I’m going on a cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuise!
An actual cruise—like on the ocean!
I seriously can’t believe it.
The sleep deprivation is strong with this one. We got up so stinking early to make it to the airport for our flight. I swear I’d just closed my eyes when Damon said, “Departure time!” I know he was excited. But if that’s how chipper he normally is when he wakes me, we’ll need to have a conversation. Waking up early is a tragedy and should be treated as such.
I should’ve expected there wouldn’t be much actual sleep last night. That part is . . . an adjustment. It’s weird to put the brakes on affection for so long and then suddenly be given the green light. I know we’re married, but it still feels like I did something forbidden.
But at least Damon was right. There was no disappointment involved.
Hee hee.
The whole airport this morning was a blur. I shuffled along like a zombie while Damon led me through the check-in and security lines. This whole day has been about lines, lines, and—you guessed it—more lines. Then we had to wait in those awful chairs before we boarded our plane. They honestly should have beds in the terminals. Everyone’s thinking it; I’m just saying it.
I should have been honeymoon-ish and conscious, at least. But with the short night and release of wedding pressure, I was a limp sack of sleepiness. We buckled into our seats, and . . . that’s all I remember. When the wheels connecting with the runway in South Carolina jolted me awake, my face was slathered with drool and the sun was bright.
Damon just laughed through my apologies and offered the can of ginger ale he’d saved for me. Gratefully I chugged it to rid my mouth of sour sleep taste while he said, “We’re married now. I’m sure you’ll be passing out on me regularly.”
“Not when I’ve had more than fifteen minutes of sleep!”
“We said for better or worse, right?” He pecked my cheek.
“Yeah. Covered in drool is definitely ‘for worse.’”
The nap kept me on my feet as we collected our baggage and claimed a taxi. I was too sleep-addled to fully appreciate Charleston as we drove along its perimeter. I haven’t gone much of anywhere that doesn’t share a border with Utah. Never have I ventured somewhere as exotic as the South.
It’s so different, from the clusters of ancient-looking shops to the people walking the cobblestone streets. Once the taxi exited the freeway and we were winding our way toward the waterfront, I saw a woman with the most gorgeous dark skin and a handkerchief artfully tied around her head carrying a bushel of flowers. Culture. What a concept.
While Damon paid the taxi driver, I stared up at the enormous ships in the harbor and was overwhelmed. Sure, I’ve seen cruise ships on TV, but never had I appreciated how giant they are. Standing beside them, I feel like a little stick figure. They really could house a small city on one of these things.
After the moment of awe it was—oh, wait, what’s that?—more lines. Security lines, where yet again I’m being x-rayed and my luggage scanned. We stop to fill out a form asking all kinds of penetrating questions about whether or not I’ve been sick lately and, if so, with what symptoms. They’re pretty serious about spreadable diseases in close proximity.
Unlike Damon, who speeds through the questionnaire, I fret over every question. “I did have the sniffles that one day,” I whisper, trying not to look suspicious and doing just that. The customs agent keeps glancing at me with a furrowed brow.
“You were at the florist that day,” Damon argues easily. “It was hay fever.”
“What if it was more?” My voice is low with horror as I say, “What if it was . . . norovirus?” I never heard of this illness before clapping eyes on this form, but now I’m half-convinced I have it. Whatever it is.
“It wasn’t norovirus.” Damon chuckles. “Or anything else. You’re sensitive to flowers; that’s all.”
Nodding a bit frantically, I fill out the rest of the form. I really need to get away from this customs checkpoint. People in authority fill me with guilt even when I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m liable to admit to all kinds of stuff when I see a uniform.
Damon thought I was exaggerating until he witnessed me admit to a mall security guard that I once wore a shirt with the tag still on to a party and then returned it after. “I was planning on keeping it, but the sleeves made my arms look enormous!” I told him tearfully as Damon apologized and pulled me away. “You don’t even know—they were massive!”
