The Shippers(37)

I got sexiled by Harmony—and had nowhere else to turn.

“This is really not that bad,” Cooper kept saying on the walk back to his cabin, making it sound worse.

“Let’s just not tell anyone, okay?”

I’d eaten nothing but desserts at the welcome lunch, so Cooper’s first order of business was to get us club sandwiches from room service. Then we sat on his balcony and ate them as the ship started at last to move away from the dock.

It was oddly thrilling to set out to sea.

We watched the harbor slide by, and the flying fish skittering over the water’s surface in zigzags, and we drank Cooper’s champagne, and he tried to steal my fries, and before I knew it, we’d left the Port of Galveston behind and were surrounded by the wide blue Gulf … and I was feeling better.

Like maybe rooming with Cooper wouldn’t be so weird after all.

Until it was time for bed.

I showered, and put on my PJs, and brushed my teeth, and flossed … and then, when the only logical thing left to do was claim a side of the bed and pull back the covers, I hesitated.

Cooper, for his part, had done all the same things and then stood next to me in a gray T-shirt and navy sweatpants—and watched me hesitate.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“I think we should build a barrier,” I said, turning to check the closet for spare pillows and triumphantly returning with two. With mathematical precision, I arranged them down the middle to bisect the surface, and then I measured with my arm to make sure both sides were even.

“Better,” I said.

“Is it?” Cooper asked.

“It’s nice and even,” I said.

“But there’s no room left for us.”

“Sure, there is,” I said. “It’s all mental.”

Cooper frowned at the setup.

“Now we won’t bother each other,” I said.

“If I wanted to bother you,” Cooper said, “those pillows wouldn’t stop me.”

I gave him a look. “But you’re not going to bother me, right? Because you know that today was the most humiliating day of my life, and all I really want to do is go to sleep and stay that way until this cruise is over.”

Cooper gave in. “I’m not going to bother you.”

And then carefully, deliberately, we each pulled back the comforter on our respective sides, and got ourselves settled, and clicked off our sconces.

And then, of course, I couldn’t sleep.

And neither could Cooper.

We just lay there, arms at our sides, looking up at the reflected moonlight on the ceiling—occasionally shifting position and rustling the sheets.

Finally, after what felt like at least an hour, I heard Cooper’s rustling get louder.

“What are you doing?” I said in a half whisper.

“I’m getting up to pee,” Cooper said. And then, at the bathroom door, he paused. “I’m not closing the door all the way.”

“Why?”

“Because of my cleithrophobia. I’m leaving it cracked.”

“I thought you said it was mild.”

“If it bothers you so much, go out on the balcony.”

“Nothing bothers me,” I said. “You can’t be worse than Pete.”

When Cooper came out, he said he’d forgotten to do his push-ups. So he dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed and did a bunch. So many, I lost count.

Not that I was counting.

I crawled down and watched him. After a while, I asked, “Why are you doing so many?”

“I’m just doing a normal number,” he said.

“It seems like more than normal.”

“How many push-ups do you normally do before bed?”

“Zero.”

“Well, that explains it.”

Cooper drank some water after that. And then he remembered to plug in his phone. And then he dug around in his suitcase for a while.

“Would you be asleep right now if I weren’t in your bed?” I asked.

“It’s three in the morning in London right now, so—yes.”

“I forgot you were jet-lagged.”

“I’m running on adrenaline.”

“I really appreciate you taking me in.”

“Well, we couldn’t leave you in Harmony’s sex dungeon.”

Cooper came back to bed and got in … and then we both lay there like a matching set again.

After a while, I said, “I have a fear, too. It might not be a phobia, exactly. But it’s something.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“What of?” Cooper asked.

I sighed. “Singing.”

“Singing?” Cooper said. “That can’t be right. You love to sing. You sing all the time!”

“Used to,” I corrected. “I used to love to sing. And only ever with you, by the way.”

“Only ever with me?”

“Did I never mention this? I never sang as a kid—not even in groups. And when I was forced to, like, say, the national anthem or ‘Happy Birthday,’ I’d just mouth the words and pretend. And if anyone ever asked me to sing—which fortunately doesn’t happen often in life—I’d make some excuse and get the hell out of there. It wasn’t until you brought your mom’s old record collection over that I ever sang at all.”