Rachel

––––––––

I HONESTLY WISHED THAT romance authors would start tacking some type of Warning: This Shit Will Never Happen to You in Real Life stickers on all their books. That one little thing could save me from getting my hopes up, from expecting each of my new relationships to end differently than the one before.

And maybe, just maybe, if we started with the stickers on the romance books, the trend could spread to colleges who mislead people into thinking that the phrase, “Semester at Sea: Fall in Love with Your Education as You Sail,” isn’t total bullshit.

When my academic advisor first uttered the words “Semester at Sea,” I swooned over all the things the program offered. A “cruise ship remodeled for the classroom,” a way to “take your classes on the water,” and a way “to expand your worldview by spending time at the numerous port stops in foreign countries.”

I envisioned endless nights by the pool, countless hours spent watching the waves roll by, and making friends for a lifetime. I even convinced myself that I’d find the love of my life onboard and we would share the seas together.

Since I was a seventeen-year-old freshman who wanted to get the hell away from my dad, Ethan Wyatt, and all things that reminded me of our small beach town, I signed my name on the dotted line for three years of the sea in a row.

I now regretted the hell out of that decision, and the only nice thing I could say was that all the traveling might give me a slight advantage in my post-college career since I was a Visual Arts & Design major. (Keyword: might.)

The “endless nights at the pool” were nothing more than false hopes since the pool was always crowded, and it closed at eight o’clock. The constant sight of rolling waves became a reminder of how much I missed seeing the shore at home, and the “friends” I made weren’t for a lifetime. They were only mine for a semester at a time.

Most people—smart people, chose to do the “one-semester” option and treated the trip like a summer of studying abroad, and all of their “I’ll keep in touch!” promises always fizzled away after a few weeks.

Between the nonexistent Wi-Fi, the predictable daily food in the dining hall, and the never-ending seas, this didn’t feel like the education of my dreams anymore. It was a nightmare.

Not only that, but my hopes of finding love at sea were just as dismal. Most of the guys who joined the program were only looking for sex, and the few that weren’t? They were only good until the end of the voyage.

In fact, my latest relationship was yet another reminder that only a sad and misinformed person would sign up for three-years aboard this ship.

“Hey, Babe.” My boyfriend of two semesters, Tate, smiled as he walked into my room. “What are you up to?”

“Writing down some thoughts,” I said, pointing to my calendar. “I’m also counting down the minutes to my last day aboard.”

“Cool.” He shut the door and handed me a stack of envelopes. “I checked your message box for you. Want to take a break?”

I nodded and closed my notebook. “Let’s get coffee at the café for an hour.”

“Well, I was thinking I could have you for an hour instead.”

“You want to have sex?” I smiled.

“Well, our special version of sex.” He walked over to me and pulled me up, walking me over to my bed. “We’re still not ready for the real thing yet.”

Sighing, I lay back on the bed, fully clothed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he flipped me over—positioning me on all fours.

“You look so sexy in your sweatshirt, Babe,” he whispered into my ear as he held my hips. “Are you ready to feel me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can’t say ‘Yeah, sure,’ at a pivotal moment like this, Rachel.” He whined. “I told you what you’ll need to say to make this work for me, what I need to make sure that you’re the one. Say it.”

“I’m beyond ready to feel you, Babe,” I said, as convincingly as possible. “I want us to become one soul.”

“What else are you supposed to say after that?”

“Hurry up and make me feel good, Big Bear.”

“Yes, that’s it.” He growled. Like a goddamn grizzly. He kissed the back of my neck—moving his tongue in circles, before pushing my head down onto the mattress. He whispered something about taking things slow, and then he began grinding his sweats against my jeans. Like all the other times before that we’d done this, I could only feel a small, hard nub between his legs, and I knew I was going to have another case of jean burn on my ass cheeks when he was finished.

“Babe, I feel like you’re not here in the zone with me,” he whispered into my ear. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.” I faked a moan. “Oh, yeah.”

