Page 83 of Ship Happens

And he could have his old life again.

Sure, he’d be in an unfamiliar country, and he wouldn’t have any of his friends or his support systems. He’d have to find new insurance, new doctors, pray that they’d help maintain his treatments and actually take his pain seriously. Even then, though, things might not be the same. They’ve spent a year apart, said truths to each other that they can’t take back.

Jacob turns, just enough for his eyes to meet Owen’s. His expression is soft, understanding, as if he can tell that Owen is overthinking something.

Owen can’t even pretend; he doesn’t have it in him anymore.

Under the blanket, he reaches for Jacob’s hand.

Kevin goes to bed first, stumbling toward the door as he waves good night. “I’ll apologize in advance for any drunken spooning we end up doing, Owen.”

“Only if you’re okay with being the little spoon,” Owen tells him.

Kaitlyn and Abigail aren’t far behind him, muttering their exhausted good nights as they hang off each other, shuffling into their bedroom.

And then . . . it’s just the two of them.

Again.

Gordon Ramsay yells at a chef, doing that thing he always does where he pokes a bucket full of slimy lukewarm chicken. “Ugh.” Jacob cringes, reaching for the remote to turn the television off.

The sound of the ocean waves reverberates through the room. Owen looks up at Jacob to find that Jacob’s already looking at him. Expectant, like he’s waiting for the reply to a question he hasn’t asked yet.

“I wasn’t lying,” Jacob says. “Earlier, when I told you that I wouldn’t have regretted kissing you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Owen asks.

“Because I . . .” Jacob hesitates for one second. Two seconds. Three seconds. “Because I know you, and I know that you were probably sending yourself into a spiral over what didn’t happen.”

Owen crosses his arms like a child.

“Am I wrong?” Jacob eyes him, cocking an eyebrow.

Owen doesn’t bother replying to him. “I . . . I don’t think that I would’ve regretted it either.” Resting his head against the back of the couch, Owen cranes his neck to look at Jacob.

“You don’t think?” Jacob asks.

Owen ignores him. “I don’t think that I’m any good at being your ex.”

The words feel heavy as he says them, but with their weight comes a relief that Owen has been searching for ever since that final phone call, when he told Jacob that they needed to end things.

“I’ve tried,” Owen tells him. “I’ve been trying, for months now. Even before this stupid trip. I’ve been trying to picture you as someone who I’m not allowed to think about anymore, not allowed to love, and I . . . I can’t, Jacob.”

He swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

Jacob stares. “For what?”

Owen doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have an answer for him. He just wants Jacob to know that he’s sorry.

“My day begins with me having to remind myself that I can’t text you good morning,” Jacob says. “Every time I manage to make a meal that doesn’t look like it’ll give me salmonella, I want to send you a photo. There’s a stray cat outside my apartment building that everyone takes turns feeding, and I’ve wanted to call you about him for months because he’s the most beautiful calico you’ve ever seen in your entire life, and he’s so sweet.” Jacob says the words with this almost melancholic excitement, like he’s been waiting to tell Owen about these things for so long. “I want to call you at the end of the day and tell you everything, and I want to hear everything about your day and listen to your voice, and hear your laugh and . . .”

Jacob lets out a low, heavy breath.

“Every single day it’s getting harder and harder to not wake up next to you.”

Owen blinks back tears, turning away from the man he loves, the man whose heart he broke. The floor underneath Owen shifts, and he has to remind himself that he’s on a cruise ship, and his brain isn’t playing a trick on him.