The security guard hadn’t even been questioning me. He was just sitting on a bench, eating a pretzel during his break. I saw his uniform and well . . . Damon believes me now.
Once we’ve handed in our forms we move into the boarding line. The size of the line zig-zagging across a room as big as some kind of sports stadium is daunting.
I regress to semi-zombie state, lumbering along and wondering if I could manage to sleep standing up. Damon insists we stay hydrated and passes a water bottle to me periodically. I’m just so tired and hungry. After that banana muffin betrayed me this morning by having nuts in it (why do they assume anyone who likes bananas also likes nuts?) I haven’t eaten anything.
Most humans can handle missing one meal. But I’ve deprived my body for so long on this wedding diet I might as well be a Victorian orphan wasting away on a stoop somewhere for how starved I feel.
They should hand out appetizers in these lines, I think. Between this epiphany and the flash of brilliance about terminal beds this morning, I could change the nature of travel.
The other passengers are outfitted for vacation. Though we’re not technically cruising yet, it’s sundresses and shorts all around. A few yards behind us in line a girl is sporting an enormous straw hat. With how thin she is, it looks like the weight of it should knock her right over. I originally had a hat like that on my shopping list but couldn’t figure out how to pack one without flattening it.
Damon’s also dressed like a tourist, in a T-shirt and cargo shorts. But something about the way he’s watching other passengers with that alert gaze looks suspiciously like agent mode.
“You okay?” I ask.
It takes a moment for him to realize I’ve spoken. Then his head swivels around, and he flashes a smile. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
“I dunno. You look like you’ve still got your investigator brain on.”
He chuckles. “Hard habit to break, I guess.”
“Well, try.” I slip my arms around his waist. “I want you all to myself this week. I don’t even want to share you with the cases rolling around in your head.”
“You have my undivided attention.” To prove it he kisses my ear, making me giggle.
I still can’t believe we’re married. Like married. It gives me a jolt of joy every time Damon refers to me as “my wife.” He said it several times this morning, always in offhanded moments, like, “My wife has a purse as well as a carry-on. Is that a problem?” Or, “My wife would like extra ice.” But each time feels momentous.
Maybe the third or fourth time he caught me smiling and asked, “What?”
I shrugged. “I like when you call me ‘my wife.’”
He grinned back. “I like calling you my wife. Why do you think I keep doing it?”
That surprised me. “You’re doing it on purpose?”
Suddenly he looked sheepish. “I might be . . . looking for excuses to say it.”
That made me blush. He wants to claim me. I don’t think I could possibly be happier.
After about a hundred years we reach the front of the line, where the crew greets us. They triple-check our already triple-checked passports, snap a picture of each of us, and hand us our cards.
The cards are embossed with the Siren Dream logo on one side. The flipside has our names printed (Jacklyn Wade) and a black strip like on the back of a debit card.
The girl with the thousand-watt smile, whose nametag reads Brandi: Cruise Director, explains, “This card is your all-access pass on board. It’s your pass for re-boarding the ship after you’ve disembarked at various ports. It’s also the key card for your cabin and your onboard credit card. As long as you have this card, you don’t need any other identification or currency.”
Brandi gives us each a neck lanyard with a slot for our card so we can wear it around without worrying about pockets or purses. “You can take it into the pool, the ocean—everywhere!” she says brightly. She also talks about the lifeboat drill that will happen after check-in is complete. But I’m hardly listening.
I want to get on the ship and look around! All these lines are cruel. It’s like making a kid wait in a three-hour line before they can run to the tree on Christmas morning.
She hands us a printed itinerary of shipboard activities. Little does she know I already have the itinerary Damon printed—and laminated—in
my bag.
Finally Brandi says, “And if you need anything, just find your cruise director!” She actually salutes as she ushers us onto the gangplank.
Whoa. The plank is a metal structure with railings that stretches from the concrete walkway up to the entrance of the ship. It passes over only a few feet of water but it seems pretty far down.
