Page 89 of The Cruiser
ChapterThirty-One
It’sstrange to be back on land.
Confining, like a too-tight dress.
I felt it immediately in the helicopter, the Chiron intensified it and now, riding up the elevator to Morgan’s apartment, it’s like the walls are closing in. Once you’ve tasted the playground of open waters, it’s addicting. Morgan’s more relaxed than I’ve seen him, arm slung around my shoulder, humming a familiar melody. It’s hard to imagine being back in LA, waking up without him around.
After the high day at sea, I don’t want to think about it.
On the top floor, the elevator doors open into his private hallway. As he unlocks the front door, he says, “We have to be quick. The committee tries to escape every now and then.”
We’re inside for all of three seconds before a furry squad comes trotting across the open concept floorplan. Down on one knee, Morgan greets his cats in French while they wind through his legs and bump his hand with their heads, each one wanting attention. He introduces them one by one: Asterix, the leader. Josephine, the sleepyhead. Vlad, the bully. The tuxedo twins, Fox and Freya.
He encourages them to say hi to me with a sing-song voice I’d never associate with him. “Oui. C’est Vandana. Elle est très belle, no?”
Huddled protectively around Morgan, their silent observation of me is comical. Other cat owners advise the trick is to let them come to you, so I lower my hand. Tentatively, a fluff ball of white, Asterix, comes sniffing around.
After the welcome headbutt, I look up at Morgan with a smile. “I guess I’m approved.”
He excuses himself to feed them, suggesting I take a spin through his place, check out the view on the deck. I expected his apartment to be grand and it doesn’t disappoint. It's like walking into a modern opus of architecture where Italian furniture designers have been hoarding their finest creations. And the space. An entire family could spend the day avoiding each other on the main floor. Never mind the staircase spiraling to the second floor.
“You have your own swimming pool,” I say, although pool is more of a suggestion. It’s a Grecian bathing center right off the living room, complete with Venus de Milo in the corner. Jesus.
“Every apartment has one,” he says, like this is somehow normal. “It’s one of the reasons I bought the place.”
“The swimming naked part?” I ask.
He laughs. “Precisely.”
I wander onto the deck and feel light, floating high like the view. A full moon shines bright in the sky and city lights twinkle along the dark caw of the Mediterranean. We’re so high up the stars feel within reach. Behind me, the sounds of Morgan shushing his meowing cats softens something in my heart that’s been hard for too long.
A reminder that one week is enough to complicate my life for years.
I don’t love him, I tell myself. I can’t love Morgan without knowing him fully, and that takes time. Time eventually creates love, slowly and sweetly. But Morgan is a man I can love. And that’s scarier than being in love, because the path to love is unknown.
Formless and measureless, like the night around me.
“Thank you for a wonderful day,” he says, joining me outside with filled wineglasses. Another prime selection from a master sommelier, the bouquet is intense and ripe, full on the tongue. We sip in silence, gazing into the night.
“It’s like opposite worlds,” I say. “Land and sea.”
“You enjoyed yourself today, no?”
“No. I want a full refund.”
He laughs, and I like how his face rearranges with lightness. His eyes skim mine, and whatever passes between us, I can’t see it. But I sure as hell feel it.
“What a week,” he says, summarizing my thoughts perfectly.
This time last week I was a woman with undying scruples. Welcome to this week’s Vandana, breaking every boundary I swore I wouldn’t. It doesn’t feel as wrong as I imagined it would. I don’t know if that’s good, but something else bothers me more, and I give voice to it. “When we flew back this evening, I thought about the stupidity of last night, the drama with Khaled's mother.”
“You did the right thing,” he assures me.
“I know, but if I didn’t turn into a crazy, ranting woman, who knows what the outcome might’ve been. And for what? Some privileged guest no one wants to get into any trouble over?”
He sips his wine, studying me. “Feels like there’s more to this than Khaled’s mother.”
“I’ve been struggling with the craziness of PR,” I admit, words measured and careful. “How we have no control. Putting out fires in the middle of the night. The media just running with whatever and not even caring about whose lives they destroy. Shoot first and ask questions later.”
