Page 37 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I’m in a too-tight suit in a too-hot taxi with a too-smug woman I am too attracted to.

I’m trying to make the best of things—but only because seeming unfussed is the one move I currently have in the stranded ex-lovers playbook. There is a subtle balance of power when people who despise each other must mutually cooperate to survive, and it is currently tipped in Hope’s direction.

And she knows it.

She’s been gloating since she found me washed up on her doorstep. And now that she improbably looks like a Vogue cover, she has the lofty air of someone who ate helium.

“Nice night,” I comment disingenuously. It is perhaps one degree cooler than it was at noon. I never want to feel humidity or see sunshine again.

“Is it?” Hope asks, because Hope is not playing the same game as me. She is playing the let-me-enjoy-antagonizing-the-person-I-hate-because-there-is-nothing-he-can-do-but-grin-and-bear-it game.

“You’re sweating like you have a wasting illness,” she says.

“You’re a bit dewy yourself.”

“A dewy complexion is considered a mark of youth and beauty.”

“I wonder what those buildings are,” I say, to change the subject. I point out the window at a structure of five peach towers topped with spires, one side connected to the other with a swooping sky bridge that makes my stomach drop just from looking at it. “You can see them everywhere.”

She snorts. “Seriously?”

“You know what it is?”

“Yes, duh. It’s Atlantis.”

“Not ringing a bell.”

“Clearly you never saw the cinematic classic Holiday in the Sun starring Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.”

“Clearly. What is it?”

“It’s a massive resort with its own beach and waterpark. Going there was my childhood dream. I kept asking my parents to take me for my birthday.”

“Did they?”

She snorts again. “Um, no. They were broke public school teachers. They were like ‘yeah right, here’s a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Books-A-Million and an ice cream cake.’”

Fell into that one, didn’t I.

“Lauren and I used to joke about going there for spring break and having affairs with teenage staff members while searching for smuggled antiquities like the Olsens,” she says.

“Is that the plot of the movie?”

“Yep.”

“Do they find the antiquities?”

“Just in time.”

Our taxi pulls onto a palm-lined drive and stops in front of a gracious pink house lined with French windows and surrounded by lush green gardens. As soon as the valets open our doors, I can hear the tinkle of piano music and conversation trickling out from inside.

It’s the sound of people having fun on an upscale holiday. The sound of the Romance of the Sea .

A triggering noise if ever there was one.

“Something wrong?” Hope asks, like she’s eager to hear the answer is yes.

“Not at all. Let’s go in.”

I give my name to the host—an old school ma?tre d’ in a white dinner jacket.

“Mr. Segrave, welcome,” he says. “Your table is almost ready. Let me invite you into the lounge for a cocktail while you wait.”

He takes Hope’s arm and leads us into what looks like a wealthy family’s living room—overstuffed chairs and sofas and a white grand piano under a dramatically vaulted wood ceiling.

“This is so beautiful,” Hope says to the host.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Segrave,” he says. “Can I bring you a drink while you wait?”

“Oh, I’m not Mrs. Segrave, thank goodness,” she says conspiratorially. “And yes, I’d love a gin and tonic.”

“Same for you, sir?” he asks.

“Club soda, please. With a lime.”

I settle onto a sofa to look at a menu but Hope doesn’t join me.

Instead, she swans over to the piano, where a tall and incandescently handsome Black man is playing some jazzy standard I don’t know.

She starts chatting with him. A waitress with a silver tray stops by and hands Hope her drink.

She takes a sip as the pianist winds down the song he’s playing, and then starts “Summertime.”

He nods at Hope, and she sings the opening line.

As we know, Hope has an incredible voice.

So of course, this stops the room in its tracks.

The piano player jumps in at the chorus and they harmonize, prompting enthusiastic applause that lifts the tone in the room from pleasantly relaxed to festive.

An older couple gets up to dance, and after a minute, a younger one joins them.

Hope finishes the song—to more applause—and is making her way over to me when the piano player starts “Fly Me to the Moon.” I half expect her to race back and start covering Frank Sinatra but she’s waylaid by a handsome white guy old enough to be her father.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks her.

She smiles at him and says loudly, “I’d love to! My date doesn’t know how.”

He offers her his arm and they turn away, swaying to the music.

I ignore them.

A pair of women in their forties carrying flutes of champagne—a freckly redhead in a white pantsuit and an Asian brunette in a gold cocktail dress—approach me.

“Hello,” the redhead says. “Do you mind if we sit?” She gestures at the sofa across from mine. “We’re waiting for our table.”

“Please,” I say.

“I’m Carly,” she says. “And this is Amanda. We’re here from Toronto on our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Are you here celebrating something?” Amanda asks.

“Stranded, actually,” I say.

She inclines her head. “Stranded?”

I tell them about missing the ship. They’re agreeably riveted by my tale of misfortune.

“You deserve a stroke of good luck, Felix,” Carly says.

“By the way, are you with that woman?” asks Amanda. She’s pointing at Hope, who is now walking toward the front doors.

“Uh, sort of. We’re—”

She is now walking out of the doors.

“Sorry. One second.”

I get up and rush after her.

“Hope!” I say as I step outside. She’s waving expectantly at a taxi pulling into the drive.

“Oh, hey,” she says affably. “This place is kind of stuffy. That guy I was dancing with told me about a great jazz club, so I’m going to check it out.”