“It’s really big, isn’t it?” I ask Damon as we file behind a line of others along the rattling gangplank.
“What is?”
“The ship.”
“Of course it’s big.” He chuckles. “The bigger the ship, the steadier it’ll be in the water.”
That’s a comfort. Part of me has been concerned about bobbing around like we do on my uncle’s fishing skiff. Hopefully this ship will be sturdier. And smell less like fish guts.
“Actually this boat is smaller than your average cruise ship,”
Damon adds.
“Smaller?” I repeat. “How’s that possible? It’s like a . . . mountain.”
“This is a newer cruise line, so they’re still building up. They only have five ships in their line at present.”
I smile. Only Damon would know something like that. Most people would just book the trip. He apparently read the history of the cruise line. And probably memorized their mission statement.
“I’m surprised you picked this line, then,” I say. “Doesn’t that violate your ‘never do business with a company that’s less than a hundred years old’ policy?”
He purses his lips. “You exaggerate.”
Sadly, I don’t. It’s some policy he learned from his grandpa: only companies that are well established are trustworthy. And by “well established” I mean they have a picture of Abe Lincoln shaking hands with the founder on their wall.
Damon takes everything his mom’s dad, Rick, ever said to him as true wisdom. Even in Rick’s older days, when the pearls he passed along were things like, “Never leave your motorized scooter unattended. You never know what hooligan might come along and snag it.” Since the only hooligans near Rick’s scooter had been other men about eighty-five years of age, the thought of one stealing it and the chase scene that would follow is a mental image that still tickles me. Less like the Fast and the Furious and more like the Slow and the Medicated.
But I get it. After Damon’s dad left, Rick was the only father figure he and Sabrina had. That’s why it was so devastating when his grandpa passed away three years ago. They weren’t just losing their grandfather; they were losing their surrogate dad too. I so wish I could’ve met him.
“Besides,” Damon adds. “The only cruise lines around a hundred years ago were like the one that built the Titanic.”
I suck in my breath sharply. “Why would you say that name when we’re getting on a ship? Isn’t that bad luck or something?”
“Bad luck?” He laughs. “You’re not superstitious like that.”
“I am when we’re about to be surrounded by nothing but water for a week!” I shake my head. “We need to find some salt and spin in a circle or something.”
Damon’s still laughing as we finally step onto the ship and pass through a small carpeted corridor to the main entry.
Holy moly.
I stop in the entry so abruptly the woman boarding behind me bumps into my back. I stammer an apology as Damon tugs me off to the side. I’m . . . flabbergasted. I’ve never been flabbergasted before, but this is definitely a moment of flabbergastosity. If that’s a thing.
The tiny corridor has opened onto a cavernous room. The word room hardly seems appropriate—like calling Willy Wonka’s a “chocolate shop.” This is like a cathedral of luxury. The entire place is fashioned from teal and gold in the fanciest materials imaginable. There’s a gleaming gold and teal floor of marble in a diamond design. A grand staircase is carpeted in plush teal with gold edging. There are balconies above with gold-gilded leaf patterns in the railings. The ceiling several stories overhead is painted with a waves-and-sunburst motif inlaid with gold whorls.
Beyond the staircase is a row of glass elevators extending to the very top level. I count eleven floors. Eleven! Inside a boat!
And is that a piano over there?
It is! There’s a grand piano on a raised pedestal at which a man in a tuxedo sits, playing a classical melody.
Crew members wander among the newly arrived passengers, offering glasses of champagne and orange juice on platters. Everything is lavish in the extreme. Against all the travelers in their cut-off shorts and flip-flops, it looks almost silly. But the crew (and clearly tuxedo man) treats the whole thing with such bright sincerity it seems genuine, like all of us normal people deserve to be treated like royalty.
“Like it?” Damon asks. Startled, I meet his carefully casual expression. But I can see how much my answer means to him.
“Are you kidding?” I give a huge, shocked laugh. “It’s incredible! I never imagined anything half this amazing!” My voice drops, awed. “I can’t even believe it.”
