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“I think I drank half the pool,” he says when he’s finally able to extricate himself and climb out.
The others laugh, but I can only stare at him, as he dries his back with a towel, his chest shining with water droplets. He walks off to get changed, and I give a private sigh before looking around and realizing Mack is watching me.
“I’ll be able to tell,” he mouths.
I give him the finger, and he chuckles and returns to his conversation.
Huxley returns five minutes later in his blue shirt and linen suit, and he then spends a while circulating amongst the guests, checking that everyone has a drink before he finally starts asking the women to dance. He’s always done this—he hates people being alone, and he’ll ask anyone—grandmas, teenage girls, and single mums—to dance with him so they don’t feel left out.
I pull on a thick sweater, slide down in my chair, and drink my champagne as I watch him dancing with an older Maori woman and making her laugh, wondering what it would be like to be married to someone like him. I’ve honestly not thought about it much before. I never talked about marriage with any of my exes, and they certainly never broached the subject. It always seemed like a bit of an outdated institution. Why commit yourself for life to someone and have to go through a divorce when it’s over when you can just move in with them and see how it goes?
But being here today, watching Mack and Sidnie saying their vows, has given me a new perspective on things. Maybe marriage isn’t about owning the other person. Perhaps it’s not a bear trap you catch them in. Is it possible it really is as magical as today has made it seem? Or am I just very drunk?
What was the saying that Huxley ended with today?May the calm be widespread, may the surface of the ocean glisten like the greenstone, and may the shimmer of summer dance across your path forever.I wonder what he thinks about it all.
He’s not doing great, Mack told me.He loves you, you know. Okay, he’d had four glasses of champagne when he said it, but even so.
Give him a break. It’s not what you think. Once again, Victoria’s words haunt me. I wish someone would tell me what’s going on.
There’s mainly been dance music playing, but now a slow song begins, and I realize with a bang of my heart that it’s one of my favorites oldies—The Beatles’Don’t Let Me Down. Couples start gravitating toward each other—Jamie and his pregnant girlfriend, Kai and his wife, Victoria and Evie, Mack and Sidnie, Caro and Hana, even Sidnie’s parents—and they all begin to circle slowly to the music.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Huxley standing there, hand outstretched. “Dance with me,” he says.
I poke my tongue out at him. “Working your way through the spinsters on board, are we?”
He flicks his fingers up. “Don’t be grouchy. I know you like this song. Dance with me.”
“I’m too drunk, Hux. Find another old maid to bother.”
“Old maid… You’re not even thirty yet. One of Mack’s maiden aunts has a mustache. You’re the sexiest girl on board by a long shot.”
That makes me laugh. He flicks his fingers again. “Come on, I’ll hold you up. Don’t make me put you in a firefighter’s lift.”
Grumbling, slightly mollified by his compliment, I ignore the sniggers of those around me and let him pull me to my feet. I’m wearing deck shoes rather than heels today, so I’m a lot shorter than him. He moves me to the edge of the dance floor and turns me into his arms.
As we settle into a rhythm, he sings softly, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin. I study the triangle of skin visible at his neckline where he’s left the top two buttons undone as we move to the music. “Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Sure.”
“Is there something you haven’t told me about what happened when we were nineteen?”
His left hand curls around my right, and his other hand splays at the base of my spine. “No,” he says.
I brush my thumb over the seam of his shirt where it runs around his shoulder, feeling his muscles beneath. He didn’t say,What do you mean?And he didn’t look surprised. He knows what I’m talking about. But he’s not going to tell me.
“Please?” I whisper.
He looks down at me then. His pupils are large in the semi-darkness. “There’s nothing to say.”
I don’t reply, and in the end he just pulls me toward him a little more, and we dance quietly.
He doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his secret. We’re not married, and we’re not partners, and I’m not even sure we’re close friends anymore. He’s shutting me out, and I only have myself to blame.
He continues to sing, telling me he’s in love for the first time, and that it’s going to last forever, but they’re just words, and I know it’s not the truth. It’s like torture, his hand in mine, his lips close to my temple, his hot breath whispering across my skin. I can smell his aftershave, and I can’t stop my thumb from stroking his shoulder. Part of me hopes he’ll throw caution to the wind, slide a hand beneath my chin, and lift my face to kiss me, or that he’ll catch my hand in his, drag me back to our cabin, throw me onto the bed, and make mad passionate love to me, refusing to take no for an answer.
But he’s not going to do that. I know he won’t. In his world, no means no, and even though I wish with all my heart that at this moment he could let go of his lofty principles for just one second, that would never happen. I made my bed, and I have to lie in it, even though it’s lumpy and uncomfortable, and I know I’m not going to get any sleep at all.
When the song ends, we thank each other politely, and I go back to my seat and return to my champagne.
