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Instead, Sawyer shrugs. “It would be nice, you know. To get along for them. It’s only ten days.”
Finally an elevator arrives. A crowd pours out and I dart to the back corner, holding onto the railing. “Twelve, please,” I tell Sawyer, as a family and two other couples pile into the elevator with us.
Sawyer slides in next to me and pulls one of my hands from the grab-bar, inserting his massive body between me and the glass wall. He puts a hand on my hip and nudges me away from the side, and I hate that he’s turned an elevator ride—my escape route—into something close and physical and almost intimate.
We stop on three different decks on the way up, and the car empties along the way. When it’s just us, I move to the opposite corner and grip the bar again.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” he asks, perfectly calm, leaning back against the glass wall with his ankles crossed and his arms folded against his turquoise T-shirt.
“Getting in my space like that. Encroaching. It’s rude to touch people and move them without their consent.”
His forehead creases with worry. “I was only trying to help,” he says, as the doors open again on deck eleven.
“Help with what? Getting shrimp cocktail fingers on my favorite dress?”
He backs out of the elevator, the worry lines replaced again by that ridiculous smirk. “Trying to keep you and your short dress out of view from all the people below you as you ride the glass elevator.”
I jump away from the wall and smooth my dress behind me, twisting to make sure I’ve put enough space between me and the glass that no one can see up my dress anymore. By the time I turn back to Sawyer, the doors have closed, and he’s gone.
Gwendolyn
“You really should join us for the comedy show.”
Gram made it to the suite about ten minutes after I did, wondering why I took off so quickly. I’ve already changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, with my hair pulled into a messy top knot and tortoise-shell glasses replacing my contacts, my laptop open and my legs stretched out on the couch.
“I’m good here, thanks. But you and Nancy should go have fun.”
“Well, I’m sure Sawyer will be there, too.”
“Like I said. I wish you and Nancy the best.”
She huffs. “Gwendolyn. You were not raised to act this way toward a perfectly kind young man.”
Because I don’t want to burst her bubble about her BFF’s obnoxious grandson, I bite my tongue about the pool encounter and that smug elevator experience. I lower the laptop lid and stretch my arms high overhead—a power pose I learned about at work—and simply say, “I was just surprised. I didn’t like being blindsided.”
Gram nods. “Fair. But he was just as surprised as you were, and he still seemed to have a good time.”
Yeah, a good time making fun of me. “I thought this trip was for you and me, so we could connect and relax and I could write. But now the focus seems to have shifted, so I go home with a boyfriend instead of a finished draft.”
“But what a souvenir,” she smiles, nudging my shoulder. All I hear is, ‘You could do worse.’ “Just try to have an open mind, okay Gwen?”
I force a smile, because there’s no fighting Gram on this. There’s just faking it, playing nice when I have to and making up an excuse why it doesn’t work out when the cruise is over. “Sure. Fine. But I’m in the zone, so I think I’ll still skip the comedian tonight.”
“Sure, dear. Whatever you need. It starts at nine in the forward theater, if you change your mind.” She kisses the top of my head and takes off for Nancy’s cabin and the game of dominoes they’ve also invited me to, like that would sell me on joining in their evening adventures. Gram sure knows how to pre-game.
I write for a bit, but so many thoughts are swimming around my head that I still can’t make progress. Plus, I’m hungry again, and I’ve heard great things about cruise ship pizza.
The main deck is easily walkable; most guests are in the bars that line the walkway, or at the comedy show or the family movie night upstairs at the outdoor pool. I wait in line for a personal Hawaiian pizza and stroll with my box past one bar where, sure enough, it’s eighties karaoke night. The thought of Nancy and Gram duetting to Cindy Lauper fills my mind, and I can’t help but laugh.
I’ve brought my laptop, too, and I work my way to the back of the ship where I’d seen a high-top table earlier, just outside a bistro, and I open the computer and the pizza box next to each other. For an hour I’m in the zone—the zone I lied to Gram about being in earlier—and only notice him when he starts speaking.
“Do you ever stop working?”
I wish I wasn’t mid-bite of pizza, with a room-temp cheese blob dangling from my lips, but you don’t always get what you want. With my mouth full, my eyes have to do all the talking; I hope their dramatic roll says “Keep on walking.”
If it does, he ignores it (I’m shocked!), and he leans across the table, twisting his head to see what I’m working on.
