The Do-Over

by Julie A. Richman

  And we both burst out laughing.

  “Oh my God, no way.” I literally had tears streaming down my cheeks; I was laughing so hard. I fucked a handsome Marine in a stranger’s cabin. The story was getting better and better. My girlfriends back home were going to love this! This just may have been the sluttiest thing I’d ever done in my entire life. And it was hot! So freaking hot and so not me!

  Hand-in-hand, we left the cabin still laughing. The steward was still in the hall servicing rooms, and Hunter dipped his head into the open cabin, “Hey chief, can we get a few more towels three cabins down in 219.” At least we’d be replacing the cabin occupant’s used towels with fresh ones.

  Turning back into the hall, Wes was about five steps away, coming toward us. My instinctual reaction, coming straight from my heart, without the interference of my brain, was to smile. I could see the edges of his mouth twitch in response, but go no further when he saw my hand lost within Hunter’s. His eyes took on a distance I knew I would not have the opportunity to traverse.

  “Hi.” It was out of my mouth before I could even assess the damage.

  He nodded in acknowledgment, fitting of his cool, hipster-like persona, but did not speak.

  And my heart just cracked. In that very instant, the joy of the shower was gone, because I knew I would have given anything and everything to have changed a meaningless hot fuck with the Marine for the chance to make love, just once, with Wes and see if our amazing connection soared physically, the way our chemistry clicked in other aspects.

  When he was beyond us, I turned, praying he would walk past cabin 219 on his way back to his room. Keep walking, Wes. Keep walking. I said a silent prayer for him not to walk into the cabin with the wet towels strewn about the bathroom floor.

  No such luck.

  I had just fucked the Marine in Wes’ shower.

  Chapter 3

  Over the next few days, I tried making eye contact with Wes in the dining room. I didn’t know why, but I felt like I owed him an apology. I attempted to catch his eye on deck. I stood behind him on line as we disembarked on Dominica. Wes was having no part of me. I’d become invisible to the guy, with the exception of a head nod here and there, and it was really bothering me. He had a girlfriend, so why should he care about who I was messing around with, right?

  The Marine was off on a diving excursion and I was signed up for a day tour of Dominica that included an open-air Jeep ride, ziplining, a visit to the famed Ti Tou Gorge and finally ending at the Bubble Beach Spa, a small red rocky beach, with a spectacular view, where the water is warmed by an underground sulphur hot spring bubbling up on the shores of the Caribbean island.

  There were only sixteen of us on the tour, so avoiding Wes and Stacy was difficult at best. I found myself sneaking looks at him throughout the day. He was nowhere near as handsome as the Marine and his slim frame seemed downright scrawny in comparison, but as he sat there, hidden behind his Ray-Bans, curls a luscious mess, it was his oh-so-cool attitude and pouty lips that made him so attractive to me. That, and the personality that I knew I clicked with, before it was swept away in that first morning’s glare.

  I wanted to be near Wes, to sit next to him in the jeep sharing the sights of the beautiful island, have him waiting as I approached the end of the zip line course. I ached for him to be standing there waiting to catch me. I wanted to fall into his arms, laughing with glee. I wanted to fuck him in his shower.

  And I hated that one night, one magical night of conversation; clicking with this guy had made it impossible for me to live in the moment and just totally give myself over to the now and enjoy hot vacation sex with Hunter. What the hell was my problem? I hated that I wanted what I couldn’t have. It sucked. Sitting in the back of the Jeep, I sent imaginary daggers into Stacy’s nasty head. I had a hard time separating my dislike for her and my anger at myself.

  Bubble Beach Spa was the last stop for the day and frankly, I just couldn’t wait to get back to the boat. I’d had enough of being on this small, intimate tour with a man who was purposely ignoring me and his sister who had perfected giving me dirty looks.

  Walking over to the small bar shack, I stood in line, focusing on the hanging nets and conch shells. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Stacy and another woman from the tour enter a picturesque old church across the road. Wes was not with her.

