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“Sure. Anyway.” I check my watch, though I don’t pay attention to the numbers. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your pizza, so…”
“Thanks, Gwendolyn. For the delivery.”
“Sure.” I force a smile. “And hey, if you’re feeling better later, we’re going to check out karaoke. You should come along.” It’s a peace offering: inviting him to join us, knowing he probably won’t. A very safe peace offering.
“Uh, yeah. Maybe, I guess,” he says, which catches both of us off guard.
It’s the weirdest goodbye from there, with barely a wave, a noncommittal “see ya,” and me, power-walking away from his door.
Sawyer
Well, that was weird. Was Gwendolyn just being nice to me? First by bringing me a pizza, then by inviting me to karaoke later tonight?
There’s been some weird role reversal since our first meeting yesterday, and now she’s the fun one while I feel like the downer. I know she’s just trying to get to know me, and she has no way of knowing that her questions feel invasive. But regardless of her intent, I’m not ready to answer most of them. Getting some separation seemed to be the best option this afternoon, and avoiding dinner meant avoiding additional uncomfortable conversation.
Seemed is the key word here, because instead of being around other people and the distractions offered by the rest of the ship, I’ve been stuck in my room alone with my thoughts for hours. Maybe it’s that alone piece that had me considering inviting Gwendolyn in, or maybe it’s insanity. Regardless, I didn’t. Or maybe I did, sort of, with whatever weirdness happened around the doorway, and she took off. And that would be par for the course, I guess—being rejected.
It’s a nice enough night and the walls on the balcony keep the wind from feeling overpowering, so I’m able to comfortably enjoy the sunset and my pizza outside.
There’s something freeing about being out here, almost like a windows-down drive along back roads: wind in your hair, Bon Jovi blaring through the speakers, the openness ahead of you. Finally, for the first time in months, I have nothing ahead of me, but in the best way possible.
Out here, I finally feel relaxed. I feel like I can feel, like I don’t have to drown out my stress with the sound of footfalls on a treadmill or pavement. My concerns are lifted and carried off by each rolling wave. I don’t have to think; I can just be. It’s nice to not have to be in charge of something, to just let life happen for a few days. To let someone else steer the ship, quite literally.
Another helpful realization is that no one here knows me. I’m not the sum of my mistakes from back home; I’m just Sawyer. I’m the random guy on a cruise with his grandma. Perfectly normal. At least, as normal as any other guy on a cruise with his grandma.
I finish the pizza and enjoy a few more moments of the remnants of the sunset, but then the sky darkens and that openness I’d loved a few minutes ago turns into a black void. The nothingness feels oppressive. Luckily, I don’t have to dwell in it. I grab a long-sleeved shirt and head out in search of the one place that will make me feel less bad about myself: the karaoke bar.
Gwendolyn
“Thanks again for taking him some dinner,” Nancy says when she and Gram get to the table I’ve been holding for half an hour.
“Of course. How was Bingo?”
They look guiltily at each other, and Gram breaks her silence first. “We may have skipped Bingo.”
Normally I wouldn’t think much of Gram’s plans changing, but the sideways glances and the squirrely looks raise some red flags.
“Spill it, ladies. What were you up to?”
Nancy laughs and thrusts a foot my way, and her skin has the unmistakable sheen of a recent pedicure. “We treated ourselves to the spa,” she says, wagging her turquoise-trimmed toes at me.
“Don’t be mad,” Gram adds, like I’d hold it against her that they pampered themselves for an hour.
“I think it’s great. Just make sure I get a heads up if there’s a group outing for massages.”
Karaoke starts a few minutes later, and it’s exactly what we all expect: people who’ve spent far too much time at the bars already, ballads and drinking songs, and everything is off-key.
Gram nudges me and gives me a twinkling look—a ‘go show ’em’ look—and I know she wants me to sing, more for herself than for me. This is one of those times, just like at Books Off Broadway last year, when she wants me to put myself out there so she can brag and boast. Not that my singing is anything for her to brag and boast about, but if it means we don’t have to hear an old Meatloaf song from the handsy couple in the corner, I’ll happily sign up.
When it’s my turn, I grab the mic and ignore the lyrics screen, because I know “Castle on the Hill” by heart. It’s the best kind of karaoke song—one that was played almost hourly on the radio at the height of its popularity, a former top 10 that hasn’t gotten much attention in the past few years. The music starts, and the toe-tapping kicks in automatically in the crowd, along with the smiles of recognition. We all loved this song, and we’re happy to hear it again.
The third verse slows and the music quiets, and as I sing the lyrics, I scan the crowd. Gram’s beaming—the bragging and boasting are surely coming—and Nancy seems impressed, and the man sitting front-and-center is amenable to my performance.
Then my stomach twists, because there at the bar’s entrance, propped against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, is Sawyer Dawson. Thank goodness I’m not singing an angry breakup song—I’d hate to prove him right.
I finish the final chorus and give an over-the-top bow to the audience before returning to my seat with Gram and Nancy. Sawyer arrives at our table just after I do, just in time for Gram’s first round of gushing, and just in time for a bachelorette group on stage to warble out the first few lyrics of “Lady Marmalade.”
“Should we go?” Nancy asks, cringing at the act on stage. The girls giggle their way through their performance, entertaining each other more than they entertain the audience.
