Caribbean Crossroads (2 page)

Megan shook her head slowly. “Jillian, I want to help—you know I do—but I’ll end up saying, ‘What was I thinking?’”

Jillian jumped on the softening tone. “Megs, if you don’t do it, they might cancel the tour, and Derek and I will spend the summer apart. And he is this close”she showed half an inch with her fingers—“to popping the question. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

Megan gave her a look—cancel the tour my eye—and checked her watch one last time. “Time’s up. I’m off to the library.” Turning back to Jillian, she smiled and added, “I’ll think about it.”

***

In the late cool of the evening, Megan lay on her cranberry colored duvet, immersed in the soothing lamplight of the apartment bedroom. Ultimately, the Blind Date had called with a legitimate roommate emergency—she could hear the intercom announcement for a doctor in the background—so she had stayed at the apartment, being spared her typical Friday-night trek to the library.

Gazing at her bulletin board to the right, she reached up and fingered a tarnished gold running medal hanging from a silky blue ribbon. Next to it, she traced down her “My Goals” list. It seemed an era ago, though it was just last fall. Megan had felt the same senior zest as her friends, knowing this degree was it, unless she inherited a fortune. Already she had taken longer than most to finish, paying her own way through. But education and all that went with it made her tingle—it was opportunity and adventure, and she was zealous to make it count. Or had been. Megan stared at the goal sheet, line after line of overactive sentences in red: Learn Italian, Climb the Alps, Get a Master’s Degree.

And then he had come, softly padding through her life like a patient predator, waiting. Promises and playing her, pulling her in, making her feel that she was everything—loved, adored, The One. His world became her world until she’d lost sight of her own horizon. And she had forgotten those goals, at first for the joy of him. But then, with the betrayal, and numb shock of the truth, she’d been unable to conceive of achieving anything at all.

Megan rolled over, her back to the bulletin board. Tuesday—three short days. A once-in-a-lifetime experience, Jillian had said. People gave their eyeteeth for it, she had said. Three days to a new start and another world, or at least avoiding the old one. It wasn’t a tough choice. This was the New Megan after all. So what was stopping her?

A gray feeling settled on her, suffocating her potential summer joy. Megan closed her eyes. She hated this feeling that obstructed her happiness just when something new or good entered her life. The past was over, done. That was then. She could move on—needed to move on—but an invisible hand grabbed at her waist and held her back from happiness, making her doubt herself and unable to trust those she loved. Or wanted to love. Or thought she loved.

She could still see him, sitting there on the couch, arms spread out across the back, his legs relaxed, like he was enjoying himself. Smiling that smile, with the dimple, telling her it was over. He’d made his choice and it wasn’t her, or the three others she hadn’t known about. Then he had told her, easily, about dating all four of them at the same time—for an apartment contest, no less. How he and his roommates had ranked them on a list of
essential
things—body shape, cooking, cleaning, income potential after marriage. And described the cartoon racing lanes with little magazine swimsuit bodies, and moving them toward the finish line.

She had stared at him, disbelieving, her emotions fluctuating through surprise, disgust, anger, and then numbing shock. His expressions, his arrogance, his cool deliberateness about it all. It was beyond her understanding. He had pursued her, lured her on the pretense of love, even talked to her about marriage and family. Jackson had been everything to her, had made himself everything.

When she’d found her voice and asked why, he had laughed outright. It had been a game, he said. Too bad the girls had taken it so seriously, and she had lost, didn’t she get that? That’s when he had shaken his head. Pathetic, he had called her. Naïve. And to make sure to clean the bathroom as it was Thursday.

She had turned and left then. Days later she had still sifted through the shrapnel. He had been her first true love. Shell-shocked, she had tried to comprehend this new Jackson she had only now seen—cold, callous, completely foreign. And suddenly, she was ten years old and being told that Daddy had left and wasn’t coming back. Those same feelings had washed over her—stunned, betrayed. At the time she hadn’t known how to react. Following her mom’s lead, she stuffed her feelings far down inside, avoiding difficult emotions and putting her energies into non-emotional things—track, tennis. Facts she could record, things she could hold onto, or hit. Or pretend to run away from.

