My husband insisted our phones tracked our every move, that we were never truly free.
“Those photos people upload, that life, it’s all an illusion,” Ian said after deleting his account. “You have all of me, love.” His fingers twisted my sparkling wedding band; his desire clouded my thoughts.
On the day of the boat party, a phone call jerked Ian’s hand away from my bare back.
“Who was it?”
“A last-minute flight to Riyadh, then overnight in Bahrain,” he said, grabbing his uniform. “Give me a kiss.”
As he rolled his suitcase out the door, my heart hardened into granite. “Can’t OPS find anyone else?”
“I’m on short notice, love. It’s only for a day.” He smacked his lips on mine, his thoughts already on the flight.
Only a day, I told myself. But Christmas made me feel acutely alone.
Later, a gentle swell heeled the yacht. Music and laughter echoed below while I sunbathed my blotchy face in the last pinks of the setting sun.
“Hiding, huh?” Jeremy’s husky voice yanked me from my thoughts.
The same sea breeze that had dried my tears whipped open the linen shirt, revealing his tanned torso. I tore my gaze away from his red shorts, which seemed to shrink each time we met.
“Captain.” The sound of his title made Jeremy grin. “It’s a lovely party. White leather seats… must’ve cost you a fortune!”
Same company, same rank as Ian. How could Jeremy’s salary stretch to a yacht?
“No one else noticed, just you. Your eyes… they catch every—” he coughed.
I blushed and turned toward Dubai’s fading skyline, feeling Jeremy’s brown eyes follow the curve of my dress. Reliable, old Jeremy. The man who stepped up every time Ian was on a flight: picking me up from work, driving me across the city to renew my passport, lifting boxes when the lease expired. Each time, when Jeremy thought no one was looking, his gaze caressed my body. He never crossed the line — too loyal to Ian. My thumb twitched my faded wedding band. The skin underneath was red and flaky.
“I’m sorry Ian had to work. Desert Wings should compensate him for the extra hours. They’ve turned him into a workaholic. It’s what, my third Christmas alone?”
“You’re not alone.” Jeremy’s longing gaze made my throat dry. He uncorked the champagne. “Let’s forget the holidays?”
A thought, buried at the back of my mind, surged forward. Me. I had to cross the stupid line. Loneliness and comfort Jeremy offered blended in one, and I was no longer thinking. My body dashed forward, searching Jeremy’s lips.
“Catherine…” he whispered, each syllable a warm puff of air.
Goosebumps covered my arms. Champagne covered the wooden deck. Then, a shrill voice called Jeremy’s name.
“One of your mermaids…” I wanted to add how each year they got younger.
“Ian doesn’t know what he’s missing. Catherine, I wanted—” Something dark flashed in Jeremy’s eyes before he disappeared down the stairs.
The sun burned the horizon. I rubbed the red spots that appeared on my neck. Suddenly, the leather seat buzzed.
“Jeremy, your phone! Oh, it’s Ian.”
A social media post froze on the screen. Cold sweat beaded my palms. A nervous glance at the empty deck. No password. Why had Jeremy left his phone unlocked?
A Christmas tree, two children, a woman’s arms wrapped around my husband, who flashed his best smile. I choked on my breath. The world shrank to the size of the screen. A light tap, the phone unlocked, streaming more of Ian’s smiles, holidays abroad, idyllic home gatherings, children’s birthdays, each post matching his roster.
The wind rose, waves lashed at the hull, and my world foundered in the web of lies. My phone buzzed, as though Ian had sensed my discovery. An acrid taste coated my mouth. In an instant, Ian’s smile flickered through shards of broken glass on the polished deck.
I tugged at the scratched gold and flung my hand over the railing, letting the raging waters swallow Ian’s promise of eternal love and commitment. Pieces of my heart sank with the ring, yet my finger was finally free.
Natalia Danjon is a Russian/French writer based in the UAE, currently editing her debut novel in which one family’s life savings couldn’t buy them a house anymore, only a tin of sardines. Based on Russia in 1991. Find her @writer.engulfed.
Help us keep the daily stories coming with Patreon.