He grins. “Good. Only the best for my wife.” He presses a kiss to my neck while I laugh. Hearing that will never get old.
Damon consults one of the crew members, who directs us to take the elevators down to the Delphin level. We thank him and hurry along, excited to see our cabin.
“Just remember, the cabins are small,” Damon says as we get on the elevator. “Not even as big as a hotel room.”
“I know.”
“Just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I’m so happy to be here it wouldn’t matter if we were sleeping in a closet.”
Damon is all smiles now that we’re on the ship. “I love how low-maintenance you are.”
I scoff. “Not always. We both know the hangrier I get—”
“I’m familiar. We’ll feed you soon.”
Down on the Delphin level we pass other couples checking their tickets against the doors to find their cabins. Luggage is already stacked and waiting outside several cabins, and I recognize our bags partway down the hallway.
“There’s ours!” I say, pulling Damon along. When we arrive at the door, Damon confirms the cabin number and tags on our suitcases.
When the crew assured us at the luggage check-in that our bags would be waiting when we reached our room, I didn’t really believe them. It takes airlines a solid half-hour to get bags from the cargo hold to the carousel. How could the crew have this many suitcases sorted and delivered so fast?
Yet here they are! Things are starting to feel a bit magical here, like maybe they have an onboard wizard for these kinds of things.
Damon swipes the card in the reader and pops the door open, holding it for me to enter.
The cabin is compact, with a tiny nightstand on either side of the bed and a slim dresser beside the standing wardrobe. But there’s a loveseat at the foot of the bed across from a TV console, and another door leads to the bathroom. It’s roomier than I expected.
And everything is beautiful. The bed is dressed in sumptuous teal-and-gold linens with decorative pillows piled everywhere. Rather than the cheap yellow stuff that passes for wood in low-budget hotels, the furniture is crafted from a deep wood that looks authentic. It may be smallish, but it’s still luxurious.
“Wow,” I say. “This place is gorgeous!” I remove my purse and instantly dive for the bed. The comforter is downy and amazing, not papery like the bedding in hotels. I’m always cold when traveling because the blankets are so wimpy-thin. But I won’t be here.
“I’m never moving again,” I murmur into a pillow and Damon laughs.
“That’s a good sign.”
“This is fantastic.” I force myself to sit up and look at him. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
“Of course I did.” He’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, head slightly cocked the way he does. I remember the first time he did this, when I barely knew him as my bossy FBI handler. Even then I was nettled by how attracted to him I was. The way he looks at me in this stance always makes me blush horribly.
And now he’s my husband. My husband!
“We’re married!” I holler, throwing myself back in the bed again. “Married!”
Damon is laughing. “Did that just occur to you?”
To my surprise he sails into the bed, nearly bouncing me off. “So.” He leans on his elbow and grins down at me. “You like being married to me, then?”
I can feel myself flushing again. “Only a little bit.”
“A little?” He fakes outrage. “You mean you’re not delirious with happiness yet?”
“Oh, you know. It is still early in the marriage.”
“Well then.” His hand curls around my waist. “I’ll have to try harder.”
He’s kissing me, and the bizarre truth occurs to me again. We’re married. We’re allowed to kiss like this. It makes me dizzy.
But then he pulls back and stands.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, wrestling a pillow out of my way to sit up.
“Well, as much as I’d like to keep kissing you, the lifeboat drill is happening any time now.”
“Stupid lifeboat drill,” I grumble. “How important is that, really?”
“If something happens, it ensures we all get off the boat alive.”
I purse my lips. “So a tad important, I guess.”
He helps me out of the bed—it’s so soft it kind of swallows me—and brushes my hair out of my face. “But,” he says, “the sooner the drill is over, the sooner we get to eat.”
At the mention of food, my mouth literally waters. “Good, good. Food is good.”
Damon chuckles as we head out the door. “I see where I rank on
your list.”