Embarrassed to be caught out lying, but relieved I don’t have to pretend I know what the best shoe for running trails is (sometimes I can’t help but overhear people on the train going on and on about stuff that I have no interest in) I say, “Um, yeah. I’m more of a casual runner.”
Like, I casually don’t do it.
I step over to the treadmill and touch the display. It’s still warm from when Nick must have been using it not too long ago.
“I figured,” Nick says as he steps closer to me. “I can spot a woman in a lie from a mile away.”
His eyes are twinkling and I have a feeling that he’s saying this as a joke, but somehow it angers me and I shoot back defensively, “Oh, can you? Well let me tell you something, mister—” I poke at his chest, “I can spot a guy who’s lying a mile away too. And you know what? My radar is all over you!”
Nick steps back—even though I poke him hard, I’m pretty sure a healthy, fit guy like that isn’t pushed back by my brute strength. Instead I think he’s shocked by my assertion. Maybe I didn’t seem so smart when I was babbling about 10Ks, but now he’s surprised to learn that I’m not just some dumb girl.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, brow wrinkled.
“Oh, please,” I reply with a laugh. “The oblivious cougars out there might not be onto you, but I’ve seen your kind before. So you figure you’ll take a divorce cruise, pretend to be divorced, and the desperate women living on child support and alimony will be eating out of your hand because you’re the only guy on this cruise that isn’t fat or balding. You’re on this cruise for money.” I click my tongue. “I must say, it’s a brilliant plan.”
Nick laughs and holds up both his hand as if he is surrendering. “Okay, you’ve got me, Sherlock.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. I figured as much, but I didn’t think he would give himself up so easily. “What?”
“You’re right. I’m definitely on this cruise for the money.” He’s still smiling, smirking almost.
What a cocky, pompous ass this guy is!
“Well, I….” I stammer, not sure how to answer to his conceit. As if all the women on the cruise will just be throwing themselves at his feet. Okay, they probably would be.
“Yeah,” he continues. “It’s mostly because I’m working on the ship. That’s why I’m on the cruise. I’m employed by the cruise line.”
Ooooooo. I suddenly feel a lot like the dumb girl that he must think I am.
What an idiot you are, Leah! Of course there are other people on this ship besides divorcees! There are tons of people on the ship working!
How ridiculous of me to assume this guy was trying to land an desperate woman! He’s just an employee on the ship, trying to be polite to the passengers.
I feel a little deflated from that realization. Even though I had thought the guy was shady and trying to scam women, he was the best prospect for a decent date that I had run into during my short time on the ship. And now that I knew he worked on the ship, well...isn’t it verboten for the employees to fraternize with the customers in these sort of situations?
I’m going to cut my losses. No sense in carrying on this conversation any further. It’s a shame, really. He’s very hot. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Nick. Thanks for showing me to the gym. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.” He bobs his head at me, but doesn’t make a move to leave the gym. In fact, he starts crouching down right where he’s standing. And standing up. And crouching back down.
“What are you doing?” I ask, staring.
“Squats,” he replies, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be talking to a woman in a gym while doing squats. Which...I guess it is. Except, he was coming from the gym when I met him, not going to. He already did his workout. “Aren’t you going to use the treadmill?” he asks, panting slightly as he increases the speed of the squats.
“Um, yeah. Of course.” I gawk at the display—it looks much more complicated than the last treadmill I used a few years ago. Actually it was probably more like a decade ago. Back when I was enthusiastic about my new gym membership. This treadmill has a medley of buttons and lit up panels. There are holes everywhere, wires hanging down. I’m almost afraid to touch something and get tangled up or shocked.
“You okay?” Nick asks, pausing mid-squat. He steps over to the treadmill and I realize I must have a blank expression on my face.
“Yeah, yeah,” I stammer. “Just trying to figure this thing out. It’s so different from the one at home.”
For example, the one at home is imaginary.
He chuckles. “Yeah, this a pretty outdated model. Here, let me help you.” Without asking, he reaches over and takes my phone out of my hand, plugging it into the one dangly wire. “Most of the more updated treadmills are Bluetooth compatible, but this dinosaur plugs right into your phone.” He proceeds to press a couple of buttons on my phone and within seconds, a tinny version of The Climb is belting out of the treadmill. I am mortified.
“Miley Cyrus fan, huh?” he remarks wryly.
I ignore him and peer at the display, trying to figure out exactly how I to start the treadmill.
“Put your feet on the side boards,” he instructs. “You can get hurt if you don’t.”
“I know,” I snap.
What does he think? I’m an idiot who never used a treadmill before?
After planting my feet on the rails, I chose a workout. I poke at the green start button on the panel and jump onto the moving belt as it begins to speed up. And speed up. And speed up.
Within seconds my legs are going a lot faster than I ever thought possible. I glance over at Nick who is wearing an amused expression on his face.
“Too fast?” he asks. “You picked a sprinting program.”
Is he assuming I did that accidentally? How does he know that I didn’t purposely pick a sprinting program? He doesn’t know me.
“I know!” I shout at him, panting heavily.