“Oh yeah, Big Bear.” He corrected me. “Say it louder and growl with me.”

I didn’t respond to that.

He picked up the pace, and I felt my body begging me to do something more fulfilling with my time.

Something like sleep...

“Ohhh yeah,” he said. “Imagine me deep inside of you, slipping inside of your greedy wet sponge.” He grabbed at my breasts like they were detachable, growling even louder than before.

“Ahhh....” He grinded his nub against me a few more times, and then he let me go before flopping onto the bed.

I turned around and noticed that his entire face was coated in sweat as if we’d actually had sex.

What is that stain on the front of his pants? Did he really come after THAT?

I let out a sigh and grabbed a small towel from my bin, handing it to him.

“Was it good for you, Little Bear?” he asked.

I nodded, still refusing to verbally answer to that name.

We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was about to suggest that we grab an espresso from the dining hall, but he cleared his throat.

“Do you love me, Rachel?” he asked.

“What?” I raised my eyebrow. “We just met last semester.”

“So?” He sat up. “I can say with all honesty that I love you.”

“We barely know each other, Tate.”

“Well, that’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you before we arrived at the next port ...” He sat up. “I mean, even though what we just shared on your mattress was magical—just like all the other times, I don’t think you’re my soul, Rachel.”

“You mean your soulmate?”

“No, I mean my soul. Like, the other half of it.” He looked as if he was struggling to find the words. “I feel like you don’t get excited about the things I like anymore.”

I leaned against the wall. “Is that because I’m not always excited about all the dry humping?”

“It’s not dry humping, Rachel.” He looked offended. “It’s preparation for whenever we finally make love. Something I don’t think we’ll ever get to now.”

“Okay, but—” I sighed. “Outside of the preparation for making love, I thought we were on the same page about everything else.” Well, almost everything else.

“Ha!” He snorted. “I’ve written you tons of love notes on post-it paper, and you’ve never responded. Not once.”

“That’s because you write all your notes in Russian.”

“So? If you were truly in love with me, you would learn Russian,” he said. “It’s called Google translate.”

I didn’t bother reminding him that the Russian alphabet looking nothing like the English alphabet and I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“I find it quite telling that instead of you giving me the written devotion I need, you’d rather write letters to your friend Ethan back home.”

“For the umpteenth time, Ethan is not my friend.”

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s your enemy who you supposedly can’t stand, yet for some reason, you write him letters all the time. Is that right?”

“We haven’t written each other in over three months.”

“And?” He stood up and walked over to my desk—sending envelopes flying everywhere as he yanked the left drawer open.

“Let’s see...” He picked them up one by one. “A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Richard Dawson? Who the hell is Richard Dawson?”

“That’s my dad.” I stood up and snatched that envelope from him.

He continued to pick up the letters, repeatedly saying Ethan’s name until he’d picked up the last one.

“This is over thirty letters, and that’s just during the time we’ve been dating.” He walked over to the bins where I kept all the mail I’d ever received, and then he picked up a few of those envelopes. “I don’t know what type of guy would keep up with your port schedule and send you letters at each one, but if I had a real-life enemy, I wouldn’t send him shit. Also, I need to be the only guy in my girl’s life. If anyone is sending her letters, it needs to be me.”

“It’s not like that, Tate. It’s just—”

“A natural habit.” He finished my sentence. “A natural habit from your childhood because you’ve both communicated like this since you were seven and a half years old, I know.”

“So, you finally understand?”

“Hell no.” He scoffed. “That excuse is utter bullshit.”

I rolled my eyes. I was tempted to tell him to read one of Ethan’s letters so he could see the truth for himself, but the possibility of not having a jean burn on my ass for a few months was looking pretty appealing right now.

“I honestly thought you were going to be the one for me, Rachel,” he said, returning the letters to my drawer. “I hope you find your soul soon, too.” He tried to kiss my forehead, but I stepped back.

“See?” he said, smiling. “You failed the final test. My real soul would’ve begged for forgiveness and a second chance.”

