Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  “What you gonna do?” the man asked.

  “Oh-hoh,” Margot sucked in a sharp burst of air and let her cane fly.

  “Let’s go, Tommy.”

  Chelsea jerked him so hard, he dodged the blow and nearly fell back, wriggling around, arms flailing, one foot raised in the air. Lori thought he looked like a chicken trying to fly. Chelsea had to push him to keep him from falling.

  Margot’s laugh transformed itself into a violent fit that drowned out his threats when Chelsea pulled him out of the room. There was a pack of water bottles in the corner, and the old woman looked as though she wanted to get one, but she could barely move.

  “This is ridiculous,” a deep voice shouted.

  “Josh!”

  A head of pale curls streamed past. The man knelt down, opened the pack and pulled a bottle out. “She’s sick. You people...” he went to go hand one to Margot, and she reached a blind hand out to grab it.

  “Thank...you...” she took it one gulp and motioned towards her chair, still sitting on the stage. “Red bag,” she gasped.

  “Of course.” He moved with the urgency of a nurse pushing a gurney through a hospital corridor.

  “There’s cigarettes in it.” Harris said, still stepping in time with Lori’s feet. They’d stopped spinning, but he didn’t look like he wanted to give up the position he was in.

  “You’re full of shit,” Lori said, even as she watched the old woman pull a white box out of the front pocket, along with a lighter. She pulled out a cigarette, ignoring the quiet din of protests around her, and lit up. The triumphant look on Harris’s face was enough. He didn’t have to say a thing.

  Josh took his place at his wife’s side, waiting for Margot’s cue. “You know, Trish, you can be really cruel sometimes.”

  “She attacked a passenger.”

  “WALTZ!” the cane started beating out the metre.

  “Oxygen deprivation affects the mind.”

  “Whatever,” Trish whispered, her back turned to Margot.

  The woman was watching her clumsy steps, shaking her head. “Feet straight,” she shouted, spewing a cloud of filth into the air.

  “Me?” Trish asked when they turned around.

  “Yes, you,” Margot stifled a cough. “You look like you should be on crutches.”

  “Ugh,” Trish stopped, groaning, and pulled herself away. “Do it yourself then.”

  Josh shrugged and offered to allow Margot to take her place, which she did—cigarette still in hand.

  “I can barely think,” Lori said.

  “The smell?”

  “What else?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Harris said. “I quit a month ago, and the stench was so bad I figured my sense of smell was just heightened.”

  “No, it really is that bad.”

  “You’re not.”

  Lori let her hands drop and wrenched away.

  “What?”

  “I can’t do this. I won’t.”

  “You’re hurt, but don’t let i—

  “No, you don’t understand. I need to just be me.”

  “And close yourself off to what could very well be one of the most amazing experiences in your entire life?”

  “Please, you’re not...” she stopped herself, before she could insult him further. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not saying that it’s me. I’m saying you can’t close yourself off to love. That’s not healthy.”

  “That’s a way for you to dig yourself in deeper.”

  “You like me,” he said, fully confident, and he had reason to be. She was never very good at hiding her feelings, but she wasn’t going to voice them. “Can’t we at least talk about this somewhere where we can breathe?”

  “Where?”

  “The Gondola? I had reservations for tonight.”

  “I’m not fucking you. You’re wasting your time.”

  He nodded with a sigh. “Look, I don’t have any expectations. I just want to talk and eat.”

  “Why? It’s not like you’d be getting anything out of it.”

  “I was stood up by the woman I was going to propose to, and it would be nice to have a little conversation to drown that all out. Plus, you’re the only other sane person here. “

  “You’re not going to slip me a roofie?”

  “No—well, unless that’s your thing.” He cocked his head, and gave her the shit-faced grin that got her into this mess.

  “You’re not getting anywhere with me.”

  “Maybe that’s better,” he said. “I don’t want to get tied up into anything after what happened, and I’ll bet you don’t either.”

  “What time?”

  “I’m in A6. When you’re ready, come get me.”

  “Fine,” Lori said, holding out her hand, so they could resume their dance.

  8

  “I love you, and I always will.” Lori set the card down, eying the white box sitting on the table. It was small, fuzzy to the touch, with a gilded trim, and she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to open it.

  She knew that there was no ring inside, but that wasn’t the point. It was the fact that Tim was showering her with material goods, because that’s how he saw her: something that could be bought—something expensive, but to him, she had a price. She couldn’t accept that.

  There was another box next to it, and that she was excited about, but only because she wasn’t sure she had something to match the basic blue dress she’d bought. It was a pair of pumps—not too high; she hated walking in high heels but enough to lift her off the ground and show off her feet.

  It was perfect. She was ready before she could question what she was doing, which meant that the doubt didn’t hit her until she was in the hall. Her first thought was that she was just panicking because of what happened with Tim.

  Harris wanted more. She wasn’t going to try to fool herself into thinking otherwise. But he came without any obligations. When they got off the ship, they would go their separate ways. What happened on the Lunafreya could actually stay on the Lunafreya.

