One Last Chance

by Shelby Gates

SIX

  “Ouch!”

  “Look, I’m barely touching it.” Griffin said.

  “The ice is freezing!”

  “It’s supposed to be.” But he adjusted the bag so it rested lighter on her ankle. “It’s water that has changed from a liquid to a solid. Via very cold temperatures.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Shut up.” She reached for the bottle of painkillers the ship’s doctor had given her and twisted the lid. She let the saliva pool in her mouth and then popped one of the pills and swallowed it down.

  Despite her protests, Griffin had carried her straight from the bar into the elevator, and then into the ship’s clinic. The doctor, a dead ringer for George Hamilton, had rubbed and rolled her ankle and pronounced her fine.

  “A bit of a strain,” he said. “We can wrap it and you can ice it back in your stateroom.”

  “Can we do x-rays?” Griffin asked. “Just to be sure?”

  Dr. George shrugged. “We could.”

  “No,” Claire said. “It’s fine.” She couldn’t imagine how much an x-ray would cost.

  “Claire…” Griffin began, but she stopped him.

  “It’s fine,” she repeated. She pushed herself off the exam table and put her foot on the floor. Slowly, she bore down on it. Pain pulsed through her ankle but she bit her lip and tried to smile. “See? Already feeling better.”

  Dr. George flashed a grin, his teeth electric-white against his tanned skin. “You’re one tough lady.”

  “You have no idea,” Griffin said under his breath.

  The doctor handed a bottle to Griffin and a pair of crutches to Claire. “Use these,” he told her. “At least to get back to the room. Take some ibuprofen for the swelling and make sure you ice it off and on for the rest of the night. I’m giving you a few painkillers—use them sparingly. If it’s not feeling better by tomorrow night, I want you back in here.”

  She nodded.

  “And no water-skiing. No dancing. Rest it.”

  “I will.”

  So she did. She’d hobbled back to the room, awkward on the crutches, with Griffin at her side.

  “You don’t need to babysit me,” she’d told him as he slid the room card into the slot. He opened the door. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  She’d propelled herself to one of the beds, the bed Griffin had not been lounging on earlier, and dropped the crutches to the floor. She collapsed on top of it.

  And Griffin had stayed. And was now sitting on the edge of her bed, playing nurse.

  “When are you leaving?”

  He looked around. “Last time I checked, this was my room.”

  “No, no,” Claire said, flustered. “I mean, when are you going back to the happy hour?”

  “Oh, that’s over. Ended at eight.”

  She tried to remember what was next on the schedule. Dinner, for sure. And then a comedy show.

  “What about dinner? Aren’t you hungry?”

  He shrugged. “A little.”

  “So go eat.”

  “I will.” He lifted the bag of ice off her ankle and set it down on the night stand. “What do you want?”

  For my ankle to feel better, she thought. For me to be off this cruise. For you to not be so goddamn good looking.

  “What?” she asked instead.

  “Food.” He’d picked up the room phone. “Room service.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “Bull.” He picked up the ship directory and flipped it open.

  “Good evening.” He spoke into the phone. “Two pastrami sandwiches. A slice of cheesecake. And two Coronas. Yes. Thank you.” He hung up.

  “I told you I wasn’t hungry,” Claire said.

  “And I told you I didn’t believe you.” He resumed his position next to her on the bed. “You still like cheesecake?”

  Her eyes widened. How had he remembered? Better question, why had he remembered?

  He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She ignored him and picked up the cruise line magazine laying on the end table. Griffin stood and grabbed his laptop and returned to his own bed. Claire tried to focus on the pages of the magazine, tried to lose herself in the shore excursions and the ship amenities highlighted, but she couldn’t. All she could think about was the man sitting less than five feet away from her in the tiny stateroom they shared.

  A sharp rap at the door ten minutes later startled her. Griffin answered and an Asian man carrying a tray filled with silver-domed dishes entered.

  “Where would you like this, sir?” he asked, nodding at the tray.

  Griffin motioned toward Claire. “Her bed is fine.”

  Claire shifted positions, trying to make room for the food. Her ankle still ached but the pain meds had taken the edge off. She felt better.

  The waiter left and Griffin sat down across from her and lifted the lids off the food. Claire’s mouth watered as the smell of pastrami and rye wafted toward her. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  Griffin twisted the cap off one of the bottles of beer and handed it to her. He pulled off the other and held his bottle up in toast.

  “To old memories,” he said, clinking his bottle against hers. “And to new ones.”

  She took a long swallow of her beer and eyed him. What old memories was he toasting? Breaking up with her? And what new ones was he hoping to make? Claire wished she had the guts to ask.

  She bit into her sandwich. “Thank you,” she said after swallowing a bite. “This is really good.”

