The Shippers(79)

And Cooper wasn’t exactly perfect, either. I got that he might’ve been frustrated by the way everything unfolded, but was it really worth leaving the ship over? Quitting the wedding? Abandoning his post as my duet partner? Didn’t giving up on me forever seem a little extreme? Couldn’t he give me, like, a moment of grace to absorb this huge new twist in my life story before ditching me?

And don’t get me started on Cooper’s deeming Bridesmaid Two sock-worthy.

I mean, come on. Unforgivable.

There was no excuse for Bridesmaid Two—in any situation.



* * *



I WALKED THE streets of Bishop’s Cay for two hours that morning, scanning for Cooper and trying to clear my head.

The town was the epitome of beachy charm. Quaint buildings in bright colors, a little marina full of painted boats, and lush flowering plants everywhere you cared to rest your gaze: vinca, and parakeet flower, and bougainvillea.

It had lots of good things. Just not Cooper.

Was he gone already? Or might he have booked a hotel room to grab a quick nap after staying up all night with the worst person in the world? Or was he, perhaps, doing a little sightseeing to kill some time? Hadn’t there been an abandoned lighthouse on Bishop’s Cay that he’d wanted to go explore?

Anybody’s guess, I guess. Since he wouldn’t answer his phone.

I’d walked most of the streets, and I’d bought a straw hat and some extra sunscreen, and I’d paused at a sidewalk café near the edge of town for some conch fritters, before I saw a wooden sign pointing toward a trail that read BISHOP’S LIGHTHOUSE 1 MILE.

Could Cooper be there?

I tried to call him but: straight to voicemail. Again.

I decided to walk the trail. Maybe he’d be there, or maybe not. Either way, I’d get to see an abandoned lighthouse. And it was the best lead on Cooper I had.

The path was a hiking trail down the center of a peninsula—a sandy ribbon worn down by many visitors. There were tall palm trees above, rustling in the wind. As I walked, I had this rising feeling like something was about to happen. And I went ahead and let myself hope that it might be something good.



* * *



SOMETHING WAS ABOUT to happen. I read that right.

But it wasn’t something good.

As I walked, I started noticing the sound of feet on the path behind me. For a while, I thought it must be another friendly sightseer, like me. But then … that sightseer threw a pebble at the back of my head.

I felt a sting out of nowhere, and I put my hand to my head and turned around.

And it turned out to be Pork Pie.

With a look on his face like he might be out for revenge.

I turned back to the path, and picked up my pace, and straightened my shoulders, and shifted into the kind of purposeful walking women do when they refuse to be scared.

If I could just make it to the lighthouse, I figured, there’d be someone there. Right? A docent, maybe? A volunteer? A salty old lighthouse keeper? Cooper?

But Pork Pie caught up to me before I could get there.

He strode up alongside me and matched his pace to mine. And then, appallingly, draped his arm over my still-sandpapery sunburn.

“What’s up, pussycat?” he said.

I shrugged out from under him and kept walking. For a second, I let myself hope that the much more good-natured cruise dudes might also be nearby.

“Where are your buddies?” I asked.

“I don’t have buddies,” he said.

Okay. This wasn’t good.

Was there any possibility he was just a lighthouse enthusiast? “Why are you here?”

“Oh,” Pork Pie said, “I spotted you in town, and I followed you.”

“Why would you follow me?”

“Well,” Pork Pie said, falsely friendly, “so we could finish our conversation—from before you stole my cab.”

“I wouldn’t call that a conversation,” I said.

“Have it your way,” Pork Pie said. “The point is, I missed you. And I bet you missed me, too.”

He had a beer in his hand and one tucked into his cargo shorts pocket, and he had that sour smell people get when they’ve had so much to drink that alcohol is not just on their breath, but off-gassing from their skin, as well.

He offered me a sip.

“No, thank you,” I said.

I sped up my pace, but he stayed alongside me, bumping into me over and over and knocking me off the path.

Lighthouse. Maybe there’d be a tour group up ahead when we got there. Or an armed guard. Or a bus full of nuns.

But when the lighthouse came into view, it was heartily deserted. I slowed down with disappointment, and Pork Pie draped his arm over my shoulders again.

“I’m sunburned,” I said, shrugging away, like this might remind Pork Pie of our shared humanity.

It didn’t.

Ashley’s sundress had spaghetti straps that tied in little bows at the shoulders, and Pork Pie shifted his attention to them, alternating shoulders—untying one bow and then, while I was retying it, untying the other.

“Cut it out,” I said—refusing to be intimidated, and summoning dismissive irritation like I was talking to Pete.

“Where’d you get that hickey?” Pork Pie asked next.

Ugh. Why couldn’t this guy think it was eczema? It felt like the most appalling invasion of privacy. True, I was wearing a spaghetti-strap sundress that left it on full display …