Chapter 7

Back in the hallway, the numbered plaque on the door of Jamal’s cabin stared me in the face; cold, unblinking, indifferent. The door had slammed shut behind us, and with it, the trance I’d been drifting in for the past hour cracked wide open.

It all felt like a dream; blurry, unreal, the kind that makes you question whether it actually happened or if your body just made it up.

My breath came in short, uneven pulls. My legs trembled. Muscles I hadn’t used in a long time ached, like the day after a punishing gym session. And between my legs, it felt like my crotch was on fire, stretched beyond anything recent memory could compare to. The kind of deep, pulsing soreness I hadn’t felt since Amir.

My chest; Mike’s early Christmas gift, still healing and untouched by another’s hands until today, throbbed with sharp, insistent soreness.

The shift from the sauna-like heat of Jamal’s room to the cool air of the corridor hit my body like a flipped switch. It was like stepping out of the Florida humidity into a chilled gift shop in the Magic Kingdom back home mid-July.

My skin was still damp, my sundress clinging to all the wrong places, and the sudden blast of air raised goosebumps along my arms. The hallway felt sterile; different now, almost aware, like it somehow knew what we’d just done.

I turned to Pam. She hadn’t moved. Her face wavered between exhaustion and guilt, but beneath it lingered the muted satisfaction only three orgasms in fifteen minutes could leave behind. Her eyes stayed fixed on the business card in her hand, the same one given to us both as we left the cabin, part souvenir, part unspoken invitation.

It was freshly printed, crisp with the SpaceX logo, Jamal’s name, “Propulsion Engineer” in bold, clean type, followed by his email and a phone number bearing a 312 area code, a quiet, almost taunting reminder of his proximity to Central Florida.

The end of the hallway felt suffocating, the air heavy with the unmistakable mix of sex and deodorant. And beneath it all lingered Jamal’s scent, just as it had when we first arrived, like he’d marked the space itself.

Her hair was a mess, curls stuck to her cheeks and neck, arms glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The white tank top she’d pulled from the pile of discarded clothes clung to her like a second skin. She looked like she’d just spent the entire day doing yardwork in the Mississippi sun, worked to exhaustion.

Finally turning to me, our eyes met. Not a word had passed between us since we stepped out of the cabin. It wasn’t the kind of look best friends were supposed to share, a silent acknowledgment of sex that defied reason, logic, and loyalty; but there was no avoiding it now. It hung between us: quiet, raw, and heavy with something neither of us could name. A mutual recognition of what we’d just done, and how easily lust had steamrolled everything in its path.

And now, in its wake, came the post-orgasm clarity; that cold, unmistakable shift that settles in once the pleasure fades, when every reckless choice starts to sharpen and settle in the bones. It was a look full of regret, wrapped in the unspoken understanding that we’d do it all over again if given the opportunity.

The phone buzzed in her hand, slicing through the silence like a slap. Pam flinched, as if she’d genuinely forgotten Steve existed for a moment. Forgotten this was just the latest in a string of ignored vibrations, the others nearly rattling the phone off Jamal’s desk while he did everything in his power to make me forget about Amir. Forgotten that Steve was still somewhere on this ship, probably swinging away in the golf simulator ... or worse, chasing losses in the casino, already down another mortgage payment.

Her body reacted before her face could catch up. Shoulders squared, chin lifted, a breath drawn hard through her nose. The posture locked in like armor; not confidence, but the sudden realization she’d have to answer for the string of ignored messages.

I’d seen it before: the same instinctive recoil that had yanked her off the pool deck, the same silent flinch that pulled her from the Serenity deck the night before. That look didn’t come from guilt. It came from knowing exactly what kind of man was waiting on the other end of those texts.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she finally looked at it. I watched her face, not the phone, as her eyes began to scan, scrolling through message after message, each one a breadcrumb trail leading back to reality.

It began with the “You there?” I remembered flashing across her screen, Steve’s follow-up to the text that had cracked something open in her, pushed her over the edge, and sent her diving headfirst into Jamal like her sanity depended on it.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept scrolling. Her breath hitched, eyes widening just enough to show she’d hit something.

Then she turned the screen toward me.

“Back to even, baby!!!” came first, quickly followed by, “Sorry I snapped at you.” A fake apology, not from the heart, but from the high of a lucky streak that came an hour too late. The kind a degenerate gives when the chips finally fall his way, long after the damage is done.

The phone buzzed in my purse almost on cue, muffled but perfectly timed.

“Wow, Steve caught fire, lol.”

Mike’s message came almost in tandem with what Pam had just shown me, a second source confirming Steve’s ridiculous hot streak.

Another buzz lit up the screen.

“Do you want to meet at Guy’s? Steve’s bugging me to eat,” quickly followed by,

“To be honest, I could use a drink or ten after babysitting this clown.”

Mike’s humor landed with a sting; a cruel, unintentional reminder of the sacrifice the love of my life had made, while I spent the last hour two decks below, reliving a version of myself that existed long before him.

I stared at the screen, the guilt settling hard.

He meant Guy’s Pig & Anchor Smokehouse and Brewhouse, named after that loud blond guy from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on the Food Network. We’d passed it at least half a dozen times on Deck Eight, the air around it always thick with the smell of smoked barbecue, sweet and heavy, impossible to ignore.

I knew Pam had gotten the same message from Steve, confirmed by the silent glance we shared. A casual suggestion to meet for lunch, like nothing had happened. The real world we’d stepped away from for an hour came crashing back, landing a punch to both our guts at the exact same time.

Her expression mirrored mine; stunned, distant, still trying to process whatever the hell we’d just walked out of as we lingered outside Jamal’s door. Beneath the exhaustion on her face, there was a flicker of relief. She’d be returning to the softened version of her husband; the charming one, the grateful one, riding high on a win. For her, this chaos had brought a reprieve. For me, it had only deepened the guilt.

We still hadn’t spoken as we started walking.

The corridor stretched ahead, door plaques ticking down in reverse order, counting us back toward reality.

Without a word, we moved down the hall, two women carrying something no one else would ever fully understand.

Barely a few steps in, my mind drifted back to Jamal’s room.

I replayed the moment his focus shifted from Pam to me, while she lay there, disheveled and spent, a beautiful mess in a pool of her own release. That intense, almost angry look on his face when he saw her tattoo, only to have it melt into that familiar, nerdy grin. The easy, boyish charm that could almost make you forget what he’d just done.

Almost.

It was disarming in the worst way, like he could flip the switch from destroyer to dreamer without consequence.