Page 46 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
My unease grows as the day progresses. The snorkeling trip is beautiful, with crystal clear water, vibrant fish, white sand, but Millie sticks to me like a shadow, finding reasons to touch my arm, lean against me for balance, ask me to adjust her mask. Each time, I carefully maintain boundaries without making a scene.
By the time we return to the ship, I’m exhausted and my patience is threadbare. I take a shower in the small bathroom, changing into fresh clothes for the formal Thanksgiving dinner. When I emerge, Millie is waiting, dressed in a blue dress that makes her eyes startlingly bright.
“You look nice,” she says, smoothing a hand down my sleeve. “Very handsome.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping back. “You too. Is your mom ready?”
“She’s meeting us there. Said she needed extra time to get ready.” Her smile turns sad. “First holiday without Dad. She wants to look her best for him, somehow.”
The guilt resurfaces. Eric’s absence feels particularly acute today, and whatever my complicated feelings about this trip, about Millie, I know her grief is genuine.
“It’s hard,” I say inadequately. “But you’re both doing great. He’d be proud.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and before I can react, she’s pressing herself against my chest, arms around my waist. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For being here. For being you.”
I allow the hug for a few seconds before gently disengaging. “We should go. Don’t want to be late.”
The ship’s dining room has been transformed for Thanksgiving, with elaborate centerpieces, soft lighting, and white tablecloths. Our group is already seated, with two empty chairs beside each other for Millie and me.
Dinner is an exercise in discomfort. Mom complains about everything: the turkey is dry; the stuffing has too much sage; the cranberry sauce is clearly from a can. Dad finally loses his temper after her third remark about the gravy.
“For God’s sake, Paula,” he hisses, “you’re the one who booked this cruise. If you hate everything about it, maybe we should have stayed home where you could cook your own damn turkey.”
A shocked silence falls over our table. Dad rarely stands up to Mom, and never in public. Her face flushes pink, lips pressed in a thin line.
“I’m just saying,” she starts, but Dad cuts her off.
“Well, stop just saying. You’re ruining everyone’s dinner.”
The tension is momentarily broken by Rhonda, who’s been unusually quiet all evening, suddenly bursting into tears.
“Eric loved stuffing,” she sobs, reaching for her glass of wine, her fifth, by my count. “He always snuck into the kitchen and ate it straight from the pan before dinner.”
Everyone freezes, unsure how to respond. Millie reaches across the table to take her mother’s hand, but Rhonda is beyond comfort now, tears streaming down her face.
“He should be here,” she wails, drawing stares from nearby tables. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
While everyone focuses on calming Rhonda, I slip my phone from my pocket and check it again. Still nothing from Caitlin. On impulse, I open Instagram, scrolling through my feed, hoping Caitlin has posted recently. And there it is — a post from Rachel, Caitlin’s cousin, uploaded three hours ago.
My blood turns to ice. The photo shows Caitlin in a kitchen I don’t recognize, flour on her cheek, smiling as she rolls out pie dough. The caption reads: “Thankful my favorite cousin finally came home where she belongs. Family Thanksgiving the way it should be. #HughesFamily #HomeSweetHome”
I stare at the image, uncomprehending. She told me she was spending Thanksgiving with a coworker in Mount Pella. Another photo shows her laughing with an older blonde man with a beard. I recognize him as her Uncle Peter, and standing next to them, a smiling woman I recognize as her Aunt Charlene.
My mind races. I know her aunt and uncle live in Cedar City, Oregon. If she were going to visit family over the holidays, why didn’t she tell me? Why did she lie about it? And a chilling thought enters my mind: is she coming back? She has to come back, doesn’t she? She wouldn’t have ended things without telling me, would she?
I scroll frantically through Rachel’s other recent posts, but there is nothing else about Caitlin. And nothing at all on Caitlin’s Instagram.
“Adam?” Millie’s voice seems to come from very far away. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Looking up, I find everyone at the table is staring at me. “I… I need some air.”
I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair, and walk away without explanation. Out on the deck, the night air does nothing to cool the panic rising in my chest. I dial Caitlin’s number again, and again it goes to voicemail.
This time, I leave a message: “I saw Rachel’s Instagram posts. You’re in Cedar City? Caitlin, what’s going on? Please call me back. Please.”
I end the call and grip the railing, staring out at the dark ocean. The ship continues its smooth journey through the night, carrying me further from shore, further from Caitlin. I’m trapped in a hell of my own choosing, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
What I didn’t realize in that moment was that it was about to get much worse.
