Chapter 4

I’d barely slept. Not from the ship’s gentle sway or the engine’s hum, and not because Pam, her hormones still buzzing from our conversation about Amir and the man by the pool, had thrown herself at Steve, finally breaking their three-year dry spell.

None of that happened.

What happened was shouting. All night, through the wall.

Their voices rose and fell, impossible to ignore.

At one point, I heard her crying. Not a sob—smaller, quieter, no less devastating.

There was shouting about Lily’s college fund. About the mortgage. The car payments. Harsh words thrown in every direction, too fast and too loud to take back.

This wasn’t just some random argument. When I got back to the room last night, Mike was already sitting on the edge of the bed with a drink in his hand and that look that said you’re not going to believe this.

“Steve lost over five grand at the blackjack table,” he said. “Multiple trips to the ATM. It was like watching someone spiral in slow motion.” His voice was a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Steve’s text about getting “wiped out” at the casino made a lot more sense once Mike filled me in. It was over five grand. Gone. And they weren’t wealthy people. Pam was a teacher. Steve worked maintenance for the county, mostly HVAC and patch jobs at office buildings. Even in Mississippi, that kind of money wasn’t play cash; a month’s salary, maybe more.

Somehow, by the next morning, Steve was at our door as if nothing had happened—casual, cheerful, asking if we were ready for breakfast.

We headed upstairs to the Lido Marketplace, the ship’s buffet-style breakfast spot, already alive with clattering trays, the hiss of coffee machines, and the chatter of families and couples half-awake and sunburned. We slid into a table near the window, Pam and I on one side, the guys across from us, and the silence between her and Steve was louder than anything around us.

It was worse than dinner. Whatever mask they’d worn the night before was gone. Pam didn’t even try to fake small talk. She sat rigid, poking at her scrambled eggs, eyes fixed on her plate like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

Steve, in contrast, seemed fine. He jumped right back into conversation with Mike, talking about the tables, the dealer, and what he “should’ve done differently”, like he hadn’t just lost a month’s salary. Like they hadn’t argued all night with their voices echoing through the wall.

Pam tried to stay cordial, but it came off strained, obvious to everyone except maybe Steve. Her answers were tight and careful, like she was walking a line only she could see. The embarrassment wasn’t from the fight itself, but from knowing we’d heard every word. And the silence that followed only made it worse. It was the kind of thing we’d save for later, just the two of us, in a bar somewhere, halfway through our fifth drink, finally ready to say it out loud.

I looked up, caught off guard, my heartbeat kicking up a notch. Without thinking, I gave her leg a quick nudge under the table. Once, then again. Just enough to snap her out of whatever spiral she was locked in, without drawing anyone else’s attention.

She didn’t react at first, still staring down at her plate like it was safer there.

So I nudged her again, sharper this time, paired with a not-so-subtle glance past the guys.

She caught it. Followed my conspicuous look.

And there he was.

Two tables behind the guys, facing us directly, was the man from the pool. Alone again, seated with a quiet confidence that seemed to fill the space around him. A black tank hugged his chest and shoulders, the top curve of a Florida Gators logo visible near the neckline. He picked at his breakfast with one hand, a book open in the other.

His dreadlocks were down now, loose around his shoulders, framing his face with each subtle movement. There was an aura about him, like he knew the women nearby were watching, more so the ones who’d recognized him from the pool yesterday, just like we had.

Then, he looked up.

Right at us.

Not long. Not intense. Just a flicker of recognition, followed by a polite, almost effortless grin: the kind that said, I’ve seen you before, no more, no less. Then his eyes lowered back to the page, calm and unbothered, as if the moment had never happened.

Pam dropped her eyes immediately, the tension in her body unmistakable. Her fork hovered, frozen. She didn’t speak. Didn’t dare look again, even though I could feel how badly she wanted to. Her face flushed without her realizing it, but her tan complexion did her the favor of hiding it. She was nervous. Not because he’d done anything, but because he was simply “there”. As if just being in the same room with him was dangerous. As if his presence alone made her complicit in something.

