Page 12 of The Vacation Mix-Up
I pat his head, undress, and then tug on a pair of denimshorts, my fingers freezing on the zipper, my head snapping toward the door, now acutely aware Riley could barge in at any moment. “Shit!”
Wrestling my T-shirt over my head, I make a mental note to addknock before enteringto the list of rules I’m yet to finish going through with him.
Sharing a cabin will no doubt be difficult and a nuisance, at least at first. But if we stick to the rules and respect each other’s space and privacy, we should be able to make this work. We must. We’re both adults. And so far, he doesn’t seem like the axe-murdering type. A playboy, maybe, which is unfortunate. But if he keeps his promiscuity out of this room, I don’t care—he can play all he wants. Plus, we have no choice but to share. There’s no way in Hades’s hell I’m canceling this trip or risking having it canceled for me. Nor am I bunking in an interior cabin at the back of the ship for two and half weeks. So, yeah, no choice but to stay put.
I’ll lock him out if I have to.
Turning in a circle, I rest my hands on my hips and survey the room. “Okay. I’ve unpacked. I’ve settled Mr. Snuffles. I’ve changed into something more comfortable. What next?”
“It is a requirement to watch the safety briefing video and visit your muster station before we leave port.”
“Ah… yes, safety first!”
I search the desk for the remote control, lifting the room service menu and opening a few drawers. Frustrated, I pivot, ready to dial Guest Services and tell them they’ve messed up again, when my eyes land on the black device atop Riley’s bedside table.
“Oh no you don’t,” I grouch, stomping to his side of the room and snatching it up. “This belongs with the TV, where it’s going to stay.” If he thinks he’s going to lay claim to items we should share, he has another think coming.
Taking a seat on the sofa, I press the Play button and watch the video, memorizing important directives and the location ofour muster station. Then I take out my cell, open the ship’s app, and scroll to the deck plan, mapping my route.
Ready to head out, dread climbs my spine like a perfidious spider when I catch sight of my bag containing Mom’s urn. I can’t just leave her out in the open, unprotected, on my bed… and yet I don’t have the heart to lock her inside the pint-sized, tenebrious safe in the closet.
“Damn it!”
I decide to take her with me; it’s the safest option. So I gently sling my bag over my shoulder and follow the map until I’m standing outside the Lagoon Bar and scanning my sailing card at the muster station.
“Hello, ma’am. Did you watch the safety video?” a steward asks.
“I most certainly did,” I answer, proud of myself. “A continuous alarm will sound in the event of an emergency. If that happens, I’m to go to my room, get my life vest, and then proceed here, to Muster Station 5.”
He smiles. “Correct.”
I continue, “Smoking is strictly prohibited outside of designated areas. But that’s okay because I don’t smoke,” I admit, winking. “Oh, and if I see a person go overboard, I must shout ‘Man overboard’ three times and then find the nearest telephone and dial reception.” I scratch my head. “Have I missed anything?”
“No, ma’am. I’m confident you’ll be the safest passenger aboard.”
“I hope so. This is my first cruise, and I want to be prepared.”
He chuckles. “You’re off to a great start.”
After thanking him, I’m about to leave and explore when I spot Riley at the bar, hunched over a glass of amber-colored liquid. He looks miserable, and I can’t say I blame him. I was miserable too, given our situation. Still am to an extent. But what good does it do to mope over the things we cannot change? If Mom taught me one thing, she taught me that. And while I’mstill trying to master that particular lesson, I’ve learned to choose my moping battles more wisely—our vacation mix-up being one I can wave a white flag at.
Unable to walk away and just leave him there, I make my way to the bar instead. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, so why not break the ice, put our dilemma behind us, and get to know one another over a drink?
Splendid idea.
“Hey,” I say, as I awkwardly climb onto the barstool next to his.
He mutters, “Hey,” then rotates his head in my direction, and I swear a low growl reverberates in his throat when he realizes it’s me.
Recoiling just slightly, I fear I’ve made a mistake in joining him and that a white flag isn’t sufficient protection. Perhaps I pissed him off in the cabin when I told him he couldn’t have sleepovers. But then… it was a reasonable request. The cabin sleeps two, not three. And if anyone should be pissed, it’s me. He called me “cookie,” for Pete’s sake. Who does that?
Choosing to ignore his rudeness, because I have just as much right to be here as he does, I pick up the cocktail menu and inspect what’s on offer. “What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
Yuck!
I pull a sourpuss face. “I think I’ll have a… Manhattan.”
