Page 27 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I’m grateful to the gods of amateur singing for forcing me to see Hope.

I’ve been avoiding her all day and feeling cowardly about it. But I’m uncomfortable with how much seeing her with her ex affected me. Whether his presence here was an omission or a coincidence, I shouldn’t be this thrown by it. This is supposed to be a fling. It’s a bad sign that I’m jealous.

I just hope I’m not supposed to be.

Even entertaining the idea that Hope would use me to inspire envy in her ex makes me feel like shit. But I can’t help it. The bleakest part of my mind spins a scenario where she started flirting with me as soon as she found out Gabe was on the ship.

But everything between us has happened organically, hasn’t it? Reading Middlemarch ? Showing up for the same dance class? Throwing crab in my hair on day one?

If she had meant to entangle me in some sort of love triangle, surely she would have simply introduced herself, without getting the raw bar involved.

I’m being paranoid. I need to slow down.

This is a cruise hookup after all. Not a love story.

Still, it’s reassuring that Gabe’s not here with her. And karaoke seems like a light, reasonable way to resume communication. We can hash it out afterwards.

The lights dim and the Australian man who took down our names comes onstage and introduces himself as Theo, our host for the evening. He kicks things off by performing his own number, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” by the Righteous Brothers.

He kills.

“I find this ethically dubious,” Hope whispers to me. “It’s not fair we should have to follow up a Broadway singer.”

“If you’re losing your nerve, I’m happy to do my song alone,” I whisper back.

“ Your song? I’ve loved Kate Bush since my tortured adolescence.”

“I’m a year older than you, so I’ve loved it longer.”

I am not trolling her. Kate Bush is one of my top five artists of all time, and my ability to do justice to her anthem is my best hidden talent. I always sing it at karaoke.

Theo receives a standing ovation, and introduces the next singer as Mark from Plymouth, Massachusetts.

Mark is a portly seventy-something who does “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones.

He’s fine. No Theo, but fine. Nevertheless, we all cheer as though he’s Mick Jagger himself.

Karaoke is about building up your fellow man, and ignoring when he’s slightly pitchy.

Next we get “9 to 5” by a very, very old woman who uses her cane to conduct us for the chorus; “Mr. Brightside” by the lone teenager on the boat, provoking the confusion of the audience averaging fifty years his senior; and “Jagged Little Pill” by Pear.

Pear is an absolutely godawful singer, but the crowd hoots and applauds her bravery.

Theo introduces “Colin from Ireland” to come up.

He’s a handsome, barrel-chested guy in his forties.

He begins by dedicating his number to “the dazzling Lauren”—yes, Hope’s Lauren—and then proceeds to perform “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard.

He not only does it well, he does it filthily, thrusting his hips and getting down on his knees in front of her to throw back his head and wail out the final chorus.

She eats it up, rewarding him with a kiss that is far more sloppy than I would have expected of her.

Then Theo announces it is his pleasure to introduce “Hope from New York and Felix from London.”

“Last chance to back out,” Hope says to me.

I stand up. “Nope. You’ve made your bed.”

“I meant you.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

The crowd obviously is though. From the second the piercingly high-pitched opening notes begin to play, I see people glancing at me with bemused looks.

Hope meets my eye as we mentally count through the bars of the preamble, waiting for the opening line of the first verse.

We nod at each other and start perfectly in tandem.

And, thank you very much, perfectly on pitch.

Hope’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head as she realizes I was not kidding about being able to hit these notes. This is one advantage of going to an all-boys school with a very competitive choir: someone has to be the soprano.

That someone, when he was not playing the tuba, was me.

Something beautiful happens. Hope’s whole face glows.

She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she throws herself into the song.

She’s amazing, though that isn’t surprising based on her performance with Elvis.

What is surprising is the way we’re able to communicate telepathically, trading every other line until we reach the first chorus, at which point we both belt out together: “HEAAAAAAATHCLIFFFFFFF—”

There are literal gasps, and then clapping and laughter, as we fucking nail it. We sing to each other with all the unhinged drama of a woman beckoning a deranged man to dig her out of her grave. We give gothic. We give desperate pining. We give agonized wailing through the windswept moors.

When we reach the last verse we take each other’s hands and circle each other as we head into the final chorus. Hope sings to me. I sing to her. We sing to the audience.

And then the music tinkles off, and it’s over.

No one in the room will ever be the same again. We have changed them. They, like the Cathy of the song, are ghosts now.

I dip Hope back and she kicks up her leg in triumph.

Lauren, who is recording this with her phone, puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles. The crowd whoops along with her. They love us.

With one exception.

A man whose face I only now notice frowning in the back of the room.

Gabe.

I look away. Whatever is going on with him and Hope, I don’t want to be in the middle of it. And I note she did not insist on duetting with him .

Theo comes back on stage and takes the mics from Hope and me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, join me in thanking these two for that magnificent number!” he says. We bow and head back to our sofa as he introduces the night’s final singer—Lauren, performing “Heartbreaker.” She high-fives us as we walk past her.

We’re both panting a bit from the exertion and adrenaline of what we’ve just achieved, and we collapse down on the couch and fall into laughter. Hope puts her head on my shoulder, overcome with giggles.

I would like this, were it not for my awareness of Gabe’s eyes on her. I don’t know if she’s noticed him too. I pray she’s not doing this to get a reaction out of him.