  He popped a chip into his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

  They ate in silence, a silence that didn’t feel altogether empty. Claire wondered if the painkillers had taken the edge off more than just her ankle.

  “Are there any restrictions in place right now?” Griffin asked. He’d finished his sandwich and was nursing his beer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Talking. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to talk. You know, now that you’ve been doctored and fed and my presence is no longer needed.”

  He’d made her sound like a total bitch, Claire thought. Had she really been that awful?

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “You’re right. It’s not.” He looked at her. “This reunion hasn’t gotten off to the best start for you. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged.

  “I was just trying to help,” he told her. “You know that, right?”

  She did know that. She nodded.

  “OK. Good.” He drained his beer. “Alright, so now that that’s settled and I’m no longer evil incarnate, do you think we can just…I dunno. Hang out? Talk?”

  “Talk about what?” she asked. Her tongue felt a little thick in her mouth and she realized, a little belatedly, that she probably shouldn’t have taken a painkiller and downed a beer. Together.

  “I don’t know.” He took the lid off the last plate and revealed a fat slice of cheesecake. “What you’ve been up to the past ten years.”

  Claire didn’t want to talk about the monumental mess she’d made out of her life. “Why just me? What about you?”

  “You already know what I do,” he pointed out. He handed her the fork and the plate of cheesecake. “Here, take a bite.”

  “We’re sharing?”

  “No, you can have it.”

  “I can’t eat this whole thing,” she protested. Nor should I, she thought, thinking of the fact that her former size 0 body was now a size 4.

  “Then I guess we’ll share it.”

  And before she could protest, he picked up the fork and sliced off a bite.

  “So what do you want to know about me?” he asked.

  Are you married? Involved with someone? Who did you date in college? Why did you break my heart in high school? Claire’s mind filled with questions.

  “Um…tell me where you travel. For your job.”

  He dug the fork into the cheesecake again, lifting up a hefty bite. He h
eld it out to Claire.

  “Lots of places,” he answered. “I started out mostly going to surf spots. Mexico. Thailand. Places like that. Had some epic experiences, met a lot of really cool people and stayed at some awesome places. About a year into it, I had a spell of bad luck. Crappy hotels. Airline issues. Things like that. So I started a blog about it. Basically just venting, you know? But some pro surfers out there got wind of it and they shared with their friends. I’d gotten pissed with some of the service—messed up reservations and stuff—and had taken matters into my own hands. Wrote letters, stuff like that. People started asking me to do the same for them. Bigger web sites asked to run my articles. It sort of snowballed from there.”

  Claire’s brain felt like mush from the medication but she understood enough. He really was big time. And he’d had a much better post-high school run than she had.

  “What about you?” He offered her the last bite of cheesecake.

  Where did she start? Should she tell him about the fact that it took her over six years to graduate from college? And that it was virtually impossible to get a job with an art history degree? Should she tell him about Jared, the man she shouldn’t have married?

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “You’re not married.” He said this as a statement.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Boyfriend? Significant other?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, I know you dated me—and other guys—in high school,” he said. “Just didn’t know if that was still the case…”

  “Are you asking me if I’m a lesbian?” Maybe the medicine was affecting her hearing.

  Griffin grinned. “No, no. Not asking. Just clarifying. You know?”

  She winced and closed her eyes. “No one has ever asked me that. Ever.”

  “Claire.” She felt his hands cover hers and her eyes flew open. “I was teasing.”

  He was blurry in front of her and she knew the pain meds were in full effect. She couldn’t muster any anger over his statement, couldn’t decipher whether the tenderness she saw in his features was real or imagined.

  “I think the medicine is working,” she said, her voice a whisper even to her own ears.

  His features softened even more. “Is it? Good. You need to sleep.”

  She tried to nod. She felt a hand, soft and cool, stroke her cheek. “Sleep, Claire. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  SEVEN

  Claire felt like a beached whale. Lounging on a white beach chair, her leg slightly elevated on a stack of white pillows, she was pretty sure she looked like one, too.

  She watched the other cruise goers frolic in the pool in the morning sun and tried not to remember what had happened in her stateroom just sixty minutes earlier.

  She’d woken up feeling better. The fuzziness was gone and the swelling in her ankle was gone, too.

  Until she’d stepped out of bed and whimpered. It definitely felt better than the night before but there was no way she was back to normal. None.

  “You OK?” Griffin had mumbled from his bed.

  “Yeah. Fine,” she managed. She sank down on the bed.

  And noticed she was wearing pajamas.

  Pajamas she hadn’t put on.

  “Oh my God!”

  Griffin bolted into a sitting position. “What??”

  “You undressed me??”

  He relaxed and grinned at her. “Didn’t think you’d wanna sleep in your dress.”