Megan cringed. She still regretted going back to Jackson at all, returning the next week to follow through on her commitment to the cleaning contract. But mainly it was to prove he hadn’t won, that he hadn’t devastated her the way he thought or seemed to relish. At first, showing him the same ambivalence he had shown her, she had cleaned. But it had felt wrong—this wasn’t her way of doing things, and playing his game only made her more like him. That had been the moment of realization, of understanding just how much he had influenced her. So she had quit, and made sure he got the message loud and clear.

And yet, even after saying so, even after finally leaving, he still had some kind of hold on her that she couldn’t figure out. With any other guy she wouldn’t have put up with being treated that way for a minute. But she had taken it, and that’s what bothered her. Where had
she
gone? How had she, Megan, lost herself in this man, without even seeing it?

Well, it wouldn’t happen again.

Megan took a deep breath and opened her eyes. It had taken months to get to back to where she was. Now she was faced with a new reality, a possible cruise ship full of those same kinds of people, those kinds of men. Superficial. Stage performers. Say one thing and do another. Had she learned enough yet? Could she trust herself to recognize hypocrisy, to be safe from making the same mistake? 

Megan sat up, clearing her mind and clinging to the facts. This cruise tour could be the opportunity for a fresh start. With the money earned she would have options, even to create a new life somewhere else—no distractions, no detours. And the truth was clear: it was either a cruise and The Unknown, or a summer dealing with the presence of him, the Must Forget.

I can do this, can’t I? Megan tried to recapture her old bold self. I can do this until I know what else to do, to find the real me, to trust myself again.

But after Jackson, was that possible?

Before more doubts cascaded down her mind, she picked up her cell phone and dialed. “Jillian? Okay, you win. I’m in.”

CHAPTER TWO

Mammoth.

Megan had never seen a cruise ship up close, and that was the first and only word that repeated through her mind. Turning from the 15-story-high ship, she faced the expansive concrete dock that was about the size of two football fields. It teemed with masses of people, luggage, and uniformed help in all shapes and sizes, shouting in various languages and competing with the squawks of birds overhead. Smaller vessels were tied up farther down the pier while seagulls flew constantly in search of leftovers. Various groups of people clustered around tall signs announcing names of companies, and young children laughed and chased one another in between the moving humanity. So much stimulation—every sense and nerve felt strung like the rope on the gangways.

But the salt air was heavenly, and she breathed it in. For the past few days, Megan had finally begun to feel ready for this new phase, wrapping her mind around performing. A few painful and very long days in the dance studio had yielded sore muscles and the need for a lot of ibuprofen.

“Last call for Premier Performers,” a voice blared from a megaphone.

Megan moved toward the sound and away from the vast ship. A crowd of 20-somethings gathered—tanned, pert, and talkative. She shook her head. Of course that was them.

Jillian saw her first. “Megs, over here!” Notifying the group, she hurried over to Megan, giving her a quick hug. She eyed the one small suitcase and Megan’s normal-sized purse. “This is it? Good thing there’s outlet shopping at two of the ports.”

“I don’t shop anymore.”

“Uh-huh. Just keep saying it like a mantra.” Jillian moved her through the crowd toward the group where a silver gray-haired man with a deep tan stood next to a woman in an obvious black-hair wig and red sequin show dress. The woman directed a blond, nicely built young man in a mango colored T-shirt carrying stacked boxes labeled “Premier Performers.” Megan smiled as the woman couldn’t decide where to put them and the young man patiently acquiesced to her repeated change of mind.

“Come on now, gals and gents,” said the tanned man. With a charming smile he carried himself like he’d been a catch in his day. “Welcome. We’re so glad to see so many familiar faces, although Kyle, we’ll be confiscating any contraband fireworks
before
boarding this time.” A spiky brown-haired young man waved to the laughing group.

“And we welcome someone new to the Premier Performers team this year—Miss Megan McCormick, thanks for joining us.” He made a slight bow toward her. She returned an awkward smile, feeling 20 pairs of eyes suddenly on her. “Very pleased to have you here, Megan. And hope you brought bunion pads and Band-Aids, you’re gonna need ’em.”

Some laughed, some nodded seriously.

