TITANIC MISTAKES
Lacey
The party was amazing.
Packed yacht.
A light show to accompany the music.
Drinks flowing in every direction.
Trays of food circulating along with a massive buffet.
And a promise of fireworks later.
One of my best friends, Kami, had convinced her boyfriend, Miguel, a.k.a. DJ Spark, to DJ for us, and he was killing it. He was one of New York’s up-and-coming celebrity DJs, which I had heard had gone to his head when it came to groupie love—something that was less than acceptable if true.
Regardless of how sleazy the DJ may or may not have been, he helped throw a fantastic end-of-year party on a two-hundred-foot yacht with 150 of our closest friends and a lot of food and booze. I personally thanked God and the caterers several times for the food.
“Oh my God, did you see who’s here?” Marcia shouted at me from across the bar table we were eating at. Well, that I was eating at while she watched me in disgust.
“No, who?” I asked, before I noticed the hateful stare in her eyes. I didn’t need an answer then; I knew instantly from the look. There was only one person she hated that much.
“France.” She couldn’t even say my ex-boyfriend’s name without spewing venom, which was sad because she spoke a lot about France—not my hateful ex, but the beautiful country where I was forced to join her every year at the end of the summer for her back-to-school shopping spree. I didn’t complain that she dragged me along on her private jet and we stayed at her penthouse flat, but I did refuse all her attempts to buy me things. It was bad enough that she covered flights, accommodations, transportation, food, drinks, and all the pampering we could handle. I had to draw the line at clothes and jewels. Her version of visiting France was my version of winning an all-inclusive vacation from one of the game shows my grandma watched on TV. There was no way she would have done France my way: cheap hostels and a lot of sightseeing.
She kept glaring over my shoulder. “Why would anyone invite France”—shudder—“to the end-of-year party? He’s not even in college anymore. He dropped out last semester.” She sounded horrified.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to discuss it. He’d been my first boyfriend ever, what I’d mistaken for love. Unfortunately he turned out to be an asshat who couldn’t keep his pants on and his tongue out of other girls’ mouths.
“He’s with someone.” Marcia sounded disgusted.
“Lemme guess. Supermodel, brunette, legs up to my chin, and her vagina is longer than her skirt?” I offered without turning around. I was shoving half a gourmet sandwich into my mouth and didn’t need the eye contact with the current stick insect in the middle of my gorge fest.
“Yeah, almost. Redhead this time,” she sneered, before taking a sip of champagne.
“Oh, he’s changing it up a little.” I didn’t care. My legs were likely half as long as hers, and I enjoyed carbs of every kind. I didn’t need to see his flavor of the week. I’d dumped him. This girl could have him. I actually felt sorry for her. She likely had no idea what she was in for. All the wooing in the beginning really did trick you into thinking he was a sweet guy. The cheating that followed suggested otherwise. Dirtbag.
“He looks like he’s getting fat.” Marcia continued with her obligatory hate on my skeezy ex.
“Good,” I said as I stuffed my face.
She gave me the eye, the one that said, Put the miniburrito down.
But I didn’t. I kept eating. I didn’t care.
“Hello, ladies.” On the other hand, Marcia had an amazing boyfriend named Monty, who slid up next to me and started eating off my plate. He was tall, tanned, muscled, stunningly beautiful to the point it almost blinded you, and the kindest man I’d ever met. His tolerance level for Marcia’s bullshit should have been an indicator of lower intelligence, but he was smart on top of his good looks and outgoing personality. In fact, he was a bit nerdy. His adoration of his girlfriend was a mystery to us all, including Marcia. She had no idea how she’d landed a perfect man, but she had.
“Took me half an hour to find you, Marcia; I barely recognized you with all that makeup. You look like a unicorn going to a rave”—he turned to me—“and you like a princess from ancient Egypt. Was this supposed to be a theme party?”
“No. Someone thought we were going to be on a float later and demanded we do crazy makeup.” I chuckled and tried not to stare at him.
Before he’d started dating my best friend, Monty was the highlight of all my sex fantasies.
The moment they’d made it official, I cut him from the roster, but it was hard. Sometimes, midorgasm with someone, I’d see his face in my mind out of nowhere, making me hate myself just a little. It made masturbation conflicting.
“You do kinda look like you belong on a float.” He smiled, and it still made my stomach tighten, a side effect I wrestled with. Even my dad had sighed when he met Monty. And the worst part was that he was the coolest guy ever. He made all the other boyfriends and husbands and guys in general I’d ever met pale in comparison. His family was rich, but he was a hard worker and totally down to earth. He could have slacked off in everything and ridden the trust fund, but he didn’t. I respected that about him. He was as close to sainthood as a guy could get at our age and in our circle of friends.
