Page 39 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

As we drive through the gates to Atlantis, it becomes clear this place is less a hotel than its own city. There’s a theme park, a casino, a golf course, restaurants, shops, and multiple accommodations. It’s essentially a stationary cruise ship.

I almost wish I had stayed at Paradise Fun.

It wouldn’t have been right to leave Hope anxious about being alone with no phone, but every fiber of my being is radiating caution.

It seems my anger at her was providing me with a layer of protection. Without it, I feel acutely aware of what I ruined, and the unhealed darkness in me that sabotaged it so easily.

It’s not healthy, but my impulse is to be alone. To stew in the company of my own demons.

We check in and take the lifts to the thirteenth floor, where we’re greeted by a huge room with two queen-sized beds, a sitting area, and a balcony overlooking the ocean.

“Wow, what a shithole,” Hope says, deadpan.

“Dreadful. I miss Paradise Fun,” I say.

“I know. Those cinder blocks. I’m definitely giving it five stars on Tripadvisor.”

She looks out the window, surveying the complex.

“We have to start at the water park,” she says. “Put on your suit.”

I don’t want to be rude, but I was not anticipating spending the day with her. Especially not at a water park.

“Children’s water attractions make me worry about fecal matter,” I say. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, come on. I’m sure there’s enough chlorine in the water to peel off a layer of skin.”

“Not a winning argument.”

“Let’s get changed.”

“No, really. I’ll hang back,” I say. “Not in a pool mood.”

She frowns. “What are you going to do instead?”

Brood.

“Nap,” I say.

“I happen to know you don’t nap.”

“A night of attempting to sleep on cement is enough to overpower my insomnia.”

“Yeah, um. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I deserved it.”

She shrugs and disappears into the bathroom to change. She emerges in a red, gravity-defying bikini. I have seen this garment sitting on a windowsill. I have not yet seen it on her body. It knocks the bloody wind out of me.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” she asks.

I suspect the invitation is a peace offering, and part of me longs to accept it. But I feel too ill at ease. Every time I look at Hope, I get a fresh stab of regret.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “Go have fun.”

As soon as she’s gone, I collapse on one of the beds and close my eyes. I really do want to sleep. Between my guilt over Hope and the bracing discomfort of the floor, I spent most of last night staring at the ceiling.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion overpower everything else.

I jolt awake what feels like a few minutes later. Except the light is different, and when I reach for my phone, the clock reads four thirty p.m.

There are also three missed calls from my mother.

Which—fuck.

I realize I haven’t updated my family since picking up the money yesterday morning.

Now that things are calm, the extent to which I have fucked up looms large and ominous in my mind.

I feel like I used to in the deepest throws of a hangover, when the fractured events of the last binge filter back in nauseating snippets. The idiotic things that you did. The people you pissed off or worried or hurt.

I open our family’s WhatsApp group to almost two days’ worth of unread messages.

Pear: Feeeeelix!!!! What is going on???

Prue : Are you a stateless person???

Dad: Were you able to get an emergency travel document? I found a contact at the High Commission who may be able to help.

Mum: Darling we’re so worried! Please check in!

Pear: You’re missing standup comedy night. Maybe you should try to swim and catch up with us.

Mum: Not funny.

And then, from late last night:

Prue: Felix WTF? Are you ok?? What is going on???

If the likes of Prue is expressing genuine concern for me, they must be very worried indeed.

Just like they were during the years of my failures and disappointments and benders. I can’t believe I have done this again.

I should call my mother, but I know she’ll hear the tone of my voice and immediately worry I’m backsliding. So I quickly type off a message:

Felix: So sorry, accidentally had my phone on do not disturb.

(A lie, but hopefully one they’ll buy.)

Felix: Everything’s fine.

Felix: I should have documents in two days, and then I can fly back to London.

Mum: Oh thank God!

Dad: Do you need more money?

I laugh to myself. I don’t know what he thinks I could have spent 10K on in thirty-six hours.

Felix: No, I’m good. Thanks.

Mum: At least you have Hope. Is she ok?

Felix: Yeah, we’re together.

Prue: Rather romantic, actually, marooned in paradise.

This stings. Under different circumstances, perhaps it would be.

I don’t respond.

I click through to a couple other unread texts from this morning. They’re from Sophie.

Sophie: Hey mate.

Sophie: Quick update for you.

Sophie: Everything is UNDER CONTROL but wanted you to know that Izzie quit.

“Fuck,” I hiss out loud.

Izzie is the manager of the Smoke and Gun. She’s worked there for years.

Sophie: I’m filling in and I have a few leads for a replacement.

Sophie: So don’t stress.

Don’t stress ? We’re already shorthanded with me away. There is no way Sophie has the capacity to run both businesses and cover the day-to-day at S&G.

Felix: Shit.

Felix: I’m coming back early.

Sophie: No! It’s all in hand. Enjoy your trip. I just wanted to let you know.

Felix: It’s fine. I was already planning on it. Long story.

Sophie: Ok… but truly don’t worry, it’s all sorted!

She knows me well. I keep an iron hand on the business because I’m obsessive about the details. When something goes off, so does my entire psychological balance.

I wish I were home.

I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic.

I reach in my pocket for nicotine gum, which always helps calm me down. But it’s not there. I search through our bags, and it’s not there either.

Not a great time to start withdrawing from my drug of choice, but I doubt they sell Nicorette at the hotel gift shop.

You could buy a pack of cigarettes , my evil brain suggests.

No. Bad idea. I associate smoking with drinking. If I have one, I might start craving the other.

I step into the shower and turn the water up to a temperature that threatens to scald me. As I shampoo my hair, I miss the “ocean” smell of the cruise ship bath products. What I would give for it to be two days ago, before I fucked everything up.

Or forty-eight hours in the future, when this whole mess will be, God willing, behind me.

Two nights.

I just have to get through two more nights, and I can leave.