When the kiss ended, I was limp and weak and clung to Manny to keep from falling. I heard a gasp. Out of the corner of my eye, I detected movement. My eyes came to rest on a hairy little pig-like creature on a grungy green backpack. I had to force myself to look up and meet the stunned look of the man holding the book bag.
I watched the emotions play across his face like a slide show. Shock. Uncertainty. Jealousy. Pain. Anger. Each one was like an arrow to my heart. I clumsily disentangled myself from Manny’s embrace.
“I can explain!” I said, falling back on a familiar old Tressa Jayne Turner tune.
“Not necessary,” Townsend responded. He put the book bag in my hands. “Your peccary pack,” he snapped, “and cabin card.” He handed that to Manny. “You’ll need it more than I will,” he added.
Then he left me standing there, a Javelina in my hands and a pain in my heart so intense it took my breath away.
I watched Brianna the Beauty run after Rick as he left the Stardust. I caught Joe Townsend’s somber look.
“Satisfied?” I hissed at him. “Maybe next time you’ll quit playing mind games, butt out and leave the chess moves to a master,” I added, ripping my card out of Manny’s hand. “Bon voyage, assholes,” I spat, taking my leave.
I made my way to my cabin, bone-weary, tired and listless as I’d never been before: all the fight drained out of me. I felt the tears start to fall but could mount no countermeasure, could muster no resistance to staunch them. I was utterly defenseless.
They’d sunk my battleship.
This was the time I’d normally drown my sorrows in a bag of Doritos, a half-pound bag of M&M’s, and a six-pack of beer. Absent that, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and crawled between the sheets of my teeny, tiny bed. Taylor was still out—no doubt enjoying the nightlife on the ship with the trainer crowd.
I pondered how this night might have been so very different. I shivered, recalling how Townsend had kissed my neck and held me against him earlier. I shut my eyes tight when I thought of Manny’s sudden, shocking, searching kiss.
In hindsight I should have run after Townsend, relegated Brianna to the brig and sat on Ranger Rick until he gave me an opportunity to explain. I frowned. But what if the explanations hadn’t worked? I wasn’t exactly known for my oratorical skills.
Maybe then I would have let my lips do the talking—in a nonverbal kind of way, you understand. I felt my cheeks grow warm. Somehow I couldn’t see myself as a femme fatale. I remembered how my semi-trampy Marilyn Monroe approach had tanked in the past and on more than one occasion. Marilyn Manson was probably a more effective vamp than I was. Rick Townsend probably would have laughed himself silly at my feeble attempt at seduction.
Also, there was that minor little thing called courage to consider. I brought the sheet up over my head. Yo ho, me hearties. Yo ho! It’s a coward’s life for me.
I awoke to a loud burst of the ship’s horn and promptly fell out of bed.
“Oh my God! We’re foundering!” I yelled. Damn. I knew I should have paid attention at the safety drill. I jumped up and ran to retrieve my life vest.
“We’re not sinking, Tressa. It’s our wake-up call. Didn’t you read your daily bulletin?”
I looked over to find Taylor up and dressed in a white T-shirt and lightweight, mid-calves workout pants.
“Wake-up call? Whoever heard of a wake-up call for people taking a cruise?” I asked.
“Ah, but this is not an ordinary cruise, is it?” Taylor said, and I saw the gleam in her eye. “It’s a kick-start cruise. A lifestyle makeover.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” I growled. “Admit it.”
She shrugged. “Let’s just say it will make for an interesting study of human behavior.”
“You were late getting in last night,” I observed, and noticed the sudden flush in her cheeks. “Did you meet someone?” I asked.
Taylor shrugged again.
“I met a lot of people. I hung out with some of the personal trainers and passengers. I was surprised you weren’t with…” She stopped. “I was surprised to see you in bed when I came in.”
So she’d seen Townsend. I wondered if he’d been boating with Brianna. I made a face. That sounded like some lame syndicated show title.
“I had a headache,” I said. “Brought on from lack of food.”
“Rick didn’t look like a happy cruiser,” Taylor remarked.
I didn’t meet her eyes. “It was probably the soy burger from supper.”
“He found out about Manny DeMarco, didn’t he?” Taylor asked.
I nodded, gathering my clothes from the drawer. “At the Stardust last night.”
“I’m sure Rick was furious, but he can hardly blame you for Manny being on this cruise. And it wasn’t as if he caught you in flagrante delicto or anything.”
I was silent.
“He didn’t. Did he?”
“That depends,” I said.
“On what?” Taylor asked.
“If having someone stick their tongue down your throat qualifies as flagrante delicto.”
Without looking up, I could imagine Taylor’s stunned expression. Slack jaw. Open mouth. Bulging eyeballs.
