Page 43 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I wake up with the light at six a.m. and immediately look over at Hope, who’s sleeping peacefully in the other bed. I have an overwhelming longing to crawl in next to her and take her in my arms.

If I was infatuated with her on the cruise ship, last night shifted my feelings into something more solid. I can talk to her about real, painful things. I can trust her in a moment of crisis. I can lie in bed beside her watching a children’s movie and feel utterly safe.

But I need to take care not to confuse her kindness to me last night with a rekindling of something romantic. Even if she welcomed my affection, my breakdown yesterday was a blaring siren urging me to be cautious. I need to take care of myself. I need to get steady.

That doesn’t make it easy to walk past her without brushing my hand on her arm. Without tucking the covers up around her. Without placing a kiss on her forehead.

It doesn’t mean I don’t want more. It just means this last day will be bittersweet. A farewell to something that might have been so good, were only the circumstances—and me—different.

I go out on the balcony and ring my sponsor, an Irish guy in his fifties named Nick who’s been sober for twenty years.

He answers on the first ring. “Felix, lad.”

It’s reassuring to hear his voice—both gruff and lilting.

“Heya, Nick,” I say.

“And how’s the holiday treating you?”

“Oh, I’ve had better.”

“Uh-oh. What’s happened?”

I tell him about being stranded, my near slip, breaking down. He tells me to remember to accept what I can’t control, to surrender to a higher power. And to do what I can to ground myself in my recovery plan even amidst the chaos: take it a minute at a time. Exercise today. Go to a meeting.

“And Felix,” he adds. “You’ve done well. Remember to take pride in that. You’re strong, boyo.”

I thank him, then hesitate. “There’s something else.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“The woman I’m here with—the one I met on the ship. Before we got stranded, we were sleeping together. I think I have feelings for her.”

There’s a pause as he considers this. He’s aware of my fears around dating. How I associate love with ruin. “Is she a drinker?” he asks.

“Well, she’s not sober. But she doesn’t drink… problematically.”

“And are you comfortable with that? Take a moment. Think about it.”

I do.

“Yeah, that’s not the problem,” I say. “It’s just I haven’t felt like this since before—maybe ever. And I know it’s too soon for me. And it’s devastating, to meet this person and not be able to pursue it.”

“Are you certain that you’re not being too hard on yourself?” he asks. “You met the girl a few days ago. You could take it slow. You don’t have to marry her tomorrow.”

I get a wave of anxiety at the idea of marrying anyone and have to take a deep breath. I blow it out slowly. “Well, it’s over anyway,” I say. “I fucked it up. And even if it wasn’t, she’s American. Lives in New York.”

“You know, Felix,” he says, “it’s healthy of you to be cautious. To know your patterns. But it would be a shame to see you deny yourself love forever.”

“I’m not saying I’m in love .”

“Nor am I, lad. You may well never see this girl again, or maybe you will. Not for me to say. The important bit is to figure out what you really want—not just what you’re afraid of.”

“Right,” I say. I don’t add that what I actually want has led me to destruction in my past so many times that I don’t fully trust myself to know what’s healthy from what’s reckless.

That’s not something Nick can solve for me.

“Listen, Felix,” he says, “you’re right not to get swept up in something so quickly it will knock you off your feet. But don’t close yourself off to things that might make you happy.”

Happy.

This is something I’ve rarely been able to call myself. At home I feel secure, steady. Content, even.

Not happy.

But I did feel happy this week—at least before everything went to shit.

Hope made me happy.

Still does.

Which makes me wonder if I’m being too protective of myself. Ruling out the possibility of joy on the basis of the man I was, rather than the one I’ve become.

“That’s really good advice,” I tell Nick. “Thank you.”

“Not at all, any time. Now go on and sort yourself out. Call me if you need me, even if it’s late.”

“I will. Take care.”

I follow Nick’s advice to the letter. I go down to a coffee shop for espresso and breakfast, then take a long, fast walk on the beach, during which I call Sophie to check in on how things are going.

She’s chipper and clearly has the business under control.

Hearing her confidence and her updates about this and that assuages my nagging sense that things must be going wrong without me.

“We’re quite all right here, mate,” she says. “You’re the one stuck in the Bahamas with no passport, so worry about your own lot.”

I laugh. “Fair, enough,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”

“If His Majesty’s government will let you. Good luck at the border.”

