Authors: Kim Linwood
Crawling into bed, I wonder what Gavin’s up to. Did he eat dinner with the Captain? It’s almost eleven, so they should be done by now. Is he coming back at all? The thought of him flirting with someone else, maybe even going back to her room, brings tears to my eyes but I refuse to cry. I throw a pillow and a blanket on the couch just in case. More to make it obvious I’m not sharing the bed than to be nice.
My eyelids droop as soon as my head hits the pillow. I didn’t do much today, but emotionally, it’s been exhausting. Our birth control mistake, the fight, the
other
fight, finding out the Caldwells just have an asshole gene in the family tree somewhere. There’s been a lot to take in.
If I think too hard my chest still aches, and the bed feels cold and empty, but the sound of rain pounding against the windows lulls me to sleep.
I
cling to the rail of the front deck while the Golden Emperor of the Seas climbs one wave, then plunges over it, diving into the trough between swells, salty spray washing over me and threatening to knock me off my feet. Man versus nature. It’s raw and wild, and simpler than dealing with whatever the fuck is going on with me and Angie.
Rolling my head, I try to work the massive kink out of my neck. I should’ve ignored the bed stuff on the couch and climbed right in with her. Slid close behind her and made her mine again.
Except fuck me if I could do it when I saw her lying there. Sleeping, her face was relaxed and peaceful so I let her be. Look at me, actually containing my fucking urges, instead of fucking up. Again.
While we’re climbing the next wave, I risk letting go with one hand to brush hair out of my eyes. It’s plastered to my skin, soaked and sticking. We crest again, rushing down into the next valley. I scream into the storm, letting the wind and salty spray rip away my frustration.
Last night I almost didn’t go back. It would’ve been so easy to let some other gold-digger take me back to their room to fuck away my sorrows. Except I can’t stop thinking about her, and it drives me crazy. Her face when I accused her, her eyes when she walked away from me in the bar, her mouth stretched wide in ecstasy as my cock slid into her the first time.
She’s got a fucking free ride to Stanford, for Christ’s sake. And she actually wants to go. With that kind of drive, why the hell would she want a baby? And what does she need me for? It doesn’t fit, but it’s a lot easier to be suspicious than it is to open myself up to a lifetime of the shit my dad’s ex-wives throw at him.
But what if I fucked up? It’s not like I didn’t pack enough condoms to keep her happy until long after the cruise is over. I didn’t ask, and it pisses me off that this mess is as much my fault as hers. I hate fucking up.
What if Angie’s exactly what she looks like? A girl book-smart enough to get into med school, but naive enough to date a drugged up loser and only see the best in him. And maybe even worse, trust an asshole like me. What is it my anger management counsellor used to say?
Gavin, you’re projecting. You need to let it go.
Dr. Meriam’s voice sounds in my head like she’s standing right next to me. If she is, I hope she’s as fucking soaked as I am.
Everything brings me back to Angie.
Except my feet. It’s not like she’ll give me the fucking time of day now, even if I tried. But I want to see her. Touch her. Forget the last day and get back to what we had the other night. After we got married. I laugh, and spit out the mouthful of rain that comes with it. I’ve done some crazy shit, but nothing that compares to this trip.
Fuck, we had so much fun before this mess. I did at least. The teasing, the war of the words. All that delicious tension. Angie loved it too. She can’t tell me she didn’t. I carried her to bed that night, and when we finally came together it was fucking explosive. She rode my cock like it was made for her, and just thinking about it makes me hard.
A wave catches me full in the face, taking my breath away. It’s getting rougher out here. I love the storm, but I’m not fucking stupid. It’s time to get back inside before I get washed overboard. That’d be a shitty end to this trip. I wait for the next dip, then as soon as the spray passes me, I move, holding on to anything I can find as I go.
Which is a pain in the ass with a hardon. Shit. Even out in the storm, I can’t clear my head of Angie. I hear her voice so clearly over the thrum of the waves that it’s almost like she’s really out here.
“Help!”
Wait a fucking minute.
I
wake up just like I went to bed. Alone.