“We look hot,” Marcia said to defend us, but I knew what we looked like.
“Lucky I knew Lacey at least would be near the food,” he gently mocked.
“I keep telling her it’s eventually going to catch up with her,” Marcia said jokingly, but fooled no one.
“Whatever, we have to enjoy it now while we can still keep the weight off by working out. My mom used to be a size two.” I laughed, kidding around. She only ever grew into a size four and still ate whatever she wanted. Great metabolisms ran in the family, literally. My parents ran marathons. For how my grandma cooked, and how much I ate, I should be at a weekly weigh-in monitoring body fat and calories.
“Your mom was a two?” Marcia asked, genuinely shocked.
“Yeah, she’s only up a size. And she’s fifty.”
“Yikes.” She shook her head. “My mom is still a two.” She wasn’t saying it to shame my mom or get into a “my mom is better than yours” argument. This was just her being factual. Again . . . sometimes I loved her to death.
“I don’t know what size my mom is, but she eats cake every day. I swear, every day. She’s the happiest person I know,” Monty said, before stuffing one of my sandwiches in his mouth. “Anyway, you having fun?” he asked me.
“Sure am. You?”
“No. I’m sacked. I really was voting for a quiet night and possibly watching a movie. But this thing over here demanded I show my face.” He winked at Marcia.
“Ugh.” Marcia gave him a fiery scowl. “We can watch movies when we’re old. Have fun.” She sauntered off, sashaying that ass. And like he knew he should or he honestly couldn’t help himself, his eyes were glued to her body.
“Monty!”
We both spun to see one of the notorious hot guys of the rich world, sort of a celebrity party boy, heading our way with his hands out wide.
I recognized him, excusing myself before I got dragged into a second or third set of introductions with Stephen Somersby. “See you later.”
He was one of the infamous Somersby brothers. I didn’t know them well, just by reputation.
Stephen and I had met a couple of times, but he always forgot we’d been introduced. He knew he knew me, but from where? It was annoying, but also the way it worked for someone like me—a nobody who associated with the “it” crowd. I was constantly overlooked as anything beyond a casual hookup, and that wasn’t really my scene. I was okay with occasional one-night stands, just not with notorious, wealthy womanizers.
Which meant Stephen and his gross brother weren’t my type. They were known as the worst snobs and the players of all players. Stephen was older than us by about five years, but still living like he was nineteen, as his presence at this party clearly indicated.
He’d recently married some amazing lady named Cynthia Whitmore. I felt a bit sorry for her. She’d seemed really nice the one time I’d met her. Marcia said she was some top lawyer who everyone thought was way too cool for Stephen. They all thought she’d bitten off more than she could chew marrying him, but Stephen’s defenders—people like Monty, who was a family friend of the Somersbys—swore Cynthia had whipped Stephen into shape. The drink in Stephen’s hand and the sloppy smile on his drunken face suggested that she still had her work cut out for her.
I squeezed myself into the crowd and tried to find Marcia or one of my girls.
After getting lost in the masses, I wandered along the quiet side of the boat under the stairs, pausing to take in the view of the city as the boat came around again. Sometimes, usually in the middle of a moment like this, I liked to pause and take it in. My life with Marcia could be incredibly surreal.
If I hadn’t gone to the same high school, something my grandparents had insisted on paying for, and met Marcia, who brought me into her fold instantly, I knew where my life would be. I would be one of those flickering lights in the city, working in a fast-food place at night after my day job of something equally shitty. I would be hustling to save every penny so I could afford college and life. My parents helped as much as they could, covering most of my tuition at NYU every year, but it was hard for middle-of-the-road people like us.
My connection to Marcia and her family had saved me from that. My summer job with her dad was equivalent pay to two regular summer jobs, and I knew one day I would be working for him, making both my parents’ incomes on my own. I was carving my path out of the middle of the road.
I was midthought about how awesome my future was going to be when a voice interrupted me. “What a gorgeous view.”
“Yeah, it’s stunning.” I gave a side-glance toward the guy speaking and smiled politely. I knew him from somewhere, but I didn’t bother trying to remember. I was five gins, half the buffet, and three flutes of champagne in, the lighting was bad, and all these dudes looked the same to me.
“I’m Jordie.” He stepped closer and held a hand out. From what I could see, he was handsome. Big shoulders, thick arms, and a tight body. His jeans and T-shirt fit him well. He looked like an athlete, maybe even a pro. But I could tell he wasn’t. He was rich. He had that vibe coming off him, even if he was brutally dressed down, baseball cap and all. There was no mistaking the air about him—the kind I didn’t like breathing in anymore.