Next, I stop at the concierge desk to book a trip to see the pigs this afternoon. I go back to the room to tell Hope. She’s still sleeping deeply, so I leave her a note.

Went to a meeting—back by noon. I booked us a pig excursion leaving at 1 pm.

It feels… insufficient. I add: Thanks for last night .

And then I scrawl: xx .

It’s fairly anodyne as far as declarations of affection go, but it’s the safest way to convey the warmth that I feel for her. I leave the room before I’m tempted to wake her up and kiss her for real.

I take a taxi to a meeting on the mainland.

I don’t speak beyond introducing myself, but I take comfort in being surrounded by likeminded people, all of whom know exactly what it feels like to experience what I’ve been going through.

We recite the serenity prayer at the end of the meeting: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I know this is something I may always struggle with.

But saying the words is a good reminder of what I’m trying to achieve.

By the time I get back to the hotel room, around noon, I feel centered. Hope is up and dressed and munching on a sandwich.

“Hey!” she says. “How did it go?”

“I feel a lot better,” I say.

“Good. Hungry? I got you lunch.”

“Famished, actually. Thanks.”

She hands me a paper-wrapped ham and cheese toastie, still warm, and a bag of crisps. There is also a shopping bag on the table bulging with green apples.

“Uh-oh. Seasick again?” I ask.

Hope laughs. “For the record, I’m never eating an apple again. These are for the pigs. According to the brochure in the lobby, they like fruit. Apples were all they had at the sandwich shop.”

“Kind of you to provide such a feast.”

“You know I go big when I order food. And I want the pigs to like me. I’m not above bribery.”

“You know, not to dampen your enthusiasm, but I’ve been around my fair share of pigs, and they’re quite smelly. You might not want to get too close.”

“And why is it that you hang out with pigs?”

“I meet all my farm suppliers personally. And we Brits cherish our pork.”

“Well, anyway, the pigs swim in the ocean all day. They probably smell like mermaids.”

“And how do mermaids smell?”

“Briny.”

We meet our tour group and trek out to the beach, where we’re catching a boat that will take us to Rose Island.

“Excited to get back on the sea?” I ask Hope.

“Honestly it’s a bit triggering. I didn’t think this through.”

“Let’s try very hard not to miss the boat back this time.”

She shivers. “Don’t even joke about that.”

The trip to the island is about twenty-five minutes, and when we get there the crystal-clear shallows are teaming with small- to medium-sized swine frolicking about with half-submerged tourists. Many of them are gamely posing for pictures with people holding selfie sticks.

“They seem to enjoy modeling,” I observe.

“Oh my God, look at that!” Hope says, pointing to a man hand-feeding a carrot to a speckled pink piglet, who chomps it slowly and with relish. “Come on, let’s go make friends.”

She wades to the beach with her bag of apples and immediately commences flirting with every pig in sight. She, and the creatures she is so entranced by, are adorable.

“Can you take our picture?” she asks me, as she scratches a brownish-pink pig on the snout.

I take many.

Then she tosses me an apple and demands I feed a pig too. She makes me give my phone to a fellow tourist and requests a picture of both of us with a very large, speckled swine who snorts into Hope’s neck.

Once we’ve thoroughly documented our adventure, I stash my phone back on the boat and we get into the water to swim. The pigs frolic around us.

“They’re like especially friendly dogs,” I say.

“I’ve had cats for a decade that have liked me less,” she says.

“You have cats?”

“No, not right now. I meant as a kid. Do you have any pets?”

“No. But I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a dog.”

“What kind?”

“A rescue. Something big.”

“To scare off burglars?”

“Yes. I’m terrified of burglars.”

“I’ve always wanted a dog. But my apartment’s too tiny and I’m gone for so many hours it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Yeah. I’d take my dog to work with me.”

“You can take a dog to a pub?”

“Of course. A resident hound is an enticement to stay and have another pint.”

“I suppose I’ll add a loyal hound to my English country dream.”

Her English country dream. My English country dream. The one I was fantasizing about the morning I found the Instagram posts.

How far gone I was in that moment still scares me. But I can’t stop myself from asking: “Would you actually move to the UK?”

Her eyes dart to mine, tentative. Like talking about this with me makes her nervous.

“I would,” she says slowly. “If I had a reason to. Unfortunately they aren’t just handing out visas to random American publicists.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I briefly imagine a different life. One where I could be her reason.

Which is why it is imperative that I change the subject.