In the front room, the blankets are half on the couch and half on the floor. I try to pretend it doesn’t matter, but knowing he was here last night makes me feel a little better. Only a little though, because he’s gone again, and he never said a word. Did he check on me? Did he even care?
The floor heaves beneath my feet and I grab the wall for support. My stomach lurches right along with it, cutting off my train of thought. I remember that yesterday the lower levels felt more stable, so I head down to get something to eat and hopefully settle my stomach. I really hope I’m just seasick.
Something about riding the elevator in this weather terrifies me, so I take the stairs, clinging to the handrails all the way down. I’m starting to get why Mom hates boats. I thought ships this big were supposed to be pretty stable, but I guess when the weather gets bad enough, all bets are off. Still, just being out of the room and having a focus is helping. I’m already less likely to empty my stomach in the stairwell.
I reach the mid-decks, and the rocking’s a lot less pronounced. I’m just passing a porthole when movement draws my attention out in the rain. A flash of color moving down the deck towards the bow. Someone’s out there in this weather? I squint, trying to make out the shape. There
is
someone out there, a faint shadow weaving unsteadily away, but it looks like a dress fluttering in the wind, and... a walker? Mabel? Where’s Joyce?
Panic crushes what’s left of my seasickness. I need to help her, or whoever that is. There’s no way she’s getting back on her own, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her because I didn’t act fast enough. Well, it’s not going to happen. I’m going out there.
I brace against the heavy door, pushing it open with effort. I can barely do it when the weather’s good. With the wind against me, I almost don’t manage. How did Mabel get out there? It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t matter right now. Stepping out into the driving rain, I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt, only to have it ripped right back off by the wind. After a couple tries, I give up. Everything’s soaked already, anyway.
Holding on to anything I can find, I make my way towards the staggering figure, but it’s moving too fast. It’s the wind, blowing her away. Her wheels must be sliding on the wet deck. Jesus. I try to move faster without losing control myself. Bending low, I half run along the rail.
She seems impossibly far away.
Shit, shit, shit.
I’ll have to risk it. For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut and draw a deep breath, then I let go, charging after her while the deck tips scarily beneath me. Whenever I can, I grab onto something to steady myself, but even then I almost go down a couple of times.
I’m getting closer, but as if in slow motion, I watch her finally lose control and fall. The metallic crash of her walker is barely audible through the storm. Steeling myself, I rush forward as quickly as I can, adrenaline giving me strength.
I pray I’ll be able to get her back on her feet.
It’s only when I’m almost there that I realize what an idiot I am. Collapsed on the deck is a serving cart with a ripped parasol, knocked over by the wind, its wheels still spinning. I grab the slippery railing, half laughing, half sobbing. I just put my life in danger for a rogue piece of deck equipment. My only consolation is that nobody saw me, because now that I’m closer, it doesn’t look anything like a person.
The ship crests a wave and crashes down towards the next one, and only my death grip on the railing keeps me from going on my face. Shit, I might be in trouble. Now
I’m
the crazy person out in the storm, and the door isn’t even visible from this far forwards. I need to get inside before I’m launched overboard.
I give the cart a frustrated glare before I start the long journey back. God, I feel stupid. I think the storm agrees with me. With the wind in my face, it seems even angrier than it was on the way out, and my knuckles whiten on the rail while I try to keep my footing.
Hand over hand, I pull myself along, keeping my eyes firmly on the shadowy outline of the center of the ship. I got out here. I can get back. Doing my best to convince myself while the wind and rain tear at my face and the crashing of the sea roars in my ears, I drag myself closer, step by step.
Either the storm is getting worse, or my arms are getting tired. Every wave that spills over the railings puts me that much closer to losing my footing and going down. I’m so wet and cold that it hurts, and my grip is getting weaker. I grit my teeth in determination, but part of me just wants to sit down and give up.
I can do this.
Someone once told me that every seventh wave is bigger when it washes up on shore. As a kid, I used to count them on the beach, running up the sand every time I got to seven, expecting it to come rushing further than the ones before. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t, but maybe I was counting them wrong. It must be a seventh wave that suddenly washes over the ship, tearing my feet out from under me and ripping my grip loose from the railing.
