Always Happy Hour: Stories(33)
After we eat, we put on our swimsuits and lay out on the top deck. I walk around in my bikini—fetching towels, getting water—so he can catch men watching me, so he can be proud I am his.
When the waitress comes, I ask him to buy me a drink.
“Okay,” he says, “but only one.” Maybe he wants to be my father, or he doesn’t. He thinks I should learn to stand on my own two feet. I lie back and close my eyes. A moment later, his parents are standing over us, enormous in front of a bright blue sky. It reminds me of the painting classes I took as a kid, how to create the illusion of depth: his father with his round stomach and tinted glasses, his mother with her teased hair and matching outfit. They’re almost beautiful from this angle.
“We were looking at the pictures from last night,” his mother says. “They’re in that big room you walk through to get to the buffet.”
“How’d they turn out?” I ask, sitting up on my elbows.
“Y’all look so handsome. You have to buy her one,” she says to her son.
“I’ll get her one if she wants one.”
“Of course she wants one,” she says. “How many cruises will y’all take in your lifetime—two, three?” We don’t say anything. “Not many,” she says. I shield my eyes from the sun and smile up at her.
“We’re headed to the buffet,” his father says, and we all say goodbye.
“You don’t have to buy me a picture. I’m sure we could find something better to do with your fifty dollars.”
“You think it costs fifty dollars?” he asks.
“Probably. It’s probably one of those blow-up pictures they put in a stupid frame with a boat on it.”
“She’ll be disappointed if I don’t get it for you.”
“We can take our own pictures. I have my camera.” A camera you bought for me, I think, remembering how excited he was for me to unwrap it, something so expensive. Something he hadn’t made himself. My drink comes and I drink it fast because taking poor care of myself feels like a sacrifice I am offering him. I set the cup down and turn to look at him. He doesn’t acknowledge me so I keep on looking—his upper arms sprouting a few crazy hairs, his second toes longer than the big ones. I want to touch him, want to feel the steady pressure of his hand on mine. I try to remember the last time he said he loved me.
“What’d you do last night?” I ask.
“Went to the casino, lost half the money I won.”
“Did you play slots?”
“I don’t play slots. My parents play slots.”
“Blackjack?”
He lets the question hang there—blackjack?—and I think about the drive to Fort Lauderdale, the flight to Atlanta and then the two-hour layover before the flight to Nashville. How long tomorrow will be and then we’ll be at his house, our bags full of dirty clothes that won’t make it past his kitchen. I reach over and pluck one of the thick, unruly hairs from his arm.
“That hurt. Don’t do that again.”
I look at the hair attached to a root and let it go. “You’re not paying attention to me. Pay attention to me.”
“Yes I am—we’re tanning together,” he says. “Can’t you just enjoy yourself for a minute?”
“I am enjoying myself,” I say, watching a cloud float by. “Will you put some more sunscreen on me?” I pass him the bottle and turn my back to him and he squirts the cool lotion onto my shoulders. It feels nice and he rubs and rubs, trying to get it to soak in. I like to stay as pale as possible, though my shoulders and chest are freckled; as a teenager, I rubbed baby oil all over myself, laid out on sheets of tinfoil. I put lemon juice in my hair and it turned orange.
“I’m going to go to the room and get my camera,” I say, putting on my tank top.
And then we’re standing at the front of the boat, the wind blowing furiously. I throw my arms out like that scene in Titanic and he takes a picture, and I wonder how many people have posed exactly like this—thousands, millions. And for a moment I like the idea of being exactly like everyone else, in my pink Carnival tank top and Old Navy bikini, my knockoff purses. He puts his arm around me and holds the camera up and takes picture after picture, until we are perfectly centered and happy, until he gets it exactly right.
WHERE ALL OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE GO
I’m on a cheap raft, pink and deflating, trying to keep my body balanced in the center while Aggie sits on a step churning the water. She’s high on pills and has recently chopped off all her hair. Her mother has been dead for six days.
I brought cookies from the grocery store, apologizing. I feel bad about the cookies—I should have baked something—though Aggie’s family is the kind that prefers Chips Ahoy! to the homemade variety.
“My mother always told me I was too big and clumsy, too much like my father. Mothers are supposed to tell their daughters they’re beautiful,” she says, and it makes me sad because it’s true—it’s what all girls most want to hear. I hope I never have a daughter because if I had a daughter and she wasn’t beautiful, I’d have to lie and tell her she was and I don’t like to lie, not even the nice white ones. Sometimes I think the people who believe they’re the most honest are the biggest liars of all. When I start to think this way, nothing makes sense.