“You can slow it down by pressing the button next to the—”
“I’m fine!” I cut him off, nearly breathless. There is no way I am admitting defeat, despite the fact that my calves feel like they are actually on fire. And I’m pretty sure my sneakers aren’t meant for running. At least not meant for running at...I glance down at the panel...eight miles an hour.
Holy crap! I’m running at eight miles an hour? That’s like an eight minute mile, right? Or maybe not. I can’t do math while I’m—
I feel the belt underneath my feet moving, and at the same time, I feel like my feet aren’t touching the belt, but rather, getting tangled up in each other. In slow motion I feel my body falling, my upper body coming dangerously close to hitting the moving belt. My hands fly up to grab the handrails, but I am blindly grasping at air, not able to see clearly due to the insane speed of the belt.
“Whoa!” Nick shouts as he grabs my arm, just as the belt grazes the side of my cheek. He pulls me toward him, off the belt, but my face is flaming and throbbing by the time he rights me and I am standing (shakily) on my feet. Throbbing from the burn that the treadmill created and flaming from my utter humiliation. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve been this embarrassed since Seth Grobin pantsed me in gym in eighth grade on a dare. No, I’m pretty sure this is worse. At least that day I was wearing cute underwear and that’s all anyone talked about for a whole week afterward. And that wasn’t something I did. This is definitely the dumbest thing I have ever done. In public at least.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks, squinting at my face. I bet he’s trying to hold back a laugh. He places his hands on the side of my face and tilts my head to get a better look at it. Probably so he can memorize how bad it looks—that way he can accurately recount the details when he’s telling the story of the stupid, klutzy girl he met in the gym. The girl who obviously has not seen the inside of a gym in years.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I jerk my head away from his hands.
“You’re bleeding,” he tells me.
You think your life is pathetic because your wife left you and took all your money and your kids hate you? Well that chick over there fell headfirst on the treadmill that she didn’t know how to use because she was trying to impress me. (Cue the hearty laughs, finger pointing, and snickering.)
“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s just superficial.”
Like you, Nick.
But then I realize, I really don’t know this guy. He seems nice. Why am I assuming he’s superficial? Just because I’m mortified? Just because he’s good looking?
“It probably is, but you should definitely get checked out by the on-board doctor.”
“There’s a doctor on board?”
“Actually, I’m sure there are quite a few doctors on board,” Nick says wryly. “But I’m talking about the one who gets paid to take care of passengers. I happen to know one of them personally.”
I wave my hand in front of my face dismissively. “I don’t want to bother the doctor for a little scrape.”
“It’s not a little scrape. And it’s not a bother. That’s what the doctor gets paid for. Come here.”
Wait a minute. Is he implying that he’s the doctor? Oh my God, yes, of course he is! He said he works on the boat! He’s a doctor!
He takes my arm and steers me toward the mirror on the wall. “Look at your little scrape.”
I gasp as I see my reflection. I look like I went ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.
“Oh my God!” I cry out, my hand flying to the welt quickly forming underneath my eye. “Oh my God!” I repeat as tears well up in those puffy eyes. For a second I forget that I’m in the presence of the good looking doctor that I had been trying to impress. “I’m hideous!” I wail, turning away from the mirror and dropping my head into my hands.
Nick pulls my hands away from my face. “That’s definitely not true,” he admonishes me. “You actually look kind of cool.” He tilts his head and examines me further. “You may have a scar. You know, chicks dig scars.” He grins at me and winks. I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m not sure what impression you have of me, but I’m not into chicks that dig scars,” I say with a smirk.
“Oh, so you like chicks that don’t dig scars? Then you’re probably out of luck there,” Nick says while shrugging his shoulders helplessly.
“No chicks,” I say, playfully shoving him, causing a chunk of my hair to break free from my ponytail and fall over my face. It covers my injury. I might need to wear my hair like this all the time. “I like guys. I’m definitely into guys.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, face turning serious. He brushes the hair off of my face, sweeping it behind my right ear. Examining the injury, he leans closer. It’s not until his face is nearly touching mine that I realize he’s not examining the wound—he’s going to kiss me!
Startled, I quickly step back, tripping over the dumbbells that are lying haphazardly on the floor.
“Watch out!” Nick shouts again, his hand flying out to steady me. A feeling of déjà vu passes over me, like Nick has already done this. Oh wait, yes he has—three times. And I only met him yesterday. I’m a perpetual damsel in distress around him.
Crap! I hate playing the damsel in distress role! He’s going to think that I constantly need rescuing. And guys hate that—right? Or maybe not. Maybe he’s a totally alpha male type that actually likes rescuing women. But I’m not a woman who needs or wants to be rescued!
“Are you okay?” Nick asks me for what seems to be the umpteenth time today as he pulls me closer. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to let you out of my sight. Whatever will you do if I’m not around to catch you?” He is definitely grinning now and I swear I can see his biceps flex slightly.
Oh my God! He really is one of those guys who loves to rescue women! It probably feeds his ego! Do I really want a guy like that? Ugh, Leah…go with it! He’s practically the only guy on this ship without a hair piece or beer belly! And he’s a doctor!