“Are you saying Rick caught you kissing Manny De-Marco?” she asked.
“No!” I shouted. “No! I’m saying Rick caught Manny DeMarco kissing me!” I slammed the drawer shut, cursed when my panties got caught in the drawer and yanked the light blue undies free.
“How did that happen?” Taylor asked. “I thought your relationship with Manny DeMarco was all for show and all for Mo.” I had to marvel at her ability to rhyme on the fly. “What in God’s name was he doing with his tongue in your mouth?”
“Wishing me bon voyage?” I said, with a weak smile.
“Why didn’t you push him away? Slap his face? Knee him in the groin?” Taylor asked.
I bit my lip. I’d asked myself those same questions. Well, all except for the groin one. No way was I going to try to unman Manny DeMarco with a well-placed thrust between the legs. Nuh-uh. No way, Skipper.
“I was at a bit of a disadvantage,” I explained. “And it happened so quickly I didn’t have time to react.”
Taylor was quiet for a moment. “So, you didn’t react?” she said. “One way or the other?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Tressa. A great-looking, sexy, ripped male kisses you and you don’t react at all? Give me a break. I’m not as gullible as that. Neither is Rick. And what kind of message are you sending to Manny when you let him kiss you like that?” she added.
“Let him? Let him! If you knew Manny DeMarco, you’d know that he isn’t the kind to ask ‘Mother, may I’ before he does anything. And besides, it didn’t mean anything. It was just playacting,” I insisted.
Taylor gave me a long look. “For whose benefit?” she asked. “Tell me. Did he see Rick before or after he kissed you?”
I chewed my lip. Damn. That was a good question. And clearly one I should have asked myself but hadn’t. Frankly, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to me that Manny had seen Rick and then kissed me. But now that Taylor had suggested it…
Manny DeMarco had some ‘splaining to do.
“What time is it, anyway?” I thought to ask.
“Six or so,” Taylor said.
“Six? AM? What is the deal here? I’m on vacation! I want to sleep in!” I whined.
“Fine. Cower in this cabin for a week. Thumb your nose at this incredible opportunity to adopt a healthy lifestyle. Don’t try to come to terms with your feelings for two very different men. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. It’s working so well for you!” Taylor snapped.
“Maybe you should take some of your own advice, baby sister,” I said. “For someone who dropped out of college after two and a half years and who is now employed at her uncle’s ice cream brazier, that seems awfully judgmental, don’t you think? And more than slightly one-sided. I’m thinking along the lines of removing your own log before you concern yourself with your brother’s—or in this case sister’s— splinter,” I growled, fed up with Taylor’s sanctimonious posturing. I’d put up with it for years. Before I’d always let it run off me like so much water off a quacker’s back. But now? Now it was starting to tick me off. Royally.
“That’s not fair, Tressa,” Taylor responded. “One time! One time I’m undecided, one time I’m unsure, one time I’m unclear on what I really want to do with my life and what happens? I get this crap from you. You, who’ve had so many missteps and do-overs you could fill an Excel spreadsheet documenting them all.”
I stared at her. I’d noticed a change in her in Arizona: an uncharacteristic bitchiness in her manner I’d never seen before. Initially I’d applauded it. Now I wasn’t so sure this newfound “I am Taylor, hear me roar” approach suited her. At least, not when it was directed at me.
“Well, excuse me for being an imperfect human,” I said, discouraged by the fact that it seemed we were always at loggerheads. “The difference between you and me, Taylor, is that I acknowledge my many shortcomings. How could I not when you and others are always ready, willing and eager to point them out?” I added.
Taylor looked at me. “But do you ever try to change? Improve?” she asked. She walked over and put a hand on my arm. “Regardless of what you think, Tressa, I care about you. And I want you to be safe and happy. I want you to turn this cruise into an affirmation rather than a conflagration. Turn a negative into a positive. Challenge yourself to change and grow. Live and learn. Face your feelings head-on and accept the consequences. Use this cruise as your own personal epiphany. A voyage of self-discovery.”
I blinked. Her speech would have Oprah tearing up and reaching for her hanky. Who the heck did she think she was—Maya Angelou?
And then she really crossed the line. She said it: Three itty-bitty words that to me evoked much the same reaction as a red flag to a majorly pissed-off bull.
“I dare you.”
I blinked. “What did you say?”
Taylor tossed me the ship’s daily bulletin. “I dare you,” she repeated. “I dare you to make a commitment to positive growth.” She lifted her chin. “I dare you.”
I considered the challenge. One week. One week without junk food, chocolate and real beer with real foam. One week of exercising, yoga, nutrition and motivational pep talks. One week of stock-taking, soul-searching and—insert stomach roiling here—getting in touch with my feelings.