  What she was doubting was her ability to stay safe over the coming years. If she could justify a date with the first viable man she saw, how could she possibly hope to avoid a repeat of what had happened with Tim?

  She was too reckless, too stupid, and she was going to get herself hurt; if not now, then soon, and when she did, she’d be completely unprepared, because she was dumb enough to throw herself into this situation without having taken the time she needed to heal and learn.

  She quelled all that when she got into the elevator. There were times in her life when she was too panicked to see clearly, and maybe this was one of them. He was lonely and vulnerable, just like she was, but he was also just as pragmatic. He understood the danger of diving into something right after a bout of heartbreak.

  She could still hold onto that caution; he was, and he made that clear. She could be safe and have dinner. It wasn’t even really a date. Even if he had expectations, she made her opinion known, and she was sticking to it—at least that was what she’d resolved to do.

  But she knew herself. She knew that those eyes of his, that tousled hair, his adorable face—were all too overwhelming—too compelling; she couldn’t resist him. She almost lost control when he grabbed on the dancefloor. She knew what would happen when they were alone, and he took her hand, or he reached across the table.

  That’s why she started to turn back when she left the elevator. She didn’t; she let the doors close on her, but she knew that she should’ve. She liked the way she felt, and she wanted to keep feeling that way. She thought, for a moment, that it might have been an addiction and that that was why she kept getting into bad relationships.

  She wasn’t the only one. She knew how people were, always trying to find something better. She didn’t want to be like that. She just wanted this one night. She just wished she wasn’t so nervous. He’d see it, and she couldn’t allow that. It would give him the upper hand.

  She to
ok a moment to breathe and think before rounding the corner and approaching his room. Strength was pivotal. She just wished that she didn’t have to stand there in plain view of all the other couples passing by, watching her, some whispering, others laughing openly.

  She thought they were looking at her, until she heard somebody sniff and turned to see a short ginger woman leaning against the wall, her shoulders trembling. “You OK?”

  “No,” she squeaked.

  “Don’t let him hurt you,” Lori said. “Love shouldn’t hurt.”

  “Then how come it always does?”

  “Maybe because we tend to base our happiness on how people treat us,” she replied.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I should tell him to fuck off and stop caring.”

  “You should.”

  “Thank you.” A wild mane of red encased Lori in a fragrant veil when the girl threw her arms around her. They parted, and she saw that it was the same girl who ran out of yoga class. She had her fists bunched, teeth bared, and she was leaning forward, like she wanted to topple Lori to the ground and pummel her face in. Before Lori could figure out why, she turned on one heel and went running down the hall, where she disappeared into one of the room.

  Having had enough of the drama, she decided to ignore it and find Harris’s room. She spoke each number allowed as she passed them, “Two, three, four, fi—shit.”

  “You know what,” the door opened, and the ginger came flying out, “you can have him.”

  She threw her nose up and marched past, waving her hips her hips with a triumphant air. Harris came following out right away, wearing nothing but a towel, his hair slicked back. “I—

  Lori bashed him in the nose, relishing the crack beneath her knuckles, before he could continue his explanation. “You better hope I don’t catch you near the railing, because so help me God, I will throw you in. You speak to either of us, and you’re done. Hey,” she called out, waving to his retreating lover. “Wait up.”

  She stopped and threw her head up with an exasperate groan. “What?”

  “Get back in there,” Lori shouted to Harris, who did just that. When the door was shut, she made a cautious approach. “He ordered a table at The Gondola and we can charge whatever we want.”

  “I’m not getting dinner with you.”

  “Why do people always blame the other woman?”

  “He was your other man.” An about face revealed a tear-stained mess of mascara and eyeliner, falling in a shower down her pale cheeks. She was beautiful, though, with her pixie nose and freckles. She reminded Lori of a porcelain doll.

  “I’m here alone. My ex stood me up, and Harris told me the same thing. I wasn’t even going to screw him. He just kept bugging me to go eat.”

  The girl looked her up and down. “You don’t seem the type.”

  “Type to what?”

  “Throw yourself into bed with any old thing. That’s what he told me. He said you did it out on the balcony last night when I was at the bar.”

  “Is he really that childish, throwing stupid shit like that just to make you feel bad?” Girl...”

  “He gets mad,” she shrugged. “We both do.”

  “That’s when you run.”

  “I only agreed to come, because there was a therapist here—Dr. Khan. I read some of his books, but this was over months ago. I’m just glad I have my own room.”

  “What’s your name?” Lori asked her.

  “Reina, you?”

  “Lori,” they shook hands. “Do you know what his credit limit is?”

  “We can find out,” Reina lit up.

  9

  Reina pulled Lori into her stateroom, so she could grab something to wipe the makeup off her face. Seeing the room was an unsettling experience. It was barely big enough to fit the bed. and the walls were bolted strips of steel; they curve in at the top, adding to the claustrophobic effect.

  Lori pushed a mess of clothing aside, so she could take a seat on the edge of the bed, while Reina dug through her things in the airplane bathroom. “I don’t really care, you know. I met him while I was waiting tables at his dad’s restaurant, during nursing school. Now I’ve got my degree, and he’s still smoking weed and washing dishes. I don’t want that kind of life.”

