The other girl—the one I accidentally made eye contact with at check-in—nods. She’s petite with a curvy figure, creamy white skin, a riotous mass of dark curls, and a sweet, heart-shaped face. I have a thing for curly hair and a thing for, well, curves. I duck into my room before they see me so I don’t get caught looking at her again.
I enter a suite so palatial it borders on pornographic. There’s a lounge opening onto an oceanfront terrace, a king-sized bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a huge marble bathroom. Everything is in tasteful shades of greige.
I’m accustomed to my parents’ taste for luxury vacations—we grew up on first-class flights to the Maldives and Kenyan safaris—but this might top them all.
Someone knocks at the door.
I open it to find a smiling man in a dark suit holding a silver tray of fresh fruit.
“Mr. Segrave,” he says warmly. “Welcome to theRomance of the Sea. I am Crisanto, and I’ll be looking after you on your voyage as your personal butler. May I come in?”
“Of course,” I say, moving aside. He sweeps in and places the fruit on my dining table.
“You are from London,” he says. “A long journey.”
“It was,” I agree. He must have memorized the guest profile I filled out online. Impressive.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“The Philippines, sir.”
“Oh, please call me Felix,” I say. I’ve never been particularly comfortable with the trappings of my parents’ wealth. Making a butler address me as “sir” is more Little Lord Fauntleroy than I like.
“Very well, Mr. Felix,” Crisanto says. “May I show you around your suite?”
“Sure.”
He points out a phone where I can reach him and his colleagues twenty-four hours a day, then leads me to the minifridge and wet bar that’s been stocked with beer, champagne, and wine.
I can only imagine how quickly my two-years-ago self would have obliterated it.
“A liquor menu is here if you desire—I am happy to bring you whatever you like,” Crisanto says.
“No hard stuff, and actually, would you mind removing the wine?” I ask. “I’m more of a Coke Zero man.”
Caffeine and nicotine gum are the two vices I’ve replaced booze and cigarettes with since getting sober. I consume them both with inadvisable voracity. I should probably give them up, given I’m constantly abuzz and have TMJ from all the chewing, but I’m nervous to shake any of the habits upon which I built my sobriety.
It took me too long to get here to risk it, and I’ve put my family and friends through too much.
A chime rings—the doorbell.
“Ah,” says Crisanto, “that must be your room attendant. I’ll introduce you.”
He opens the door for a smiling young woman in a prim gray dress with a white apron.
“Mr. Felix, this is Belhina.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“A pleasure,” she says.
“Belhina will clean your room twice a day and see that you’re comfortable,” says Crisanto.
“How do you prefer your pillows, Mr. Felix?” she asks. “I’ll bring you whatever you like—firm, goose down—”
“Oh, no worries,” I say. “The ones on the bed are just the thing. But thank you.”
“Very well, sir. But please let me know if you would like help unpacking your luggage.”