“Bring it on,” I finally said, sticking my hand out to shake. “By the end of this cruise, you’ll have a whole new appreciation for your big sister,” I promised. “You count on it.”
A Tressa Turner Custom Cruise Lifestyle Makeover.
Taylor gave me an uneasy look. I suspected she wondered what she’d gotten herself into. I was more concerned with what I’d gotten myself into.
What was that saying again? Something about pride coming before a fall.
Stupid, stupid pride.
I showered and dressed in black stretchy shorts and a white T-shirt. You know, clothes you can sweat in and get away with it. I pulled my hair back in a lopsided ponytail. By the time I was through in the bathroom, Taylor had left. I stuck a black and white visor on my head and picked up the daily bulletin.
“’Muster: 0600 hours,’” I read. “’Weigh-in for Jump-start participants. Body-fat index calculations. Diet and nutrition guidelines issued. Team assignments. Workshop sign-up. Breakfast: 0800 hours.’ ” Body-fat index? Good Lord. This was worse than I thought. A veritable smorgasbord of pain, deprivation and masochism. And all in the name of a new and improved you.
I looked in the mirror. Was I imagining it, or did my cheeks already look slightly concave? And were those dark smudges under my eyes? And talk about pale. I looked like an ad for the medieval medical practice of leeching. Or my sister, Taylor, on the plane ride. Or shuttle ride. Or merry-go-round.
I shook my head at my emaciated reflection. Who was the biggest loser on this cruise? No contest. Tressa Jayne Turner. Hands down.
I grabbed my bag, deciding if it killed me I was going to prove once and for all that Tressa Turner was possessed of willpower in sufficient quantity to last a week at sea on the S.S.
Richard Simmons.
As I left the cabin, I found myself relieved that I didn’t have to play duck-and-run with Aunt Mo any longer. The secret was out. The breakup was a matter of record. I was footloose and fiancé-free! And I was starving!
I decided to take the stairs rather than the elevator. After all, I’d just pledged to focus on fitness. Well, for a week at least. I took the stairway to the upper decks, deciding that no matter how imitation it might be, I planned to have food on my plate that at least looked like bacon, sausage, and eggs. I’d just deal with any gag reflex that resulted.
I was about to climb another set of stairs when I heard someone on the staircase above me. I moved to the right to permit them to pass but no one descended.
“Tressa.”
My whispered name stopped me in mid-step.
“Yes?” I called up. “Hello! Who’s there?”
No response other than Darth Vader-like heavy breathing.
“Hello?” I started to climb the stairs.
“Tressa!”
I stopped again at the hissed whisper. “Uh, is that you, Ranger Rick? If so, this is so not funny!” I said.
I took another step, starting to get a bit creeped out. Wait a minute. What was I thinking? It was daylight. I was on a cruise ship with upbeat people who were out to improve the landscape of their lives. So why was I lingering on these steps like some scared little girl?
I was just about to take the next step when an object floated down the open stairway and landed a few steps up. It was a fifty-dollar bill. Like any financially challenged pinch-penny, I bent over to pick it up when something flew down the stairs at me. I caught a flash of white before I was shoved violently backwards. I frantically reached out to grip something—anything—but captured only air. The resulting backflip I performed would have brought gold in the Olympics. Unfortunately, my dismount left a helluva lot to be desired. My head smacked the wall with the force of a cannonball. My last thought before I lost consciousness?
This was no friggin’ Good Ship
Lollipop.
“Miss Turner? Miss Turner? Can you hear me?”
Blinding light dueled with blinding pain for the upper hand as I opened one eye, only to shut it again when the effort proved too taxing.
“Miss Turner? Are you okay? Your dad will be here straightaway. Miss Turner?”
I finally opened my eyes. I found the concerned gaze of what appeared to be a health care professional looking down on me.
“My dad?” My eyes filled with tears, and it had less to do with the killer headache I had and more to do with the daddy-daughter thing—that über-special connection. You daughters out there get it, right?
My dad is one of those people who would, if given the option, rather not be seen or heard. Sometimes I sit and stare at him and wonder how Hellion Hannah Turner could have birthed someone whose idea of a perfect evening is puttering with implements of husbandry (i.e. farm machinery), reading the newspaper and flipping from sports event to sports event on cable in front of his big-screen TV A gentleman farmer (think
Green Acres
here), my dad has worked for the local telephone company for well over two decades.
My mom, a bookkeeper and tax accountant, is pragmatic and sensible, but has a softer side. A movie buff and voracious reader, my mother is also a bit of a political junkie. I think she’d love it if they had punch cards for elections so she could check to see if her family members had dutifully voted. I’d be all in favor of it, too. If say, you got a free pizza pie for every three elections voted in, that is. Including the local ones, of course.