  Quickly looking around, I spied him carefully walking along the large rocks that separated a small lagoon-like area from the rest of the bay. He got out to the farthest point, before stepping off the rocks and partially submerging into the water.

  “Two Margaritas with salt,” I told the warm-smiled bartender, praying that he would make them fast. I needed to be in the water with those drinks before Stacy emerged from the church. Maybe she’ll stay in there for a while praying for the return of her asshole boyfriend and an STD for her former best friend.

  With drinks in hand, I made my way across the sand, leaving my flip-flops on the shore as I waded out into the lagoon. Warm bubbles from under the sand’s surface tickled my feet as I made my way across to Wes. His back was to me as he stood looking across the bay toward the striking beauty of the Scott’s Head peninsula, a lush, mountainous outcrop rising from the sea. Standing next to him, I held out the drink without speaking. He took it, never looking down, his Ray-Ban covered eyes still pointed in the direction of the bay.

  We stood there in silence. What had happened to our instantaneous connection and our amazing flowing conversation? I willed him to say something before Stacy found us. My brain was pulling a blank and my mouth was also rendering itself useless.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” he finally spoke.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Turning to me, he lifted his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows as if to say, really?

  “But I understand that you have a girlfriend.”

  “Yes. I do.” He took a sip of his drink.

  What the hell is going on here? I wondered. I didn’t want it to be like this.

  “Wes, I had such a great time talking to you the first night.”

  He nodded, a wry smile appearing on his face. “I did, too.”

  I wanted to tell him that I wished we’d spent more time together, that I wanted to get to know him better. I was mustering up the nerve to just put it out there, when Stacy sliced the moment to shreds.

  “Can you move over.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand, and it was directed at me. “Wes, I want to get a picture of you with Scott’s Head behind you for Alicia.”

  Al-ee-see-a. Well, the girlfriend had a name. His Sharon Stone clone girlfriend was Al-ee-see-a. Ugh. Now all I could picture was the uber-adorable Alicia Silverstone from Clueless.

  I couldn’t stay in the lagoon and listen to anymore of Stacy’s antics, which I knew would be put on solely for my benefit, so I headed for the shore, without even saying goodbye to Wes, leaving our conversation unfinished and me with that terrible feeling you get when things are left unresolved.

  Back at the dock, there were makeshift booths set up selling crafts, jewelry, wood carvings and fresh juice drinks. As I waited for the tender to take us back to the boat, I busied myself by checking out the trinkets. Anything not to look at Wes and Stacy. She wasn’t leaving his side for fear that I might get near him again.

  “Lady, I have what you need.” Waving her hand to draw me over, the older woman gave me a toothless smile.

  “I don’t know about that,” I laughed.

  “Your aura is silver and red. You are both sad and angry.”

  Yes, yes I was. But I certainly didn’t want to admit that to her. “How can I be sad and angry in such a beautiful place?” I asked, rhetorically.

  She shook her head. “You need to learn to communicate and forgive. It will lighten your color. Let go of the darkness. You are holding onto it.”

  Pulling a large plastic bag out from under the table, she rummaged through until she found what she was looking for. Before me she place
d three small, colorful cloth dolls: a man, a woman and an infant.

  “You will need these.” She was very matter-of-fact and it was starting to creep me out.

  “Do they come with pins?” I joked, trying to lighten the moment.

  Smiling her toothless grin, she shook her head. “No, you have to use your own.”

  Okay, now I was totally flipped out. I had been freaking kidding.

  Waving my hand, “No thank you. I don’t think those are for me.”

  “Yes, they have been waiting for you,” she insisted and began loading them into a brown paper bag.

  “No, really,” I again began to protest.

  She handed the bag to me, insisting I take it. Fumbling for my wallet, there was no way this woman was going to let me walk away without these creepy dolls.

  Holding up her hand to stop me. “No. No money. They are yours. They have waited a long time for you to come.” And she turned to the people who’d just stepped up to the booth, greeted them and began to show them jewelry.

