Shy felt like he’d been asleep for about three seconds when his alarm started blaring in his ear.
He sat up quick and shut it off.
Six-thirty in the morning.
His first thought as he held his throbbing head: no way he’d make it through work today. He was too exhausted. Too hungover.
Then a second thought: Carmen.
His stomach dropped.
Last night when he said he was sorry, she had ducked back into her room without a word. He had to talk to her as soon as possible. Clear the air. Go back to being just friends or whatever they were supposed to be.
Rodney turned over on his cot, eyes still crusted closed, drool pooling on his pillow. Massive sock-covered feet hanging off the end of his cot. Seemed like the guy didn’t have a care in the world. Why couldn’t it be like that for everyone?
Shy forced himself out of bed to pop some aspirin. Then he dragged his Paradise polo and shorts into the tiny bathroom for a cold shower.
The sun was just starting to rise into the cloudy sky when Shy reopened his towel stand on the empty Lido Deck. Early mornings at sea were breathtaking, and they usually made him feel brand-new. But today all Shy felt was used up and stressed out.
As he placed a folded towel at the foot of all two hundred deck chairs he replayed his night with Carmen. He felt sick about it. Damn liquid courage. All that space shit he’d talked. The hand holding. Hooking up with Carmen was both everything he wanted and the worst thing that could’ve happened.
He mopped the deck and removed the Jacuzzi cover and turned on the heat and the jets, and then he fished a few more bugs out of the pool with the skimmer and treated the water. The whole time he kept his eyes peeled for Carmen. Usually she’d cut through the pool area at some point with her morning coffee. On her way to the Normandie Theater. And they’d kick it for a few minutes.
But he was over an hour into his shift now.
And still no sign of Carmen.
Shy forced himself to think of other things instead. Like the suit guy Kevin warned him about. He’d go talk to Paolo between his shift here and his afternoon shift at the gym. Then there was the Skype he was supposed to do with his mom. If something bad had really happened back home, he didn’t know what he’d do. He was stuck way out here on a ship. Middle of the ocean. No help to anyone.
Soon scattered passengers began trickling out onto the deck. A few shivering kids lining up for the water slide, their moms and dads standing around sipping coffee, introducing themselves to one another. An old couple under a Paradise umbrella rocking old-people sunglasses and reading electronic books.
Across the deck, the Island Café had opened and the smell of bacon and sausage and waffles filled the air. The clinking sound of silverware on plates and early-morning chatter. The aspirin was finally working on Shy’s headache. He scored a coffee from the café and took it back to his stand, where he sipped at it and studied the dark clouds in the distance and watched people.
By ten the pool area was half full.
Shy handed out fresh towels, miniature golf equipment, Ping-Pong paddles, swimmies, scuba masks. Cocktail waitresses moved through the rows of lounge chairs, taking orders for espressos, Bloody Marys, mimosas. The ship emcee announced the day’s activities and reminded passengers that the duty-free shops had just opened in the main promenade.
Still no sign of Carmen.
And nobody in a black suit—though Shy doubted anyone would wear a suit out by the pool when it was like ninety degrees. The guy would probably have changed into shorts or something. Which meant Shy didn’t even know what he was looking for.
By noon the deck was humming and the sun beat down in front of clustered rain clouds. Almost every lounge chair had been claimed. Elegant women in wide-brimmed hats and bikinis, reading magazines, eating the fruit out of their tropical drinks. Men sleeping in sunglasses or watching the pool, bulging stomachs already bright red from the sun.
Just like on Shy’s first voyage, the women were all better-looking than the men. And younger. But this group was a little quicker to tip. He already had a small wad of cash in his pocket as he made another pass through the crowd, replacing used towels with freshly laundered ones.
Whenever the used bin filled up he’d cart it across the deck to housekeeping and hurry back with fresh warm stacks.
He was so busy now he hardly had time to think.
And not thinking was clutch—like somebody should bottle the shit and sell it ten bucks a pop.
On his third trip back from housekeeping, though, he stopped cold.
Carmen.