And then I remember, I’m not looking for a long term relationship with this guy. Hell, long term relationships just never seem to work out anyway. I’m just looking to have a little fun on my vacation, right? And if this guy thinks I’m a damsel in distress and that’s what gets him off, well that’s what I am for the next few days.
Suddenly the door to the gym flies open, hitting the wall and causing us to jump. Our heads swivel toward the doorway in unison to find an overweight, balding, older man in tight, green terry-cloth shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. There’s a green terry-cloth headband strapped on his head, and he is also sporting a matching set of wristbands. On his feet he’s wearing those heavy white sneakers that men of a certain age seem to gravitate toward. His look is complete with white tube socks pulled up to his knees. He definitely belongs on this cruise.
Our gym companion swaggers in as we pull apart. He takes in the scene before him, his eyes widening. “Oh wow! I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt!” he stammers as he holds up his hands and starts to back out of the room.
“No, no it’s not what it looks like,” I say, but Nick tells the guy, “It’s exactly what it looks like. We’re about to go back to her room now. Come on.” He playfully shoves me toward the exit and past the man whose mouth is now hanging open. He is still staring after us as we step into the hallway and close the door behind us.
“What was that about? We definitely are not going back to my room!” I reply indignantly.
Mostly because my roommate is sleeping off a hangover right now.
“I know that,” Nick replies with a grin. “I hope you’re not offended. I just didn’t want that guy to start bothering you. You’re very pretty and guys like that can’t resist pretty women.” He raises his eyebrows at me and I find myself blushing in the same manner I did when Seth Grobin chased me into the girls’ locker room at the eighth grade dance, begging me to dance with him. As if I would actually give him the time of day, let alone dance with him after he had pantsed me the month before!
“He wouldn’t bother me. I can—” I stammer. I want to tell him that I can take care of myself, but I have forgotten that I’m supposed to be a damsel in distress. “And besides, I’m not that type of girl who would sleep with a guy she just met.”
I find myself leaning back against the wall like I’m a freshman in high school, being asked out by the captain of the varsity football team.
“I would never consider that you would sleep with me before we even had a date,” Nick says charmingly as he leans his arm against the wall, his mouth in dangerous proximity.
I titter nervously. Yes...I tittered. I’m getting lightheaded—is this what swooning is? I’m sure I swooned in high school, but I’m certain that I didn’t know the word swoon. It is unlike my normal flirting behavior as an adult, though. I must have hit my head hard on that treadmill.
“So dinner?” Nick asks, jolting me.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you wanted to have dinner tonight. Well, of course you want to have dinner. I’m asking if you want to have dinner tonight with me.” He lowers his face so close to mine that I can almost taste his breath. Thank God it tastes like mouthwash and not an onion bagel or something repulsive. I once had a boyfriend that ate onion bagels every single morning of his life. And what was worse, he always had chive cream cheese on them. That onion smell permeated his pores.
“Uh, huh.” I nod, not able to utter any other words. As his lips come closer, I involuntarily close my eyes, willing him to kiss me. Suddenly, I feel him push away from the wall. My eyes flutter open.
He’s still smiling, but he’s not leaning toward me anymore.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at your room at eight tonight. That’s not too late for dinner, is it?”
“Um, no,” I stammer.
“See
you then!” He waves and trots down the hall, out of sight before I realize that I never even gave him my room number.
VIOLET
I’m dreaming that I’m on the bow of a ship. The tropical sea air is whipping through my hair (without tangling it). Sunshine is warming my face. I feel...light. Airy. At peace.
The peace is shattered by a faint jingling sound. My eyes snap open, scanning the room for the source of the noise. It sounds extra loud—my head is throbbing. I quickly realize it’s the phone on the nightstand that is demanding my attention.
“Hello?” I pant into the receiver as I yank it toward my face, hitting myself in the cheek in the process.
“Hello. This is Miss Navarro from reception. Is this Ms. Violet Anderson?”
“Um, yes?” I can’t imagine what Miss Navarro from reception would want with me. I sit up when I realize Leah is gone.
Unless...something has happened to Leah! Shoot!
What if she fell? Or drowned in the hot tub? Or fell overboard? Or what if she choked on steak? She’s choked on steak before! What if no one in the dining room knows the Heimlich?
“Is Leah okay?” I ask in a panicked voice, my headache intensifying.
“Leah?”
“My roommate? Leah Lansing?”
Geez! How can she call to tell me Leah is hurt and not even know her name?
“I don’t know anything about Leah, ma’am. I’m calling to let you know that your husband has left a message with us.”
My husband? Why is she saying it like that? Oh, wait. This is a divorce cruise. She must think he’s my ex-husband. Oh poop. Richard. I didn’t even call him to tell him we got to the ship okay.
I glance down at my cell phone, happily charging on the nightstand where I left it yesterday. There’s no signal. Richard must have tried to contact me and isn’t getting through. I bet he’s worried sick.
“Oh, thank you. What was the message?” I ask, grabbing the complimentary pad and pen by the phone. Not that I can imagine what I’d actually have to write down. I have Richard’s phone number.
Best Friends & Other Liars Page 12