Page 47 of Total Dreamboat

Hope

The flight from Nassau to New York is somehow only three hours long.

It’s dumbfounding that the whole time I was stranded, I was so close to home.

The last week was like a fever dream, and it has left me feeling the way a real fever would—wrung out, weak, and utterly numb.

I don’t want to spend what little remains of my money on a taxi, so I juggle my plastic shopping bags of random possessions on a bus and then two subways back to my studio.

It’s a ten-minute walk from the train station to my building, and it’s just as hot and muggy in New York as it was in the Bahamas.

I’m thoroughly miserable by the time I’m approaching my block.

And then I see Lauren sitting on my stoop.

I blink.

The Romance of the Sea is still sailing through the Caribbean. Lauren isn’t due back until tomorrow.

She sees me, stands up, and waves.

The sun gleams off her perfectly blown-out blond hair. She’s so tall and beautiful, and she’s looking at me with such profound care, that I drop my bags on the sidewalk and run to her. I want to throw myself into her arms and fall completely apart.

She descends the steps. “Hopie,” she says. “Hi, sweetheart.”

She pulls me into the world’s biggest hug. For such a slight person, she has the strength to squeeze the breath out of me.

I squeeze her back.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I left the cruise early so I could meet you. I thought you might need some moral support. Not to mention your phone and your housekeys.”

“Oh, I was going to borrow the super’s. But thank you.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I still feel like a complete shithead. But I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” I say. “Even when you’re the absolute worst.”

“Are you okay?” she asks me. “You don’t look right.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I feel woozy. Between the heat and my exhaustion and dehydration from the plane and the crying, I feel like I’m going to faint.

Lauren unlocks my apartment, which thankfully is on the garden level, because I don’t think I’d have it in me to climb stairs.

My studio is hot and stale after ten days of no air-conditioning in the intense August heat.

I sit down on my bed. Lauren turns on the window unit and gets me a glass of water.

“It’s stifling in here,” she says. “Why don’t we take an Uber to my place. You can nap in my guest room. Or stay over. As long as you want.”

We always hang out in her West Village penthouse rather than my tiny studio. But right now, I want to be in my own space. I want to be home.

To be in my life. Not someone else’s.

“I think I need to stay here and sleep in my own bed. For like twenty straight hours. The last few days were rough.”

“You weren’t restored by Atlantis?” she asks.

“That part was nice. Until Felix ruined it.”

She holds up a finger. “Um, girl, wait. What happened?”

“God,” I groan. “How much time do you have?”

She sits down beside me and takes my hand. “All the time in the world.”

I tell her everything that happened, beat by beat, concluding with Felix’s assertions about my need to figure out my life.

“I can’t believe he would say something like that,” Lauren fumes.

“Fool me twice, shame on me, though, right? I should have kept my distance after the Instagram thing. Obviously he doesn’t think very highly of me. Not sure why I let myself believe that would change in three days.”

She shakes her head. “What a dick. And it’s shocking because he seemed so infatuated with you. Like totally gone.”

“He has a knack for seeming that way right before he assassinates your character.”

“Well, he can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned.”

I close my eyes. “I liked him so much, Lauren. What is wrong with me?”

“You’re a romantic,” she says. “You have a big, fat heart. It’s a good thing. And we’re going to find you someone who deserves it.”

“Not any time soon. Between this and Gabe, my big, fat heart can’t take any more.”

“Um, so about Gabe…” She pauses, like she needs to say something but doesn’t want to upset me.

“What about him?” I ask warily.

“It’s just… I’ve been thinking about how Felix found my posts. You said someone DM’d them to him, right?”

“Yeah. Some anonymous account.”

“Well, it’s been nagging at me. It doesn’t add up. I mean, if one of his friends happened to follow me and saw his picture, why would they send it anonymously? Wouldn’t they just be like ‘Hey dude, are you aware you’re getting scammed?’”

“I had the same thought,” I say.

“So I was thinking… and this is kind of dark but I can’t get it out of my head… Gabe is the only person who definitely follows me that would have known you were on the ship.”

I sit bolt upright in bed.

“Holy shit. You’re right.”

“He was obviously jealous at karaoke. And he saw the two of you leave together.”

“Right. Oh my God .”

She sucks her teeth. “Yeah.”

“Do you really think he’d be petty enough to do something like that?”

“Maybe. The karaoke thing was unhinged. It’s not like he was the picture of rational stability.”

My brain is trying to actively reject the idea that someone I once loved would be so devious. But Lauren’s right. Who else?

“If he did that, he’s psychotic,” I say.

“Do you want me to confront him?”

“God, no. I never want to engage with him again. I want to go to sleep and forget he and Felix and the Romance of the Sea ever existed.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “How about I chill here in case you still feel weak when you get up?”

Her concern for me is sweet, but I desperately want to be alone. I need to process. And before that, I need to pass out.

“No, I’m fine,” I say. “I should rest. I didn’t sleep last night.”

“All right, sugar. Call me when you wake up. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I sleep for six hours, wake up and order a whole ass pizza, inhale two thirds of it, and go immediately back to bed.

