Page 29 of The Idiot

A balloon of sadness inflates inside my body as I follow the bouncing cheeks in front of me. It feels like I’m marching toward a funeral, a death that will erase Jesse. Maybe not Jesse per se, but that misguided flame in my heart that’s burning for him, like walking into this mixer will cheapen the purity of the feelings that just crashed into me like a tidal wave. Ineedto snuff out that foolish flame, though. I’m the only one fueling it, and I can’t go back to Wenatchee with it still burning.

Inhaling a deep breath, I take in ship’s scent, the sea, the happy trio, and their leather. Music and the sound of voices, masculine voices of every pitch, waft up the stairway as we descend to the lower deck. It’s the familiar ambiance of Rouge but multiplied, calming me with its familiarity, waters that I know how to navigate.

Maybe I’ll have the time of my life. Maybe I’ll meet someone who likes hunting and ABBA. Someone who thinks apple growing is interesting and knows teasing the frenulum can be even more erotic than deep-throating.

Huffing at my forced optimism, I sigh and feel some of the tension leave my body at the sight of a sea of bare-chested men in the ballroom. Who knows? Stranger things have happened—like falling for a clueless straight guy.

Bidding my escort farewell, Tom promises to buy me a drink later. I cheekily tell him I’ll be looking forward to it, willing the open-mindedness I usually have to be present.

My skin thrums as I make my way through the crowd. Bare arms and shoulders brush against mine. Eyes canvass my body. Mine do a little canvassing of their own, but it still feels clinical. I want to deem the men that I see as opportunities, not threats to a relationship that can never be.

What kind of guy would Jesse be most open to me being with? Taking in the shapes and sizes of men in my view, the question truly registers.

What the fuck am I saying? What does it matter what Jesse would think? I can’t choose someone based on his ability to vibe with them.

Enough, Murph. Get a drink. Get laid. Get fucking over it.

When I finally elbow my way to the bar, I order a pint and a shot of rum from the bartender. I’m on vacation. I need to start acting like it.

“Ooh, you found an in!” a smooth voice behind me exclaims, a cold hand alighting on my side. “Could you order me aSeabreezewhen he comes back?”

I adjust my gaze down six inches to focus on a pasty complected guy with a bleach-blond cut that closelyresembles Jim Carrey’s hairstyle in the movie ‘Dumb and Dumber.’ The sparkly silver collar around his neck complements his sheer tank top however, did not make an appearance in that film.

“Sure.” I nod, happy to perform a good deed for the evening.

See? I’m already mingling. How hard was that?

“Thanks, handsome! Is this your first time?”

Is he asking about my virginity? How out of place do I look in my jeans? I’m still wearing a harness.

“‘First time?’” I parrot.

“Your first Gaytoberfest? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

It’s now that I notice the buttons on the strap of the satchel slung across his torso. Each signifies a Gaytoberfest cruise of years past, reminiscent of the button I saw in my welcome tote when I boarded. Do people actually attend more than one of these things? Well, that’s not promising.

“Uh, yeah. First time.”

“Really? Well, stick with me, daddy, and I’ll fill you in on all the dos and don’ts.”

Did he just…Daddyme? I have a high-maintenance friend. I don’t need a high-maintenance boyfriend to boot.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just take it all in as I go. I like to do my own thing, you know?”

“Mm, lone wolf. I love a confident bear,” he purrs, batting his lashes at me.

Waving more frantically than necessary, I catch the other bartender’s attention and order Sparkle Boy his Seabreeze.

“I’m Philip,” he informs me, arching his back so his chest sticks out, pressing against my arm. “And what should I call you?”

The veiled hope in his eyes says he’d be tickled if I said, ‘Daddy.’ How many people has he used that blatant introduction on?

“Murphy.” My elbow accidentally on purpose nudges him back when I raise my forearm to extend my hand for a shake.

It’s meant to convey my attempt at keeping this parlay business formal, but he wraps his fingers over the top of mine like he’s a queen at a tea party. Am I supposed to fucking kiss them?

“Ooh, kind of like that restaurant, Papa Murphy’s.”

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