  “He’d leech off you.”

  “He already does.” Something snapped shut, and Reina opened her door. “I paid for the trip—his phone, his internet—for three months. I can’t.”

  “What is it then? Why’d you stay?”

  “It’s just sentiment, maybe routine. You know, people get comfortable.”

  “I’ve never been comfortable.”

  Reina came out and added rose-scented spritz from the bottle on the bed. She threw it aside. “Why not?”

  “I’ve never been anything but the other woman.”

  “I don’t believe you. That’s just not possible.”

  “I’m not lying.” Lori stood to follow her out of the room and back to the elevator.

  “Always though?”

  She asked Lori, when they left and entered the hall. “Yes. always.”

  “Even when you were younger?” she persisted.

  “Yup, every single time. I never knew, of course, but it always ends the same way.”

  “That’s tragic, and you must’ve just found out about your plus one.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Lori stopped in front of the elevator and pressed the button. On their way up, she looked down at the crowd through the glass walls. The ship was always congested. Whenever she was walking around, at any given time, she could probably see at least a dozen people. Now she had a three-sixty view, and she couldn’t help but ask herself: Was there more than one narrative, or did people just live out the same cycle of bullshit and betrayal?

  There were so many of them out there, but she kept seeing the same story play itself out over and over again. It was getting hard for her to believe that anyone had ever found the idyllic, lifelong loyalty that people risked everything to get.

  The door chime interrupted her thoughts, and they stepped out—both admiring the overflowing vases of flowers lining the wall. It seemed as though the florist had spent years perfecting a living arrangement, using every pastel shade—purple cream, a buttery yellow, and a corn blue. But they were just dividers for the sculptures.

  A Greek god, displaying his prowess, two angels strumming golden harps, and Lori’s favorite—which they both stopped to see. It was a hooded maiden, staring up at the sky, one hand reaching towards the stars.

  Everything on this deck, the walls, columns and railing—all of it—reflected a level of craftmanship Lori hadn’t seen anywhere else. The flowers carved into molding seemed as they were about to shed their golden petals and mingle with those carved into the bannisters. Lori let the fragile blossoms tickle her fingertips, as she approached the restaurant at the end.

  It took up three stories, cut into the front of the ship. On the first, there was a formal seating area, where couples could sit in the amber glow, serenaded by a professional pianist. He could be seen in back, sitting at a grand piano, his white suit, contrasting with the midnight seascape behind.

  When asked, the ladies chose to dine on the open deck above. The sea breeze was fresher than the first breath of wild pine after leaving the city. It flowed in with a chill that made the skin on Lori’s arms tingle when she sat down.

  They were given the perfect booth—not too far back, where her anxiety would kick in—not too close to the front, where people would hear them talking. It was beautiful.

  Ahead, milky beads, fed by a waning crescent, rippled across the surface of the water—interrupted only by the dark steps, leading up to the kitchen.

  The lobby was aglow from tealights, resting in paper holders. They stained Reina’s bush of curls an almond brown. “It really is romantic,” she said.

  “It is,” Lori agreed.

  Reina took a drink of water, set her glass down and folded her hands, looking from side to side, then back
at the table. “Are there menus?”

  “No, they’ll read out the specials.”

  “So there’s not too many choices?”

  “No,” Lori said, “but only the best chefs can get away with doing that. It means that people come because of their reputation, not the menu.”

  “That sounds like an honor,” Reina said, straightening her fork. It was silver. Lori was certain.

  “Have you been to the wave pool?”

  “No.”

  “It’s really fun. Then there’s the dinner theater.”

  “I saw an ad for that. It doesn’t look very good.”

  “Well, there’s jazz night. I think that would be cool—oh, the captain’s banquet. That’s when Katy Harris is singing. It’s invite only, which means it’s all crazy rich people—the VIP on a cruise. Can you imagine?”

  “Sounds horrific,” Lori said, as she watched a waiter come down the kitchen steps. The moon lit up his face, and she could see that it was George. He had a bottle tucked beneath his arm, and he was balancing a giant platter.

  “Jesus, I don’t—Tim was going to propose, so I don’t know what to expect tonight.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. He pre-ordered everything and planned it all out. I get dresses and cards every night.”

  “Oh, my God. I would love that.” Reina’s eyes lit up when George artfully set the platter down between them. It was lined with oysters, and in the middle, there were rings of fried calamari.

  “Good evening, ladies. A sparkling wine, compliments of the house.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “The oysters were caught hours ago,” he said, adding, “there’s an aioli for the squid, but I was told this would be enough.”

  “I’d like some, please,” Reina said.

  “Of course, and might I suggest the lobster. It’s just as fresh—shelled, if you’d like.” Lori and Reina both readily agreed.

  “You can leave the bottle,” Reina added.

  “Alright, and if there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Yeah,” Lori interjected. “If there’s anything special for tonight, you can just call it off. Circumstances have changed.”