  Looking at the brown paper bag in my hand, I wondered if it was bad luck to throw them away, or if there was something special I needed to do to dispose of them. The last thing I wanted was bad juju following me around.

  Except for a small carry-on bag, everything was packed and out in the hall, waiting to be collected by the room stewards for tomorrow morning’s debarkation. Negotiating past everyone’s luggage, I climbed the stairwell and walked out onto the deck. My eye immediately caught the crisp white sails billowing as they stood out in relief against the black night sky. Smiling, I couldn’t help but think about watching them take on the wind on that very first night, a night that seemed liked it was a lifetime ago, not a mere seven evenings.

  I had been soaring that night. High on rum and the endless possibilities presented by the adventure that lay before me as Wes and I filled hour after hour riding on the power of our converging energy, fueled by the spontaneity of our conversation and laughter and the rich, unspoken sexual tension.

  Taking a moment, I now stood at the rail, watching the ship cut through the water, thinking how much I was going to miss being out on the open sea and what a crazy, emotional week it had been.

  “I owed you a drink.”

  I jumped at the melodious sound of Wes’ voice. I had been so mesmerized by the water, that I had not heard him approach.

  “Thank you.” I smiled and took the plastic cup. “Did you have a good trip?” I finally asked.

  Leaning with his forearms on the railing, he was standing so close to me, that his arm was touching mine, and all I could focus on was the heat where our skin touched. Leaning into him slightly, I was being greedy for the contact. Why was I so obsessed with this guy? He didn’t move away and my heart immediately felt lighter.

  Shrugging, “I had an okay trip. My sister was truly miserable and miserable to be around.” And there it was, those full, pouty lips broke into a smile, a smile I had waited days to see again.

  Laughing, “I’m sorry. That’s certainly no fun.” Taking a sip of my drink for courage. “Your sister didn’t want me near you.”

  He didn’t look at me, his eyes remained focused on the boat’s wake. Nodding, “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, but don’t take it personally. I think she invited me to help nurse her broken heart. She wanted her big brother to take care of her. So, she wasn’t too keen on sharing me with anyone. And it’s my sister, I owe it to her and she did pay for the trip.”

  His words made me feel somewhat better, but still sad that we weren’t able to build upon the promise of that first night. “You’re a good brother.”

  Maybe it was the motion of the boat, maybe it was Wes, but I thought I felt him lean into me just a little bit more and I wanted to stay like that, even though it was just a small portion of our bodies touching, I could feel the connection. The spark. And I wanted to focus on it, just a little longer. But tomorrow he would go back to L.A. and to Alicia, the actress, and although our lives seemed to be running parallel, chances were I’d never, ever see him again.

  He didn’t move away from me and we stood like that, leaning into one another, as if we were sharing our energy through the skin on our arms. The more I pressed into him, the more he reciprocated.

  Wes Bergman was going to go down in my life as a great big what-if. And now, I’d be using our first night together as a benchmark at how comfortable and attuned to a person I wanted to be. And so I told myself, as we leaned on the railing that final night, that the reason I met Wes was to show me how I could click with a guy, and to look for that in future relationships.

  Our moment, just like our first evening, was to be short lived. It wasn’t long before Stacy made it out onto deck and a half-tanked, very handsy Hunter – who I had successfully avoided the rest of the week until now, came up from behind, and planted his lips on my neck. Moving away immediately, without speaking a single word, Wes never gave me another glance the rest of the evening.

  I pounded on Hunter’s door when he no-showed at breakfast, we were already in port and they were about to start debarkation. He’d been so trashed the night before, that I walked him back to his room, removed his shoes and socks and placed a trash can next to the bed. He’d actually passed out several times on the walk to his cabin and now I was worried that maybe he shouldn’t have been left alone.

  “Hunter, open up. We’ve got to get off the ship soon.” But there was no response from inside the cabin. “Hunter!” I banged again, but still no answer.

  After getting him safely in bed, I had walked out giggling, thinking guys can sleep anywhere, but now I was a little worried about him. Maybe he wasn’t okay. Putting my ear to his door, I stood very still, listening.