“You were going to leave without telling me?”

“No, of course not. You seemed occupied so I sent you a text.”

I grope in my pocket for my phone and see she has in fact texted me.

Hope: I’m going out on the town. Don’t wait up.

“Did it occur to you I don’t have a key to the room?” I ask.

“Get one at the desk.” She opens the door to the taxi, then pauses to give me a radiant smile. “Enjoy dinner! The food looked great!”

And with that, she climbs in and shuts the door.

Unbelievable.

I stand there watching the car drive away, marveling that she really just did that. It’s almost heroic in its childish dickishness.

“Mr. Segrave?” the host asks, stepping outside.

“Yeah?” I say distractedly.

“Your table is ready.”

“Brilliant.”

I let him escort me back through the lounge to the dining room, where he seats me at a window table sumptuously set for two.

“It’ll actually just be me tonight,” I tell him.

“Of course, sir,” he says, valiantly ignoring that I’ve just been abandoned.

I order Andros Island crab bisque with pork belly and, for my main, grilled spiny lobster. Amanda and Carly are seated at the table beside mine just as my soup arrives.

“You should join us!” Amanda says, waving me over.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Please, I beg you,” Carly says. “We’re here for another week and we’re already sick of each other.”

“Doesn’t bode well for our marriage,” Amanda says.

I like them, and I’d rather make conversation than eat soup alone, so I agree.

The waiter sets up a place for me at their table.

“So, what happened out there?” Carly asks. “With your… friend?”

Amanda nudges her. “Don’t be rude.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Long story, but fine.”

“We have all night.”

“Well, that girl—her name is Hope—we met on the ship and had a… thing.”

Over the course of my soup, then their appetizers, then our mains, and then a truly exquisite soursop and mango mousse we all share, I tell them the whole sordid story.

This, of course, leads them to a deep dive down Lauren’s Instagram.

The posts of Hope have been deleted but they dissect the many videos of the cruise that are still up over their third glasses of champagne.

“Okay, hold up, Felix,” Amanda says. “This girl is kind of hilarious. Like, I think I love her.”

“You don’t think what she’s doing is gross?” I ask. “Being a professional gold digger?”

Carly scoffs at me. “Felix, she’s obviously not serious. Come on. She must know that no man is going to marry her if he thinks she’s targeting him for money and posting about it on social media. She’s playing a character.”

“And judging by her number of followers, she’s doing it all the way to the bank,” Amanda says.

“Um, yes,” Carly says. “I can assure you a girl with this many luxury sponsorships doesn’t need a sugar daddy. The internet’s her sugar daddy.”

In the context of two impartial observers being extremely rational, I begin to reconsider things. It does all track with what Hope said.

“God,” I say. “Maybe I’ve been an idiot.”

Amanda nods at me sadly. “A big one.”

I put my head in my hands as the enormity of what they’re saying sinks in.

Hope isn’t any of the things I’ve accused her of being.

She’s the lovely person I thought she was.

And I’ve been a massive prick.

“Fuck,” I hiss. “She’s right to hate me, isn’t she? She told me all this and I refused to believe her.”

Carly downs her last sip of fizz. “Well,” she says. “Your reaction sort of makes sense. Your feelings were hurt so you weren’t thinking clearly—not able to see the humor in it.”

“Yes, that’s it!” Amanda says. “You overreacted because the idea she was lying to you hurt more than you were prepared for. You didn’t want to acknowledge you could be so devastated by what you were telling yourself was an empty fling.”

“Because it wasn’t an empty fling, was it?” Carly asks.

“No,” I admit softly. “It wasn’t.”

It was something much deeper than that. Something I have now ruined and will not be able to get back.

It’s gutting.

“I need to apologize to her,” I say, more to myself than to Amanda and Carly.

They nod.

I pick up the check, say goodbye to my dining companions, and take a cab back to Paradise Fun. Hope hasn’t returned yet. I lie on the bed under the fluorescent overhead lights, stare at the water-stained popcorn ceiling, and contemplate the words I should use to tell her I’m sorry.

They all sound so insufficient.

The truth—that I was falling for her and reacted in an overblown way—sounds manipulative, like I’m angling for more than forgiveness. But saying I rewatched the videos and simply accepted they aren’t serious doesn’t feel heartfelt enough.

I must have dozed off, because I’m startled awake by the sound of Hope letting herself into the room.

She leans back against the door, crosses her arms over her chest, and glares at me.

“You’re in my bed,” she says indignantly.

I jump up. “Sorry. All yours.”

She grabs one of the two sad, thin pillows off the bed and tosses it onto the floor.

“Sweet dreams,” she says, gesturing at the pillow.

“Hey, listen,” I say. “Can we talk? About what happened?”

She looks at me like I’ve suggested we eat live snakes.

“No, we cannot. It’s two in the morning. I’m tired.”

She disappears into the bathroom and I hear her brushing her teeth. It sounds angry. Like she’s taking her frustration with me out on her gums.

When she comes out, she’s wearing her BAHAMAS PAJAMAS!!! She throws herself onto the bed and starfishes so that she takes up every inch of the surface area, making sure that I’m watching this territorial claim before pointedly closing her eyes.

I do not need any more clues that this is not the time for my clumsy apology.

I turn off the light and lower myself onto the hard cement floor.

It’s painful. The penance I deserve.