She shifted in her seat, as if even the wrong kind of glance might make Steve turn around and catch on. The same fear his poorly timed texts had sparked the day before, when our conversation drifted too far into territory that would’ve gotten her excommunicated from the life she was expected to protect back in Mississippi.

Before long, we’d finished breakfast, the tension between Pam and Steve doing more to kill our appetites than the food ever could.

As we made our way out of the dining room, Steve stepped in close behind Pam, just a pace behind Mike and me, and leaned in. His voice was low, meant for her, not for anyone else, but not low enough that I didn’t hear it.

“Looked like an NFL player,” he muttered, voice low and curling with disdain. “All brawn, no brain. Useful for football, not much else.”

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at him. But even walking behind me, I saw the way her shoulders tensed, her movements tight and controlled. He hadn’t said it loud, just low enough to keep it private, but the venom was unmistakable, tucked into that smug, casual tone he used when he wanted to hurt without drawing attention.

Maybe this was their pattern. Maybe I’d never seen the real Pam, only the version she showed me, all manners and measured smiles. But their dynamic told another story: one where Steve could say things like that, certain she wouldn’t push back. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d even laughed, played along, let the rebel flag tattoo slide more than she wanted me to believe.

But not this morning. Not after everything. Today, she walked in silence.

Perhaps our drunken conversation yesterday, about Amir, about Black men, about what she’d never let herself admit, had done something. Shifted something, even if only a little. Enough to make the same old comments feel different. Louder. Uglier. Harder to pretend away.

Mike, once again an expert at reading the room, didn’t wait for a signal. He glanced briefly at Pam, then at me, and with that easy, casual tone he was so good at slipping into, turned to Steve and said, “What do you say we hit the golf simulator?”

He didn’t ask me. He didn’t ask Pam. He already knew.

The theme of this trip was becoming painfully clear: boys do one thing, girls figure out the rest.

Steve agreed without hesitation, without even looking in Pam’s direction. No check-in. No consideration. Just a quick, “Yeah, let’s do it,” as if nothing from the past day had even happened.

Pam didn’t seem sad about it. If anything, she looked relieved. But still, it was a microcosm of their entire relationship. Even after losing five grand and spending the night in a full-blown shouting match, Steve couldn’t read the room. Couldn’t see her.

I owed Mike for this. We both did. He was back to playing babysitter, not because he wanted to or had anything to prove, but because he understood. Because he knew Pam needed space from the man she was stuck with. Mike was a good sport. Always had been.

Again left on our own, it felt like déjà vu, the guys peeling off without a second thought while Pam and I lingered behind, silently figuring out what to do next. I knew she wasn’t ready to revisit the anxiety of putting on a swimsuit, so I didn’t even bring up the pool as an option. The weight of last night still hung between us. She needed something low-key. So did I.

It was a sea day: no port stops, no excursions. Just the ship and empty hours. We wandered for a bit, aimlessly drifting from one deck to another, stopping to people-watch, glancing at the shops, exchanging soft commentary like we were conserving energy.

Eventually, we found ourselves on the sixth deck, pausing in front of one of the ship’s digital event boards. Eighties Trivia: 12:00 PM at The Golden Mermaid. We smirked at each other. It felt like fate.

We were eighties babies through and through; born in ‘80, raised on cassette tapes, VHS rentals, and TV theme songs that still played in the back of our minds. We didn’t just grow up in the eighties; we lived like it never ended.

We were a good thirty minutes early, but it didn’t take much. A smirk from her. A raised eyebrow from me. Before long, we were rationalizing that 11:30 wasn’t technically too early to start drinking. Not on a cruise. Not today.

We settled into the cushioned lounge area near the bar, and for a moment, it felt like we had the wrong place. The space was nearly empty, too quiet for an event that was supposed to start soon. Maybe it hadn’t been well-advertised. Maybe everyone who actually grew up in the eighties was sleeping off last night’s cocktails. Or perhaps we were just the only two who thought trivia at noon sounded like a good time.

A small table sat in the center of what was clearly a dance floor by night, trivia sheets stacked neatly on top, confirming we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Just early. Just eager. Just two women looking for a distraction.

