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We pass through the concourse, crowded and congested with deal-seekers shopping the two-for-one T-shirt sales and browsing discounted watches.
“Here,” she says, once we’ve woven our way through a cluster of people fawning over $9.99 jewelry. Gwen darts up the stairs and collapses onto a bench that overlooks the mayhem below. “Let’s people watch.”
“Here?”
“Um…” she gestures dramatically at the scene below. A drop of coffee spills out from her straw and lands on her wrist. “Yeah, here. Do you not see the characters before us?”
We spend the next twenty minutes crafting backgrounds and telling stories about the unlucky, unsuspecting crowd below.
“How did you get so good at this?” I ask her, because just like yesterday morning, her stories are detailed and feasible.
She shrugs. “I’ve had a lot of time to study people, I guess.” It seems like there’s a story there, but she bites her lip like she’s holding it in. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s fair that Gertrude—” (our name for a tall, middle-aged woman with fire-red, Texas-sized hair that we keep circling back to) “—gets to monopolize the jewelry station like that. Bianca clearly wants a turn.” She nods her head toward a lithe blonde who keeps craning her neck to see what is being offered at a fifty-percent discount.
“Well, Gertrude isn’t worried about anyone but herself these days,” I add. “Ever since she found out Rex was cheating on her, she’s focused on número uno down there and doesn’t give a shit about Bianca’s or anyone else’s feelings.”
I turn to Gwen, expecting her to wear a smile that matches my own, but her expression has shifted. Her eyes narrow and her jaw sets, and she smoothes her dress over her lap.
“Alright, enough of that. I could use a drink. You?” She’s on her feet before I can object, and I’m following her to the elevators. She pushes the button four times, then leans an arm against the wall to brace herself while she massages her foot. Luckily these elevators are not glass, because when the door opens she presses the button for the pool deck, moves immediately to the back corner, and crosses her arms.
“Did I say something?”
She avoids my gaze and stares at the changing number over the doors. “No. I was just tired of the game.”
It feels hollow, and as much fun as I had teasing her at dinner, I get the sense that now isn’t a good time to push back.
We find two chairs together at the pool bar and lose track of both time and the number of drinks that get passed our way. Gwen finishes a pineapple martini and waves for another within five minutes of our arrival. A fan recognizes her and buys her a glass of wine. A woman in the shortest dress I’ve ever seen, white and strapless, wearing a pink sash that says Bachelorette, stumbles over in too-high heels and smudged eye makeup and offers to buy me a shot if I will just kiss her cheek for a scavenger hunt she and her friends are doing. I look to Gwen for approval (or at least for confirmation that she won’t murder or lecture me later), and there’s a twinkle in her eye before she cheerily announces, “Only if you buy me one, too!”
I read concern on Maggie’s face as she and Nan towel off after their time in the pool. I nod confirmation that I’ll take care of Gwen and make sure she makes it back to the room safely.
“Who knew Sawyer Dawson was such a player, kissing all the women on this ship.” Gwen hiccups a laugh, twirling the shot glass on the counter.
“Well, to be fair…”
Her eyes shift between mine. “What?”
“I mean, if we’re being accurate, you kissed me.”
She drops her gaze to my mouth, then raises it to my eyes. “Maybe.” She bites her lip and leans in, dangerously close, and her breath is warm and fruity on my face. “But you kissed me back.” I only realize my face is moving toward hers when she cackles and pulls back. “You didn’t even deny it! And I think you want to do it again.”
“Not even close.”
“Really? So if I did this—” she traces the hairline around my ear, “or this—” she slides off her stool and positions herself between my legs, her hand on my thigh, “you wouldn’t want to kiss me? Even a little?”
I do. God, I do. “Even if I wanted to kiss you back, Gwen, it would require you to kiss me first. Are you going to kiss me? Do you want to kiss me again?” The strap of her dress has found its way over the smooth edge of her shoulder, making her neckline plunge further than it should. I hook a finger into the silver fabric and replace it. All I want is to kiss her. Whether returning a kiss or initiating it, I want to. And I want her to be stone-cold sober so she can tell me to touch her, to let my fingers linger at her collarbone, to kiss her. But she’s not, and she can’t, so I won’t.
Her eyes dart to the place my finger briefly touched, and before I know it she’s back on her stool. “No. I don’t want to kiss you again. I don’t even think I like you all that much.” Hiccup. “You’re kind of annoying.”
She orders another drink and seems to decide that this is all the discussion we need on the topic. Her demeanor changes and there’s no attempt at being the sultry version of herself she just showed me.
Quiet Gwen from the first few days of this trip is gone, and in her place is this version of her I only glimpsed the tiniest bit of at karaoke: she’s loud and laughing and unapologetic. She sings along to most of the songs that come on the speakers behind the bar, and she has a story for each one about some random life moment connected to it. And she tells each story with this energy I haven’t seen from her before.
I know she’s drunk, but I feel that maybe she’s also her. Uninhibited. Messy (there’s a stain on her dress from a grenadine-soaked cherry she dropped on herself). Honest (she told me twice that she thought I was an ass that first day but now she’s not so sure). Funny (she makes the two guys in Eagles jerseys and cargo shorts next to her crack up when she leans over to tell them her favorite knock-knock joke). And fucking beautiful (see: all of the aforementioned traits).
I get an alert through the ship’s in-app messaging system while Gwen’s telling me about the time she thought she was going to get arrested because she ate a grape at the grocery store before paying. Maggie’s making sure we’re still okay; she’s going to bed and was just a little worried. I message her back that things are fine, and I’ll bring Gwen back soon.
The phone display shows that it’s well after midnight and Gwen doesn’t want to go, but once I remind her she can carry her piña colada with her, she’s fine. I help her off her stool, and she eases down on her heels with the steadiness of a fresh-from-the-birth-canal deer. She knows she can walk, but she questions the how part.
Her first few steps are… successful. She makes progress, gets a few feet closer to the elevators than she was before. I offer to carry her glass—which she agrees to as long as I promise to let her have a sip whenever she wants one—and follow behind her as we make our way along the freshly cleaned floor. We’re halfway there when her foot slips on a wet patch and she reaches out for something to steady her. What she finds is my free hand, and she stares at it for a moment, turning it over in front of her like she’s never seen a hand before. Then she weaves our fingers together, beams her sparkling eyes right into mine, and gives a wicked smile.