I scream and my mouth fills with water. Scrambling for anything to hold on to, I get my fingers around the legs of one of the deck-mounted tables, but not without banging my forearm against one of the others. That’s going to bruise in the morning, but bruises heal. Getting washed off the side of the ship? Much worse. Crawling under the table, I wrap both of my arms around the leg and cling to it for dear life. I’d hoped I’d get a little cover, but the rain’s going straight sideways. Doesn’t matter. There’s no part of me left that isn’t completely drenched.
Now what? I’m close enough that I can almost see the door, but new waves rush by, and I don’t think I can manage to actually walk the rest of the way. So near, and yet too far. I don’t know what to do, so I cry for help. No one’s going to hear me, but I have to try.
“Help!” The first time, all I get is a mouthful of brine that cuts the sound right off. Sputtering and coughing, I spit, trying to get the raw taste of it out of my mouth. I try again, this time waiting for a wave to pass by before I yell. “Help!”
I don’t know who I expect to answer. A guardian angel? A crew member taking a walk in the stormy weather? Captain Chuck? I guess I expect nothing, which is exactly what I get. My voice is lost in the rumble of the storm, carried away by the wind. If someone was standing right in front of me, I’m not sure they’d hear me. It’s only the refusal to give up that millions of years of evolution have instilled in me that keeps me yelling until my throat hurts.
No one is coming. I need to save my strength and try it on my own, before I give up and let go. I’m soaked clean through and my teeth are chattering. My eyes sting, and I can’t tell if it’s the rain or my frustrated tears. The door seems impossibly far away, but I need to make it.
It’s now or nothing. Drawing a deep breath, I let go of the table and shimmy out into the open. Getting to my feet, I cling to the wall next to me, trying to keep my legs from giving out.
I’m never going to make it. Yes, you will.
I refuse to end up a tragic footnote in the next issue of ‘Cruising Life’.
Right. I swallow the huge lump in my throat and square my shoulders. Just one last burst of energy, then I’ll be safe. All I need to do is get inside, then I can go back upstairs, take a nice warm shower and pretend this whole thing never happened. Everything’s going to be perfect, or at least no more messed up than it was.
You can do this, Angie.
I go. Running into the wind, it feels like Poseidon’s cold, wet hands are trying to pull me back. I get at least two, maybe three steps, before a wall of water crashes over me and knocks me off my feet. I should’ve counted to seven.
The hard deck knocks the air out of my lungs as I go right on my back. Streaks of pain ratchet through me, making me cry out.
More bruises. Not like it’ll matter if I don’t get back inside. I’m not sure how, when I can’t even get back on my feet. My fingers look for handholds, but there’s nothing, and for several long moments I lie there, buffeted by the water rushing along the deck and trying not to cry. I’m not doing a very good job of it. My eyes close.
Something clutches at my upper arm, and I panic. Images of giant octopi and sharks flash against the insides of my eyelids. I scream, but the grip doesn’t let go, instead pulling me closer. Instinctively, I struggle, until I hear the voice.
His
voice.
“J
esus, Angie. Calm the fuck down. I’m just trying to help. Unless you hate me so much you’d rather drown.” Not waiting for me to answer, Gavin gets an arm under my armpit and pulls me up close.
I cry and cling to him, too exhausted and relieved to even think about being mad at him. “What are you doing here?” My throat is raw, and even this close I’m not sure he can hear my raspy voice.
“How about we talk about that later, when we’re not being washed around and your lips aren’t quite so blue, alright?” Wrapping one arm tightly around me, he grabs the wall next to us for support and pulls both of us up like my extra weight is nothing. Icy water rushes past us across the deck. “Can you stand?”
I don’t answer right away, because I have no idea. I grab his arm, clinging to it for support while I test my legs. When they don’t immediately give out, I swallow and nod.
“Good. We’re going to walk slowly together, alright? I’ll hold along here, and you hold on to me. I’ve got you.” His voice is calm, and I use it to center myself. If he can keep his cool, then I will too. He leans in and speaks in a lower voice. “Are you ready?”