We were quickly greeted by the waiter and ordered two Dark Ships, the same drink we’d been introduced to last night on the Serenity Deck and had both agreed would be our go-to for the rest of the trip.

Honestly, it felt like we’d had a drink in our hands more often than not since stepping on the ship, and it hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours. Not because we were chasing a buzz, but because it felt necessary for the conversations we’d already cracked open, and for the quiet, slow-burning mess Pam was still trying to hold together. The alcohol made room for the things that usually stayed buried. The off-limits stuff. The taboo.

By noon, the host stepped onto the small platform, clipboard in one hand, mic in the other, her voice bright and bouncing like she’d been waiting all morning. She introduced herself as Mae, a petite Japanese woman with the effortless charm of someone built for cruise ships, her energy filling the quiet room with ease.

The room, though, was still mostly empty.

Besides us, there were only two other tables. One had three guys in their forties, laughing way too loudly at something that probably wasn’t that funny. At the other sat a man our age, squeezed between who I assumed were his parents, both already looking like trivia was a bit too rowdy for their taste.

She smiled widely, lifted the mic, and scanned the almost empty room with a kind of forced cheer that only cruise staff could pull off without flinching.

“Well,” she said, laughing lightly, “either the eighties aren’t as popular as I thought, or we’ve all discovered the magic of sleeping in.”

A few polite courtesy laughs drifted through the room, the kind you give a struggling comedian out of pity more than genuine amusement, to fill the silence.

And then it happened. The timing couldn’t have been more precise. So precise it felt staged, like the universe had been holding its breath, waiting for this exact moment to let it all unfold.

My heart didn’t drop from fear; it was something else. That sudden jolt you feel when the inevitable finally arrives. Like fate stepping into view.

As the host’s voice faded and the low hum of eighties music filled the quiet bar, I felt my pulse start to climb.

I glanced at Pam and gave her a sharp nudge to the knee, just like at breakfast. This time, I didn’t have to tilt my head or whisper. She already knew.

Her body stiffened slightly, breath catching in her throat.

He was here. The man from the pool. From breakfast. From Pam’s head for the past twenty hours, and, if I’m being honest, probably mine too.

He slipped into the bar quietly, scanning for a seat. The same black Gators tank clung to his chest and shoulders, flashing muscle with each move. His book was still in hand, fingers tucked between the pages like he planned to pick up right where he left off.

But it was the shorts that caught my eye; basic black workout material, mid-thigh, snug, the kind you’d find hanging on any Nike rack. Insignificant on anyone else. But on him, almost laughable, not in a show-off way, but because there was simply nowhere else for it to go. Even from across the bar, the outline was impossible to miss, the same shape that spandex had struggled to contain yesterday at the pool.

He slipped into the first open seat near the bar, flipping open his book before he’d even fully settled. Like he hadn’t planned to linger, just stumbled into the Golden Mermaid in search of a quiet corner to read.

The host noticed him instantly, her voice lifting over the soft pulse of eighties music as she jumped back on the mic.

“You here for trivia?” she called out in a charming Japanese accent, her tone chipper and teasing, the words light and playful as they carried across the bar.

He barely looked up. Even tucked off to the side, half in the shadows, he was impossible to miss.

From our table across the room, we couldn’t hear everything, but his voice carried just enough. Low and even, with the trace of a smile behind it.

“I was just looking for a quiet place to read,” he said, a soft laugh chasing the words like he already knew she was never going to let that happen.

The host grinned, sensing her opening and doing precisely what she was trained to do: recruit trivia players as if she were working on commission.

“Well, we’ve got two full tables and one underdog duo,” she said, gesturing toward us with a dramatic flair that bordered on theatrical. “I think the ladies could use a little help.”

Pam didn’t budge. Her fingers tightened around her drink, knuckles pale against the glass, but her expression didn’t shift. Only I could catch it, the subtle bounce of her knee under the table, that nervous rhythm she’d had since grade school, showing through just enough.

“Come on,” the host pressed, her smile widening. “Help us even the teams out. Unless you’re scared of a little eighties pop culture?”

I expected him to be annoyed, perhaps brush it off with a polite “no,” or ignore her altogether. But instead, he laughed. Quiet, low, and genuine.