Page 77 of Ship Happens

But all of that pales in comparison to how Jacob has made him feel.

It was going to happen; they were going to do it. They almost made a huge mistake. Because they shouldn’t be kissing. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Owen asks no one.

And he wanted it too. He wanted Jacob to kiss him.

“Fuck, dude . . .” Owen rakes a hand through his hair.

“You okay?” Kevin grumbles, eyes still closed, face half buried in his pillow as he rolls over to face Owen.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Kevin’s voice is gravelly and hard, filled with exhaustion. “Then please stop talking.”

“Sorry.” Owen swallows, throwing back the comforter and reaching for his cane. If he’s going to stew in his feelings, the last thing he wants to do is sit here. He’s not sure exactly where he’s going as he brushes his teeth and gets dressed. He just knows that he can’t sit around doing nothing. It’s too early for most of the entertainment offerings, and Owen would rather not spend even more money shopping. Even after he eases his edible hangover with a greasy breakfast at the buffet, he still has no clue how to occupy his mind long enough to stop thinking about Jacob.

“I’ve got a weird question,” Owen says to the waiter as he comes by to collect Owen’s last plate. “How do people spend time on a cruise?”

“Oh . . .” The waiter is clearly caught off guard. Why wouldn’t he be? “Uh . . . I mean, most people don’t worry about it. You’re on vacation, right?”

“Right.” Owen thinks for a moment, wondering how to actually ask what he’s asking. “But if I wanted to do something? Like do a thing, ya know?”

The poor waiter still seems lost, and then Owen remembers that he probably isn’t getting paid enough to put up with passenger nonsense. Then the waiter says, “Lots of people do classes, I guess? I don’t know, dude, I just work in the buffet.”

Owen actually doesn’t hate that idea. “Sorry . . . Thanks.”

The waiter nods his head and quickly makes his escape. And Owen pulls his phone out.

He could join a pottery class, or a yoga group on the lido deck that’s starting in half an hour. Then he sees the last call for a baking class that begins in ten minutes, and the choice is clear.

Navigating his way to one of the classrooms near the rear of the ship, Owen steps into a large room dotted with individual workstations. There are long counters throughout, each with their own sink, small oven, and stand mixer, as well as an assortment of dry and wet ingredients. More cabinet space lines the far wall, along with two large refrigerators, cooling racks, and extra mixers. It almost feels like Owen’s stepped onto the set of The Great British Bake Off for a moment.

“Hello, hello, hello, everyone!” A woman walks through the door just as Owen is looping a teal apron over his head, speaking in a strong London accent. “How are we all doing this morning?”

“Great, Mel!” an older woman at the workstation next to Owen’s says, eyeing her husband. “Harold and I went to that jazz show you suggested.”

“Did you have a good time?” the woman—apparently Mel—asks her.

“Oh, it was phenomenal. That Harry Whitfield is something special.”

There’s more small talk between Mel and a few of the other passengers as the workstations begin to fill up, and Owen is quick to realize something: everyone here knows everyone else already, and for a moment, he feels out of place.

Then Mel sets her sights on Owen.

“You’re a new face!” she says, voice chipper.

“Yeah, I, uh . . . I hope that’s okay,” Owen says as he leans against his cane.

“More than all right!” Mel reassures him. Then she motions to Owen’s cane. “Do you need a stool or anything? We do a lot of standing here.”

“That’d be great, actually, thank you.” Owen nods, taking the seat when it’s offered to him.

“All-righty, now that everyone’s settled, I thought that we’d continue our pastry series,” Mel starts to say as she takes her spot behind the workstation at the front of the room. “Today we’ll be doing one of my favorites, blueberry scones!”

Without hesitation, Owen grabs the bag of flour, the paper crinkling as he tears into it. It’s only when he’s scooping the two cups he knows he’ll need into the bowl that he realizes no one else is doing the same.

In fact, all of his classmates are staring at him, Mel included.

“Sorry,” Owen says sheepishly, setting the measuring cup down.