That wasn’t always the case, once upon a time. Back when I was new to this world and didn’t understand the rules and was mesmerized by the glitz and glamour.
Everyone sparkled, just like this guy, and they all seemed so set up. It was easy to admire them and want to get closer.
But then I dated one of them and got a real taste of what their lives were actually like.
One bitter aftertaste was enough, and I’d promised myself that I would never get caught up in that mistake again.
“I’m Lacey.” I shook his hand, noting how big and warm it was. It was too bad he was rich.
“Have we met before?” He winced. “Sorry, that was cheesy. You just look familiar.”
“I don’t know.” I sighed and glanced back at the harbor.
“Hard to say with all that makeup caked on.” His words slowed—as if he was realizing what he was saying—and he cringed at the end. “I mean—”
“It’s fine. I don’t normally look like this. My friend and I were having fun getting ready.” I laughed at his embarrassment. It was kind of endearing.
“I guess I’ll keep that same line of humiliation going. Do you come here often?” he joked, continuing the cheese.
“No.” I looked back at the party. “I mean, I go on a lot of yachts, but not like this. This party is a whole other level of pizzazz. Do you?”
“No. Not really a yacht enthusiast. Too easy.” He chuckled, leaning in, smelling like something I could be tricked by, easily. He had that wind-blown, cologne, deodorant, man-sweat smell to him. You couldn’t bottle it. He made it every day, fresh, and lured unsuspecting women to their knees with it. “I’m more of a sailboat kind of guy. Fewer crowds too. I don’t like the whole ‘hundred people on one boat’ thing. Gives me the sensation that there might not be enough life jackets and the people in the lower levels would definitely not make it off the ship.”
“Come on!” I started laughing. “Who makes Titanic jokes while they’re on a boat?”
“Too soon?”
“Never,” I joked back, and leaned out, smelling the salty air. “Although, as someone who would normally be part of those lower levels, I’ll try not to be offended.”
“Who, you?”
“Trust me, I don’t fit in up here.” I pointed back at the party, certain this would chase him off if he truly was one of the snobs.
“That means nothing. I never feel like I fit in up here. No one does. It’s all a lie.” He smiled wide, biting that lower lip like he was stopping himself from saying anything else, but then he gave in. “And those of us who see it know it doesn’t matter what we become. We’ll always be a bunch of frauds.” He waved toward the back of the boat, where the party was raging. “Trying too hard and sacrificing what we like about ourselves to fit in. I think most people up here feel that way. They just lie and cover it up.”
His words hit me somewhere deep. I was surprised that a person like him was so self-aware. Maybe he wasn’t rich after all. He sounded real. It was refreshing. And not in the “I’ll pretend I hate my rich life to connect with you” kind of way; he was genuinely disenchanted. An aphrodisiac for a girl like me.
“What would you be if you could be anything?” I asked. I didn’t even know why, but I cared.
“Editor in chief of a publishing house or a newspaper.”
“Really?” I sounded dubious.
“No, I don’t know. It sounded like the right answer. Honestly, I don’t know what I want to be. I love the creation inside of a novel I’m reading. I love the changes words can make or the way writers get lost in their own work, and the journey is genuine because they don’t see where it’s going either. The revelations you find are real. People read, and it shapes them differently. Or they escape. I have to admit that’s my biggest reason to read.” He took a slow, deep inhale. “But I also love the feel of the wind and the smell of the ocean. So maybe I should have said sailor.” He laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Maybe.” I turned back to the sea, noting the way he stared and the way I let him. Too much gin and not enough sense. That’s what my grandma would say. “But then you’d be leathery and worn before your time.”
“That’s true. And we couldn’t have that. I just don’t know why I have to decide now. Why I need to have it all figured out.” His tone lowered, like he didn’t want me to hear that last part. “So, do you go to school here?” he asked, not giving up on the conversation.
Catching a nose full of him in the wind made my heart skip a beat. Man, he smelled good. I begged the gods to let him be some moderately rich guy, the kind that didn’t even count. He was hot and kinda cool in some weird, heavy sort of way.
“I do go to school here. This will be my last year.” I nodded and leaned on the railing. “You?”
“Yeah. It’s my final year too. I have to pretend I’m an adult and that everything I have and where I am is exactly what I want.” He chuckled, but it was bitter sounding.
