“But you might do it someday?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready. My sobriety is the most important thing to me. I’m not willing to do anything that would threaten it.”
His eyes have gone rather far away and his jaw is set. He looks… grim.
“It’s good that you know what you need,” I say, worried I’ve led him into something he isn’t ready to talk about.
“Anyway,” he says. “No one needs to hear me prattle on about my boring life. Let’s talk about something more interesting.”
We settle on books. He says his favorite Jane Austen novel isSense and Sensibility, while I profess mine isPersuasion.
“That makes sense,” he says.
“Why?”
“It’s about unfulfilled dreams of having a home of one’s own in the English countryside.”
“Well, she wants it with one specific person,” I say. “That part’s kind of important.”
“Do you want it with another person?” he asks.
So much for light territory. It’s hard to talk casually about dreams with someone who is rapidly, unwisely, becoming one of them.
“I’d be open to that,” I say as breezily as possible.
I leave out the part where a handsome British man I adore, and who loves me beyond reason, shares my rambling cottage with me.
And maybe, just maybe, he owns a pub with rooms.
Felix
I would never have predicted that one of the best days of my life would involve a snorkeling trip during a Caribbean cruise.
But I like Hope Lanover so much it scares me. I like her so much I’m picturing her writing her novel in a hotel I design with a room just for her, overlooking her rose garden.
Or better yet, the sea.
I need to get a fucking grip.
I’m not doing myself any favors, spinning fantasies of some storybook life I can never have. Odds are I’ll never leave London. Odds are, Iamliving my dream life. The dream was surviving my old one.
I’m not sure I could handle more.
I’m not sure I deserve to.
But damn is it nice to indulge for a few minutes in the vision of an existence unencumbered by my real circumstances.
When we get back to the ship, Hope yawns and professes a deep desire “for a snooze.”
“Want to join me?” she asks.
I do, but I know I need to get my head together.
“I think I might go to the gym. And then I have a booking for a sports massage at six. Late supper?”
She yawns again. “I doubt I’ll be very hungry after that lunch. But why don’t we go on a date to the magic show?”
“Ihatemagic shows.”