  She glared at him. “You took my clothes off?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he reminded her, yawning, and she flushed scarlet. “Look, I grabbed your nightgown. Swapped them out. Took all of two minutes. And it’s not like I didn’t know what underwear you were wearing.”

  “I cannot believe this.”

  “Claire,” he said, his voice firm. “Nothing happened. You were passed out. I helped you get ready for bed. No different than what any friend would do.”

  But he wasn’t just any friend, she thought. He was her ex-boyfriend, the boy who had smashed her heart into tiny pieces.

  She limped to the dresser and dug out her swimsuit and a matching cover-up.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Anywhere but here.” She made her way into the bathroom, changed her clothes and brushed her teeth and left.

  An hour later, sitting poolside, she was still angry. But not with Griffin. She was angry with herself. Once again, she’d behaved abysmally. She’d let the past flavor her reactions in the present. All he’d done was help her and she’d practically accused him of attempted rape, simply because he’d changed her clothes.

  “Poor Claire! How are you this morning?” Emily sat down next to her, looking like a swimsuit model in her miniscule red bikini.

  Claire forced a smile. “Fine.”

  Emily motioned to her foot. “Is it broken?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just a little sprain.”

  “That was really nice of Griffin to take care of you like that,” Emily said. She paused. “And it was really nice of him to let you share his room.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I mean,” Emily continued, twirling a lock of blond hair around her finger, “he even came down during the happy hour to make sure you had a place to sit for dinner. You know, since you messed up your reservation.”

  “I didn’t mess up my reservation,” Claire pointed out. “The cruise line did.”

  “Right,” Emily said, nodding. “Anyway, I guess that’s what he does, you know? Fixes people’s travel problems. It’s a good thing he was here or you might still be standing on the dock!” She giggled.

  Claire nodded but her mind was elsewhere. Griffin hadn’t left her last night. He’d gone down to make sure she had a table for dinner. She knew how cruise dinners worked. Everyone had assigned tables. He’d been making sure that there would be a place for her. Her pulse quickened at the thought.

  “So, anyway,” Emily continued, eyeing Claire. “Tell me about him.”

  “Who?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Griffin, dummy.”

  “What about him?”

  Emily leaned closer. “What’s he like?”

  “Um…he’s like Griffin.” Claire didn’t know what to say. What kind of information was Emily after? And why did she care?

  “That is one alumni who has definitely gotten better with age,” Emily murmured. “Don’t you think?”

  Claire managed a nod.

  “I sort of wish I’d gotten my reservation messed up. Maybe I’d be sharing a room with him instead of you.”

  Claire stiffened. “You…? I thought you and Dylan…”

  Emily waved her hand. “Oh, please. We hooked up a few weeks ago. Just before the reunion.”

  “Oh.” It felt like a very inadequate response.

  “He’s just a diversion,” she said. “A fun one, yes. But Griffin? He’s someone I could get serious about.”

  The words stabbed Claire like a knife and she sucked in her breath. She knew she didn’t stand a chance with Griffin—hell, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted one—but she didn’t want to think of Emily with him, either. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Emily leaned closer and Claire could smell her peppermint gum.

  “Anyway, I was hoping you could help me,” she said, her eyes wide. “You know, like help me hook up with him.”

  “Me?”

  Emily nodded and her hair bounced like she was in a shampoo commercial. “Yes! Put in a good word for me. Stuff like that. And, if things progress the way they should today, maybe stay in my stateroom tonight? So Griffin and I can have his.”

  Claire swallowed. “Um. Sure.”

  Emily squealed. “Great! I knew I could count on you, Claire. This is going to be so perfect. And just think—you can say you helped bring us together!”

  She flounced off and Claire sat there, her head throbbing more than her ankle as she watched her go
.

  Emily wanted Griffin? Never in the history of ever would she have seen that coming. They’d run in the same circles at St. Andrew’s but they’d never dated. Had always been just friends. Griffin had played basketball and had been popular but he’d never been one of the It boys the way Dylan had. He’d never been one of the guys a girl like Emily would even consider dating.

  Claire knew things changed after high school. People grew up, saw beyond the superficialness of looks and popularity. Maybe that was it. But considering Emily’s interest in Griffin was rather sudden, Claire was pretty sure a change in maturation wasn’t the motivating factor here. But she didn’t know what was.

  “Are you done being angry at me?”

  Claire looked up.

  Griffin stood in front of her, dressed in gray board shorts and a white Hurley t-shirt. A visor sat on his head and sunglasses shaded his eyes.

  “I guess.”

  He sat in the chair Emily had just vacated. “Good. So you’ll come to the beach with me?”

  “The beach?”

  “Shore excursion.” He smiled. “You don’t wanna sit on the ship by yourself all day, do you?”