I’m rudely awakened at noon by the incessant screeching of my buzzer.

Blearily, I go to the intercom. “Who is it?” I ask.

“Gabe.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I need to talk to you. Can I please come in?”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Please, Hope? Just for five minutes.”

Maybe confronting him is what I need. Yelling at him actually sounds energizing.

“Fine,” I say. I buzz him in.

He appears at my door. He has his suitcase.

“Why do you have luggage?” I ask.

“I came straight from the airport. Took the earliest flight. I heard what happened to you. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say curtly. “Go home.”

He looks confused. “Are you angry with me or something?”

“I know what you did,” I say acidly.

He looks taken aback. “What I did?”

“Yes.”

“What did I do?”

“You sent Felix Lauren’s video. To make me look bad.”

His face goes slack.

Guilty.

“Fuck,” he finally says. “How did you know?”

“Process of elimination.”

He leans back wearily against the wall. “Okay. Yeah. I did send it.”

“What is wrong with you? You realize that is batshit behavior, right?”

He slumps down onto the floor.

“What are you doing? Get up.”

“Hope, I was desperate,” he says. “I went all the way to the Caribbean to see you, just to find you, like, besotted with some other guy. I needed a chance.”

This doesn’t compute.

“What do you mean you went there to see me? I thought you were there for Maeve’s birthday.”

“Well, that’s what I told her. But I knew you were going because Lauren posted about it. I thought if I came along, it would be a good way to reconnect. You know, two people trapped on a boat. Lots of time to talk. To rekindle something.”

My veins are like icicles, sharp and freezing. I feel dangerous.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

“I thought it would be a romantic gesture.”

“It’s scary that you think that, Gabe. It’s stalkerish.”

“It was the only way to get time with you. You blocked me. You moved. Lauren wouldn’t tell me anything. You’re not on social media. I just wanted to apologize.”

“So you decided to entrap me on a boat? Do you not understand that that is frightening and insane?”

“Well, out of context, I guess, but—”

“The context is that you literally did that! I want you to leave or I will call the police.”

He holds up his hands. “I will, I will, Jesus,” he says. “But first just let me say one thing: I did it because I love you. I’m in love with you.”

His expression makes it clear that he thinks this declaration will melt me.

It doesn’t.

“I miss your laugh. I miss our road trips to Martha’s Vineyard. I miss reading your stories and seeing you in the morning and taking walks in Prospect Park and cooking big dinners and—”

“Stop!” I interrupt him. “I get it. And I don’t care.”

“I want to get back together,” he says. “That’s all I was trying to communicate by seeing you. I’m sorry if my approach was wrong, but I meant it earnestly.”

“Listen,” I say. “Even if I were dying for a relationship, there are no circumstances under which I would want one with you. You spun this bullshit dream life that you didn’t really want, and then you kicked me out of your apartment and fucked me over. There’s no going back from that.”

“That dream wasn’t bullshit, Hope. We could be so good together. A power couple. You could quit your job and finally write your book.”

“I don’t want your help. I don’t want you . What I want is for you to go, and never to contact me again.”

He sighs and lowers his head. “Well, I had to try.”

I want to shake him. “This was not the appropriate way of trying.”

He looks at me sadly. “You know,” he says, “I really do want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

And then he walks out the door and I lock the deadbolt behind him, ever so grateful that I have become the kind of person on whom this type of thing doesn’t work.

My phone rings. My mother.

Fucking hell.

I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. But I know she’s expecting to hear from me now that the cruise is over, and I don’t want to worry her.

“Hey Mom,” I say brightly, trying not to betray my wrung-out emotional state.

“Hi dear,” she says. “I wanted to hear how the rest of your trip went.”

I consider lying, because the prospect of telling her the whole story exhausts me. But she’ll find out eventually and be hurt that I didn’t tell her.

I decide to edit it down.

“It was a bit of a doozy,” I say.

“A doozy?” she asks. “What do you mean?”

I tell her the abridged story. Felix. Gabe showing up.

Getting stranded. I leave out the torrid sex parts and refrain from mentioning that Felix and I briefly reconciled in the Bahamas, and then parted on bitter terms. But even without those details, the whole tale is so absurd that, by the end of it, we’re both laughing in disbelief.

“Well, those are definitely memories that will last a lifetime,” Mom says. “You could write a book about it.”

“Martha?” a man’s voice calls from her side of the phone.

He sounds like my father.

“Talking to my daughter!” she calls back.

“Is that Dad?” I ask. “Are you still at the cottage?”

“No, I’m back in Burlington.” She pauses. “It’s actually the new man I’m seeing.”

“You’re dating ?” I ask. “Since when?”

“Oh, it’s recent,” she says vaguely. “Nothing serious.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No. But he’s a wonderful person.”

“Good,” I say. “I want that for you.”

And I want it for myself too.

I want better for myself than Gabe Newhouse, a man who never deserved me.

I want better for myself than Felix Segrave, a man who won’t take a chance on me.

And I want better for myself than the person I’ve become—this girl who has resigned herself to a small, dissatisfying life.

I want happiness. I want fulfillment. I want love.

And right here, in this moment, I resolve that I am going to get it.