“I’m not begging you for shit.”

“My soul would never be this unapologetic.”

“Please get the hell out of my room, Tate. Now.”

“My soul would never speak to me like that either.” He shook his head. “She would love me enough not to utter a single swear word my way.”

I pointed to the door and waited for him to leave. Then I slammed the door behind him for dramatic effect.

Walking over to my wall-calendar, I wrote the words “break up” in bright blue ink, placing them right in the center of today’s date. This was my umpteenth relationship since boarding this ship, and not a single one of them ever resulted in anything more than an eventual breakup.

In all of my relationships, we only scratched the surface level. We learned enough small facts about each other to feel like we were more than casual strangers, but our foundation was never built on anything stronger. At this point, I’d accepted that all semester-at-sea relationships were a way to pass the time until the next voyage. And I knew that by the time I jumped into my next one, I’d forget all about the one that came before.

I took a seat at my desk and flipped through my latest mail, finding a recent letter from Ethan. I hesitated to open it, wanting to save it for after we returned from next week’s port at South Africa, but I couldn’t resist.

––––––––

DEAR RACHEL,

My girlfriend was cheating on me. I would say thank you for the heads-up, but I caught them fucking in her living room, so I would’ve found out whether you gave me your unwanted opinion on the situation or not.

Since you brought up my accolades, allow me to correct you on a few things: 1) I was voted Mr. Popular for FOUR years in a row. (I’m the only freshman to ever achieve this feat at Azul Mar High, and I’ve never needed to stuff the ballot box since you’re the only person in the entire school who didn’t vote for me.) 2) My car is a 1968 Alfa Romeo Spider which is the best classic car of all time. (It has to do with the fact that the only thing you’ve ever “driven” is a bike, and you’ve still managed to get into multiple car accidents.) 3) I do run shit on this campus, but seeing as though you’ll be spending your next year of college on a boat—again, you’ll never know the truth. (Everyone at this school knows who I am, Rachel. Everyone. It’s time to stop lying to yourself.)

Thank you for the unnecessary advice about my now ex-girlfriend. Then again, I’m not sure I should ever take advice from someone whose boyfriend dry humps her three times a day and makes her call him Daddy Bear. (Or is it Big Bear?)

I tried to send you some itch cream for your chafed ass, but it didn’t clear Japan’s customs. (If you’d like, I can send you and your boyfriend a few porn flicks so you can know what real sex is like.)

Forget You,

Ethan

PS—I’m starting to think that the closest you’ve gotten to sex this year is through the pages of one of your romance books. Is that why you own so many? (If so, allow me to share my latest short love story: Rachel Dawson murmured as Daddy Bear rubbed his cock against her jeans. Moaning louder, she shut her eyes and decided that her life had been absolutely pathetic all the way up until this point, so there was no point in changing it now. THE END)

PSS—Epilogue: She lived happily ever after with her Daddy Bear, and he taught her how to come in her pants, too. ☺

––––––––

UGH!

I tossed his letter across the room and groaned. I stared at it for several minutes, as if it was going to get up and place itself where it belonged, then I finally picked it up.

With the exception of our most recent correspondence, I kept all of Ethan’s letters in a locked trunk. And whenever my newest shipment of romance books was read from cover to cover, I made time to re-read his letters since he often bragged about how much fun life was on the “real campus.” He’d always had a way with the written word, and I never did understand why he was pursuing a major in business instead of writing. Not that I gave a damn what he did with his life, though.

I reorganized all the envelopes Tate had touched, making sure they were in order by date received, and then I made a new space for them in my trunk.

When I was finished, I took out a new purple envelope and a blank sheet of paper—ready to fire back a response, but the lights in my room flickered, and the ship began to rock.

I don’t need to respond to this since there’s only one port left, and I’m not telling him that I’m coming back for my senior year. It’s not like I’d ever hang out with him on campus anyway.

I moved onto my bed, resisting for all of ten minutes before rolling over and picking up my vibrator...and a romance book.