But I like her touch too much to move away.

She stays there the entirety of Lauren’s performance—which is directed exclusively at Colin. When she’s done, he leaps up to give her a one-man standing ovation. I suspect I’m not the only man on this cruise who is feeling immoderate attachment to an American girl he met a few days ago.

Theo returns to the stage and starts to thank us all for coming when Gabe calls out, “Do you have time for one more? Sorry, I was late and didn’t have a chance to sign up.”

Theo mimes checking his watch. “Ladies and gentlemen, what do you think? Time for one last song?”

Everyone applauds gamely.

Gabe sails up to the stage with charming smiles for the crowd. I resent how handsome and confident he is. He confers with Theo over the iPad, then takes the mic.

“I’d like to dedicate this song to the most beautiful girl on the boat,” he says, grinning at Hope. “I’m not a great singer,” he confides to the audience. “Bear with me, I beg you.”

The room takes to this confession fondly.

I glance at Hope. She has adjusted herself so that we’re no longer touching. A tight smile is affixed to her face. And then the song comes on.

It’s “Please Forgive Me” by Bryan Adams.

Now, as I just demonstrated, I am the last person in the world to assert that men cannot sing songs in a high register. Some of us are brilliant at it.

Gabe, as promised, is not.

He doesn’t seem to care, however. The point of this exercise is obviously not the way he sounds, but the message he wishes to impart.

“Are you in a karaoke battle?” Prue hisses to me.

I really, really hope not.

“If they are, Felix is winning,” Pear says. “Mate’s butchering this.”

“He realizes it’s a song about wanting someone back after treating them like shit , right?” Lauren says loudly.

“At least he’s self-aware,” Hope mutters.

I take heart in the fact that she doesn’t seem to be enjoying this.

The song finally—mercifully—ends, and the crowd applauds in what I assume is some combination of gratitude that the torture is over and sympathy for the man who has just made such a humbling production of himself.

He bows and hands the mic back to Theo.

An old woman near the aisle touches his wrist. “She must be quite a girl,” she says to him.

“The best,” Gabe says, looking at Hope.

“Well, that was an, um… memorable conclusion to the evening,” Theo says. “Thank you so much to all our talented entertainers! And don’t forget to come back tomorrow night for our magnificent magic show.”

Gabe is trying to get to us through the crowd of people exiting the theater.

“Fuck,” Hope mutters. She grabs her bag and turns to me. “I need to get out of here. Come with me?”

“Yeah,” I say, relieved by the invitation.

She speeds out of the room so fast I have to jog after her.

I catch up to her at the bay to the lifts, where she’s punching the up arrow like it’s the only thing between her and damnation. Luckily, it arrives right away. We step into it and she jams the “Door Close” button.

When the doors finally obey, leaving us alone, she leans back and bangs her head lightly against the wall.

“That was so embarrassing,” she says.

“For him,” I say.

“For me.”

There’s a heaviness between us. I don’t know what she’s feeling, or how I fit into it.

“Seems like he has some strong feelings,” I venture.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding exhausted. “Or something.”

“You look upset,” I say. “If you want to be alone—”

“No!” she exclaims. She straightens her posture and shakes herself out. “Sorry, that just freaked me out. Are you still cool to talk? This is all very bizarre and I really feel like I owe you an explanation.”

I was already feeling better about the situation given she fled the karaoke room, but her earnestness heartens me. She doesn’t have to give me an explanation, but I appreciate that she’s offering one.

“Do you want to come to my room?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I want very badly to come to your room.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” Very, very happy, in fact.

“Tea?” I ask, when we get inside.

“Only if it’s exactly eighty-five degrees.”

She sits down on the couch while I fill the kettle.

“I wasn’t sure you would want me to come over,” she says. “After today.”

“I wasn’t sure you would want to come,” I admit.

“I invited you snorkeling. That’s girl code for ‘please forgive me.’”

“Are you quoting your ex?”

“Poor choice of words.”

“Well, is there something to forgive?”

She rubs her temple wearily. “Well, today was uncomfortable. I know you saw me talking to him.”

She means I saw him on the verge of kissing her, obviously.

“It seemed like an intense conversation,” I say.

“He’s the guy I mentioned. The bad breakup. Up until running into him this morning, I hadn’t seen him since he ended things.”

I can see how shaken up she is, and I feel bad for her.

“I know how tough it is to have to face someone after something like that,” I say gently. “Are you okay?”

And I genuinely want to know. But what I also want to know is: Do you still have feelings for him?

She lets out a long sigh. “I’m fine. But I certainly would have preferred not to be stuck on a boat with him.” She pauses. “I’d rather devote my undivided attention to this nice boy I met.”

She looks at me searchingly. “If he still wants me to.”

Her ex is not my business, and if she says she wants to be with me, I am going to believe her.

“He does,” I say. “Very much.”

I pour water over the tea bags and bring her a cup. She pats the seat next to her. “Sit with me?”

“Gladly.”

She curls up beside me and rests her head on my shoulder. “Karaoke was so much fun. You were amazing.”

“ We were amazing.”

She leans up and kisses me. “Yeah,” she says. “We were.”

I will not report the details of what happened next. Except to say: it was amazing too.

And when I wake up in the morning with Hope beside me, Gabe is the last thing on my mind.