Page 41 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

When I emerge from the shower, Hope is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling and smiling. She looks so content that I feel my own black mood even more acutely.

“Hey!” she says, like she’s happy to see me.

“Hey. How was the pool?”

“It was glorious. Although I did nearly capsize into a bunch of mean children on the rapids ride.”

I try to smile. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I did.”

“Miraculous. I’m gonna jump in the shower, and then I was thinking of going downstairs and grabbing a bite. Want to come?”

I’m not hungry, but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I can tell Hope is making an effort to be nice to me. I go with it.

“Yeah, great.”

She takes an epically long shower, which is unfortunate because it leaves me alone with my thoughts. I flip on the TV and half watch previews of pay-per-view movies to keep my brain from whirring out of control.

“You’re considering watching Paul Blart, Mall Cop ?” Hope asks when she comes out of the bathroom.

“Looks oddly charming.”

“Are you ready to go?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say.

“Do you mind eating inside? I’ve had too much sun.”

“Sure.”

We go downstairs and wander around getting rejected from restaurant after restaurant because we don’t have a booking.

“I didn’t realize you needed reservations,” Hope says. “Maybe we can eat at a bar.”

We find one called Sea Glass. I immediately hate it. It has aggressively patterned maroon carpeting and a wall of slot machines that blare out tinny, annoying music.

“This okay?” Hope asks.

“Sure. Fine.”

We grab seats at the bar amidst a crowd of people dressed up to the nines in resort wear .

“This hotel reminds me very much of a cruise ship,” I say to Hope.

“I know. There’s no escaping it.”

The bartender walks over to us and Hope orders a dirty gin martini.

“Excellent choice,” the bartender says.

I agree.

God, I’d love a drink right now.

I push the thought down, even as my mouth literally salivates at the idea of Hope’s drink. That icy hit of juniper mingled with salt. That immediate throb of alcohol hitting your bloodstream.

The sharpness of my longing is so terrifying it gives me chills. I haven’t felt this way in months—not since I attended my first wedding after getting sober and felt painfully envious of the people enjoying cocktails with the dancing. I left early.

I should do that now.

“You know what, I’m actually not hungry,” I say, standing abruptly. “Do you mind if I go back to the room?”

Hope looks at me with concern. “Are you feeling okay? You’re a little sweaty.”

In truth, I’m jonesing for nicotine and the desire for a drink is putting me on the verge of panic. But I’m not going to lay that on Hope.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Just exhausted.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Do you want me to bring you something back?”

“No, I’ll order room service later if I get an appetite.”

“Okay then. Get some more rest.”

I couldn’t rest if you drugged me.

I am electric with adrenaline.

I don’t go back to the room.

I ask the hostess where I can buy cigarettes and am directed to a store on one of the plazas ten minutes away. I speed walk there, and between the heat in the air and my brisk pace, I’m sweating through my new shirt by the time I reach the store.

I buy Marlboros and sit on a bench and light one with shaking hands.

The first drag makes me cough violently. Makes my mouth dry. Tastes disgusting.

I don’t let that stop me.

I smoke three in rapid succession.

And yeah, I was right about cigarettes making me crave booze, because now I’m fantasizing in lurid detail about an old-fashioned, one with bourbon and orange bitters, how it would cut the taste of ash and tar, flood me with—

I shouldn’t have done this. I need to stop. Must stop.

I toss the packet of cigarettes in the nearest bin and rush back to the hotel, dodging groups of merry tourists. When I get back to the room, my skin is cold under the sweat and my heart is pounding.

I’m so fucking anxious.

I’d love to call someone from my recovery group, but it’s past midnight in the UK. I collapse on the bed and google AA meetings in Nassau. There’s one tomorrow morning at ten a.m.

I just need to get through tonight.

I go out to the balcony and pace back and forth, trying to jangle out my nervous energy. The sun’s almost down, and I watch its last pink rays glinting off the sea, hating that sea, hating the notion of water itself, that treacherous substance that led me, somehow, to this state of collapse.

I’m so sad.

My eyes are wet—I’m not fully crying but only because I’m too anxious, not because I don’t want to. I grip the edge of the balcony and lean forward, trying to draw deeper breaths.

I wish there was someone to tell me this will pass, to take it one second at a time.

I wish there was someone to hold me.

And then, suddenly, someone is.