Page 65 of Ship Happens

“You can’t pee on your own?”

She snorts. “I meant help me find Abigail.”

“I, uh . . .” Over Kaitlyn’s shoulder, he spies Jacob again.

Still staring right at him.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he says. “I think I’m going to get some air.”

“All right, we’ll hook up later.”

“Yeah,” he says, watching her as she walks away. For a beat, his gaze lingers on Jacob as he stands there. Then, turning on his heel, Owen makes his way outside. The deck is near the top of the ship, much smaller compared to the larger areas that it hangs over. But it’s quiet, and that’s all that matters to Owen right now.

For a few precious seconds, Owen’s able to stand there in the near silence, the wind blowing through his hair, chilling his ears, his nose no doubt turning red as he sniffles. From this high up, he’s able to watch the passengers who decided to skip the party, walking back to their rooms after a long day or coming out to watch the northern lights that are supposed to be visible at any moment now.

Owen breathes. In and out.

And for this little pocket of time, he actually feels okay.

Too bad the feeling can’t last.

Jacob falls in next to him, leaning against the railing of the balcony without a word, his shoulders maybe two inches from Owen’s, probably less.

“If you were staring at me any harder, I might have a hole in my head,” Owen says, echoing the same words he’s heard from Jacob, from Kaitlyn, from their mother. One of those Southern turns of phrase that he always loved.

“Sorry, I didn’t . . .” His voice has this lower quality to it. “Actually, I did mean to.”

“Jacob.”

“Sorry,” he repeats. “I think I’m drunk.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Owen asks.

“A shot of whiskey . . . about an hour ago.”

Owen feels an odd sense of relief. “Is that all?”

Jacob nods.

“I think you’ll be okay,” he says, reaching up to rub small circles on Jacob’s back. The gesture is meant to be a reassuring one, but Owen realizes far too late that it could be read as something more intimate. Maybe that’s what he wants.

“Sorry,” Jacob repeats, raking a hand through his hair. “I kept watching you dance with Kaitlyn, and I . . . I was trying to work up the courage to ask you.”

“To dance?” Owen presses further, feeling that fluttering in his stomach.

Jacob nods.

Owen has never known the man to get embarrassed. No matter where they were, no matter in what context, Jacob never bothered to hide the loudest or cringiest parts of himself. Owen had always loved him for that, the lack of effort it took for Jacob to just be himself. Seeing him now, ashamed of this question he wants to ask? This is brand new.

And it breaks Owen’s heart.

“Jacob?” Owen prompts, reaching to place his hand on top of Jacob’s where it’s wrapped around the railing, his knuckles white from how tight his chokehold on the guardrail is.

Jacob looks up slowly, first at Owen’s hand, and then at Owen.

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to dance?” Owen asks.