  After a few moments, I could hear his snores and breathed a sigh of relief. I guessed when the cleaning staff came along to service his cabin, they would wake him up.

  Now that I knew he was okay, I could breathe easy and get to what I had been thinking about, stressing over all morning. Saying goodbye to Wes.

  The debarkation process had already begun by the time I got back on deck. Scanning the crowd, I hoped that Wes hadn’t left yet. As I stood on my toes to see over people’s shoulders, I tried to catch a glimpse of the front of the line, but I didn’t spot Wes or Stacy anywhere. The disappointment and heaviness in my heart was startling. I wanted to say goodbye, see his magnificent smile one last time and end things on a note that left us each with the glowing memory that honored that first night.

  Getting out of the departure line, I started to walk toward the front of the crowd. With each step, I began to get more and more agitated, fearing that I’d missed Wes while I was off banging on Hunter’s door to make sure that he was all right.

  As I reached the very front, I could see the back of his head, his dark curls and slim jean-clad body already off the ship and almost all the way down the gangway.

  “Wes,” I called out, but over the din of departing passengers between us, my voice was drowned out by the crowd. “Wes,” I tried to yell louder, but he and Stacy were entering the port terminal. Defeated, I stood there for a few moments, fighting back tears, before getting back in line.

  Fifteen minutes later I was in the terminal, but Wes and Stacy were long gone.

  Just one week before, I had boarded the ship, ready for a great adventure, as I explored a group of islands I had yet to visit. One week later, I made my way back to the airport, my heart feeling oddly empty. It had been a strange trip indeed, a week where I lost my heart to one man and gave my body to another, and then left totally alone.

  My flight home provided no relief, I wanted to sleep to escape the melancholy that had latched on tightly, but all I could do was look out the window.

  As I blindly stared at the view above the clouds, I became distraught at the realization that I would never know what Wes’ lips tasted like, and the infinite sadness I felt because of that, overwhelmed me.

  Wes Bergman would always be my big What If.

 
And I wanted a do-over.

  Still Can Claim 30’s…

  (and I’m sticking to it)

  Chapter 4

  “How the hell can one person accumulate so much stuff? You really should consider facing the fact that you might be a hoarder and get some help for this.” After pulling out a third salad shooter from my kitchen cabinets, Laynie Campbell’s expression was somewhere between amused and a little scared.

  “Well, it wasn’t just one person. It was three of us. And we had more than a slight QVC addiction.” I attempted to explain, but just hearing myself verbalize that, sounded really weird, even to me.

  She just shook her head. “Traveling light makes for a faster getaway. It would do you good to remember that, my friend. Do you need this shit?” She pulled out an unopened box containing a vacuum plastic bag sealer.

  “No, put that in with the garage sale stuff. The kitchen in the condo has half the cabinet space I have here.” I looked around my spacious gourmet kitchen with the long granite countertops, custom cabinets and walk-in pantry and wondered how I was going to fit all my pots and pans into my new, beautiful, but somewhat abbreviated, condominium space.

  “What do they say, the three events that can drive people to a nervous breakdown are moving, getting a divorce and changing jobs? And look at you, T, you’ve got one under your belt and another one in the works. Feeling crazed yet?”

  Laughing, “I promise not to do the third. No changing jobs here. I love my job. I swear I would have gone insane without it this past year. And without you,” I added. Pulling more late night television purchases from the cabinets, I shook my head. “Moving is seriously harder than divorce. Someday, you are going to have to drag me out of that condo kicking and screaming because I swear I’m not going to do this again. At least not until Scarlett moves me into an old age home.”

  “That child is going to need to take care of the two of us.” ‘Aunt’ Laynie was like a second, and much cooler, mother to my fourteen-year-old daughter. With her long, unnaturally red hair and slightly perverse tattoos, I’d heard from my daughter on more than one occasion, “Ugh, Mom. Why can’t you be more like Aunt Laynie.” That was generally followed by the perfected teen mannerisms of eye roll and hair fling.