“You don’t like where you are?” I was a bit unprepared for this conversation. And not only because I was 60 percent sure we’d never met before but also because this was a fairly intense conversation to be having on a party boat. And yet, I didn’t try to end it. “Maybe you should change that,” I offered.
“That’s easy to say for you lower-level folk. But it’s a real problem with being one of the people up here.” He turned his head from the shoreline and stared at me deeply, conversing with his gaze and convincing me he was likewise staring into my soul while baring his. “We don’t always get to choose. Life is easy for the rich; happiness is something else altogether. It’s not part of the guarantee.”
“Your first-world problems aren’t going to make me feel sorry for you,” I said, fully mocking him, but with a wide smile. “No one is guaranteed fun and happiness. We have to make it.” I wondered about myself and that statement. Was I finding happiness in work and school and doing well? Was that real happiness? I was too tipsy to contemplate such things and pushed the questions to the back of my mind.
“And what if making happiness for yourself meant you would disappoint every person who has ever meant anything to you?” His words were a truth; I could hear it. He was being real.
“Fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em? Is that Shakespeare?” he asked as if he were being serious.
“Burns.” I laughed hard.
“I can see a Scot saying that. But what if I can’t just fuck ’em? What does good old Robbie Burns say about that?” His lips toyed with a grin, maybe just the idea of one.
“Well, if that’s the case, and you were born in this cage, then I guess he would say that you’ll need to be extra crazy this summer. Get it out of your system before you have to start living that soulless grind.” It should have rolled off my tongue easily and lightheartedly, speaking of such a whimsical idea. But instead I stared at him, a little tipsy and a lot bold, lost in his intense eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. In that moment, I knew he was right. I did know him from somewhere, but I couldn’t recall and it was driving me insane. I leaned in a little closer.
“You mean I should be one of those boys of summer and spend it recklessly doing what I want?” He was mocking me or him or both of us. “Consequences be damned?”
“Yeah,” I challenged, wondering if the devious sound of my voice matched my look. “What are consequences for people like you anyway? Daddy takes away one credit card and a Maserati? You should pretend you’re free, fake it ’til you make it, like my dad always says. And one day you will be.”
“But what if I don’t want to fake it? What if I just want to be free?” He leaned in, surprising me, and possibly himself. He lightly brushed his lips against mine, lingering for a second. He reached down, took my hand, and turned away from me, drawing me along the side of the boat toward the front and opening a door. In the flash that the door was open, I saw we were going into a bathroom. A classy way for me to start my summer, but I didn’t care. He hurried inside and dragged me along with him.
In the dark, his hands found my face, cupping it as he pulled me up into him and lowered his face to mine. “You’re so beautiful, Lacey.”
“So are you, Jordie.” I wanted to get lost in this fantasy, but the second I said his name, the realization of who he was hit me like a ton of bricks. At the exact moment, someone shouted my name.
Fate was saving me. An angel of fate.
The person shouting my name did it again.
“I think someone’s looking for me.” I needed to get the hell out of here, and this was my moment.
“What?” he whispered, his words caressing my lips.
“Someone’s calling me.” I paused as I leaned away from him, close to the door, listening again. “I have to go.”
“Lacey!” It was Marcia, shouting out like God had sent her.
I grabbed the door handle.
“Wait.” He grabbed my arm, but it was too late; I slipped through his loose grip and opened the door, glancing back at him, trying not to glare too hard as I slammed it on his face, leaving him inside.
“Marcia!” I called, and ran for her, never more grateful to hear her voice.
“Oh my God. I thought you fell overboard!” she shouted, and hugged me. “One minute I saw you, and then you were gone.”
“No, just using the ladies’ room.” I linked my arm in hers and glanced back as Jordan fucking Somersby, Stephen Somersby’s sleazy brother, left the bathroom. He gave me a defeated stare, watching as I walked away.
He had played me perfectly.
Said everything a girl like me would want to hear.
I scolded myself for falling for it.
And he was right: we had met before, once, when he was drunk and singing karaoke with his obnoxious brother. He was Monty’s man crush every Monday, but Marcia hated Stephen, so she forced Monty to spend his Somersby time away from her—away from us. They had poker nights and bromances I didn’t understand. Monty was too good for them.
In the dark, his name had dinged on like a light bulb made of bitterness just as he was about to kiss me. Jordie, that was what Monty called him.
I wouldn’t have kissed him again if my life depended on it. He might have been the hottest guy in the world—in the history of hot guys ever—but he was also someone Marcia said was just another France: a guy with an ugly streak despite his pretty words.
Man, guys were gross. And I felt grossed out with myself for falling for the act yet again.