“I’m Clint—as in Eastwood, except I’m much younger of course—and this is my wife, Minerva. But only I get to call her Marvy,” he said, winking at his wife. “Well, we’re all here now, and I’ve just a few bits of vitally important information that can’t be missed, which means you will keep right on texting.”

A chuckle rippled through the group.

Megan glanced at the human sea of tan and sparkle, noting a few differences here and there. One guy stood playing on a handheld video game with an intense focus and junior high hairstyle.

Definitely crew.

She scanned to a slim peroxide blonde sinuously shrugging her shoulders as she spoke to the guy next to her. Megan leaned into Jillian. “Okay, that’s a Tiffany, Bambi, or a Brittany.”

“Straight up,” said Jillian out of the side of her mouth. “Brittany Shay Weller.”

“Seriously?”

“Don’t forget the Shay. She doesn’t like that.”

Clint began detailing luggage information and meal times. As Megan listened, she felt a slight pressure close in on her, like someone watching her. Discreetly turning her head, she saw a caramel blond-haired surfer wannabe
staring at her through the listening heads. Megan squinted, recognizing the mango T-shirt he wore. Was it the same box mover guy?
He
was part of the performance company? The surfer continued to unabashedly stare but not in an interested way, more with a perplexed look. She couldn’t tell what it meant. Not that she cared.

Megan turned her attention back to Clint. After a few minutes she glanced sideways. Surfer Boy still looked at her.

What is his deal?
Megan ignored his distinctive jawline and checked her T-shirt and khakis—no, no stains. She looked up and saw him chuckle, as if he knew what she had just done. She scowled.

Men.

Inwardly, she mocked his tousled hair just to make herself feel better: that wavy kind of casual thing as if he’d just gotten out of bed. It reminded her vaguely of a magazine cover. She shifted her gaze to appear mesmerized by a seagull standing still.

She could feel it. He still looked at her.

Totally uncalled for, and frankly, downright rude. Probably from California, where the “rolling stop” originated.
Abruptly, she turned her head toward him and stared right back, telepathing, “You. Are. A. Jerk.”

He smiled. A wry, knowing smile.

Was he telepathic?

Narrowing her eyebrows, she telepathed, “Leave. Me. Alone,” and turned away.

“We’ll have a cast orientation and first rehearsal in one hour—”

A collective groan went through the group.

“That’s right, on the Coral Stage. My Marvy will hand out your cabin assignments. I’ve already got mine,” he said, looking at his wife.

“Go on.” She sheepishly smiled back then clapped her hands, ample bracelets jangling as she distributed slips of paper. The group dispersed amidst friendly chatter with roommate assignments in hand. Jillian took the paper and hurried over.

“Vista Deck, cabin 535. We’re in the same one, isn’t that perfect?” Jillian was breathless, her ponytail bobbing behind her so that she looked sixteen instead of twenty-three. “There are four to a cabin, minimal space. But don’t worry,” she said, immediately scanning the crowd. “There’s more room for makeup and stuff in the stage closet. Oh!” Jillian was up on her toes. Apparently she’d seen Derek.

“I’ll be right back.”

Megan had a feeling she would hear that phrase most of the summer.          

That pressured sensation of being watched came again. This time, Megan turned with her hand on her hip, only to see Marvy walking towards her.

“Hello, dear.” She gave Megan a hard peck on the cheek then took her hands and pulled them out to survey her. “Lovely to have you here. I’ve heard such rave reviews about you.” The sunlight glanced off the sequins on her polyester dress. “If you should need any little thing, just let Clint or me
know.” 

Marvy tugged Megan’s shirt at the shoulders, fitted it at the waist, then ran her hand down the side of her pant leg and pulled at the khaki pant cuffs as if assessing an imaginary fit. Megan looked around awkwardly.

“Um, yes, I will,” said Megan.

“Well then, a delight, a wonder, a treat to have you.” She pulled Megan’s chestnut hair to the side, checking it as a different style, then shaking her head, smiled and moved onto to the next unsuspecting person.

Recovering from the on-site fitting, Megan had almost reached the gangplank when she stopped.

The paper. Her room assignment. Jillian had it, meaning it was long gone in a starry-eyed haze. Well, the cabin couldn’t be that hard to find.