’re subtle.”

“Yes, very understated. How many do you have? Sixty?”

“Hmm. Twelve, I think. But if you’d prefer more I’m sure there’s a tattoo parlor at the next port.”

“Good idea. What will you get?”

“What do you suggest?”

“How about the Romance of the Sea logo?”

“Just that?”

“Yes, but forty-eight times.”

“That might hurt.”

“I’ll hold your hand.”

He grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“Deal,” he says.

He doesn’t let go.

We pass a couple in the corridor and they say hello to us, smiling at our joined hands like aww, young love .

“Would you happen to know where the Cigar Lounge is?” the woman asks.

“No, sorry,” I say.

“Are you two on your honeymoon?” she asks.

“No,” Felix says. “It’s our first anniversary.”

“Oh, how wonderful. She’s such a beautiful place to celebrate.”

It takes me a second to realize the “she” in question is the cruise ship.

“She sure is,” Felix says.

“Well, enjoy your evening,” the man says with a wink.

“We certainly will,” Felix says with a wink back.

“Oh no,” I say once they pass us. “Now we have to be in a fake relationship every time we see them.”

“Tragic,” he says. “How will we convince them it’s real?”

“Maybe we could make out,” I suggest, because I have fully bought into my own narrative that it’s fine to throw caution to the wind on a cruise ship.

“What a compelling idea,” he murmurs.

He stops walking, pushes me gently against the wall, and kisses me.

It’s just a brush of the lips, but it is a good brush of the lips. A brush of the lips that portends additional pleasures to come.

Felix takes a deep breath. One that freely admits he felt it too.

“Was that all right?” he asks softly, smoothing a strand of hair off my cheek.

“No,” I say. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

And then he does it again.

And had the boat not shifted suddenly under our feet, I suspect he would have kept doing it. But I stagger on my heels, and he has to brace me to keep me from toppling over.

Which I like. But I’m worried this is going to get worse, and I’ve heard that motion sickness medicines don’t work if you already have motion sickness when you take them.

“So, about that infirmary,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

We find it at the end of the corridor.

The door is locked. Felix points to a sign on the window that says it will reopen at nine in the morning.

“Apparently ship doctors keep banker hours,” he says. “Maybe we could check at the boutique.”

“Pretty sure they only sell designer caftans and fine jewelry.”

“Do you think a designer caftan would help?”

“I’m good on caftans. Lauren packed about thirty of them.”

He looks at me with concern.

“Do you feel sick?”

“No, I think I’ll be fine,” I say. In truth I am beginning to feel a little off, but I don’t want this night to end. “Do you want to go up to the casino?”

He considers this. “Not especially.”

I’m a little deflated, until he says, “I’d rather invite you to my room for a cup of tea.”

I laugh. “Tea, eh? Subtle.”

“Not a line!” he protests. “A nice peppermint tea is good for the stomach. But if that’s a no, I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“It’s a yes.”

We take the elevators up to the Penthouse level.

“This is me,” he says, pointing at a door a few away from my room.

“We’re neighbors,” I say.

“I know. I figured out where you were staying and requested a room nearby so I could run into you.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“You didn’t need to. I would have found you anyway.”

He grins at me. “Come in.”

His suite is so neat that were it not for his copy of Middlemarch sitting on the dining table, I would think no one was occupying it.

But then, all our rooms are cleaned twice a day, so I’m not sure if this is a sign of his habits or just the strength of the Romance of the Sea ’s housekeeping department.

I’m tempted to pretend I need to pee so that I can go into his bathroom and examine his toiletries.

It’s not that I want to snoop. But it’s odd to meet someone on vacation, out of their usual context.

Were we in New York I’d be able to infer things about him based on what neighborhood he lives in, or where he suggests meeting, or what restaurants he likes.

But knowing he “lives” on the Penthouse Deck and “dines” at the ship buffet doesn’t give me much to work with.

I want to know everything about him.

“Mint is okay?” Felix asks, filling an electric kettle. “There’s also chamomile.”

We don’t have a kettle in our room—just a Nespresso machine.

“Mint is good,” I say. “Did you bring that from home?”

“What, the tea? No. Came free with the cruise. Though I did stash some PG Tips in my bag if you prefer.”

“The kettle.”

“Oh. Well, yes.”

“You were worried the ship wouldn’t provide hot water?”

“Not all hot water is created equally, dear Hope. My kettle here has temperature controls. You’ll be getting an herbal tea brewed to exactly eighty-five degrees Celsius, like nature intended.”

“And that would be different from a tea brewed to, let’s say, ninety degrees Celsius?”

“Herbal teas become bitter at too high a temp. Now, for a black tea, you’ll want to nudge it up to ninety-five. Same for oolong.”

“Ah,” I say.

“I can go on,” he offers, pouring hot water into our cups. “Green? White? Tisane of lemon and turmeric?”

The ship rolls, and he curses sharply.

“You all right?” I ask.

“Burned my hand,” he says.

“You’re rather clumsy in the kitchen for a man who makes his living in one,” I say.

“Pretty girls make my hands shake.”

I want to banter back, but I feel my stomach flip-flop.

“Is it just me, or is this getting worse?” I ask.

“My corny attempts at flirtation?”

“No, the waves.”

“They are becoming rather ominous, now that you mention it.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “I just remembered your last name is Segrave.”

He nods solemnly. “Me too.”

“I wonder if that only dooms you to a watery death, or if I’m cursed by proximity.”

“Let’s get you into a life jacket, just to be safe.”

“It doesn’t go with my dress.”

“And it’s quite a dress,” he says softly.

So softly, so intentionally, that I blush clear down to the pads of my feet.

He walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You look perfect ,” he says, looking into my eyes. “You look so perfect it’s making me nervous.”

I let out a breath. “I’m nervous too,” I confess.

It feels good to say that. To be honest with a boy.

“Like, I’m trying to play it cool here,” he says, “but actually…”

“Yeah. Same.”

He opens his arms to me. “Maybe it would help to just…”

“Yeah,” I say again, stepping into them.

He wraps me in a hug.

Not an erotic, gropey kind of hug. A steadying one. One that feels like we’re telling each other, It’s okay . This is okay.

“Better?” he asks into my hair.

“Better,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

We separate, and he smiles at me. “Tea,” he says decisively.

“Oh! Yes! Quick, before it cools down to eighty-three degrees.”

He takes the two mugs and walks carefully to the sitting area, putting them down on the coffee table. Despite his efforts, they slosh.

As does my stomach.

I sit down on the sofa, hopeful I will feel better if I don’t have to work so hard to stay upright. Felix sits down beside me.

And then he leans over and kisses me. Softly. A bit more lingeringly than he did in the hallway.

I melt against him, and there’s that feeling again: it’s okay .

Except now there’s more to it. This is lovely. You’re lovely.

I put my fingers in Felix’s hair, which is soft and tousled and so nice to touch, and draw him closer to me.

“I like you,” I say, when our lips part.

“Good,” he says. “Because I like you too.”

His eyes go down to my lips, and he’s going to kiss me again, and then—

“Oh fuck,” I say, lurching away. “I’m going to throw up.”