Page 70 of You Can Trust Me
“Sorry. I’ve had a bit of an emergency, and I lost my cell phone. I was just hoping to use the landline really quickly if it’s not too much trouble. I know the owners if that helps.”
She looks at the girl, then back at me. “Yeah, sure. Fine. But don’t stay on too long. We have to take to-go orders.” She lifts the corded phone from underneath the counter and passes it to me.
“Thank you. I promise I’ll be quick.” Florence and my parents are the only people whose numbers I know by heart, and calling my parents isn’t an option right now, so I call Florence. As it rings, I realize she may still be on the ship, as I have no way of knowing what day it is. Nights bled into days while I was being held captive, and with no window to see the sun rising and setting, I’m not sure how long I was down there.
“Excuse me, could you tell me what day it is?”
The woman, who’s scrubbing the curiously clean bar a few feet away from me, chuckles. “You sound like me, honey.” She glances down at her watch. “It’s Friday night.”
Friday. The boat isn’t set to arrive until Saturday morning at seven, which means she’s in the middle of the ocean somewhere without phone service. When it goes to her voice mail, I leave her a quick one.
“Hey, uh”—I lick my parched lips, my throat too dry—“it’s me. Mae. Look, I’ve got a lot to tell you and I’m sure you guys are worried sick, but I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m back in Tampa and I’m using someone else’s phone to call you now because mine…I’m not even sure where mine is. Some guy took it when he took me, and… I’ll explain it when I see you, okay? Will you just tell Blake that I’m okay? And that I miss you guys? I’ll be waiting for you when you get back, okay? Seven sharp. I love you, Flo. Okay, see you soon.”
When I end the call, the woman is still working on the same spot on the bar with her rag. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome, honey. I hope you find your friend and get the help you need.” She moves toward me, lifting the phone and putting it back in place. “You aren’t alone, okay? Addiction is a disease.”
I nod slowly, realizing why she’s come to this conclusion. “Yeah, thanks.”
“You hungry?”
“I don’t have any money,” I tell her. “But thanks anyway.”
“Sit.” She pats the counter. “I’ll get them to whip you something up.”
“You don’t have to… I’m not an addict. I just…” I pause, unsure how to tell her what I am. What happened to me. How am I possibly going to put it into words, even tomorrow for Florence, Blake, and the police?
“I know, hon. You don’t have to explain. I got two kids who struggle. I can only hope someone would do this for them.” She disappears into the kitchen, and I scoot up onto one of the stools in front of the bar.
A few minutes later, she returns with a burger and fries. My stomach rejoices.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up with my body warmer and more comfortable than it’s been in days. The sand isn’t exactly my memory foam mattress, but it was a world better than the concrete floor that’s been my bed lately.
The sun has just risen in the sky, and I sit up, watching the locals moving past in their sun-protective gear for their daily walks on the beach. As a kid, the idea of living at the beach both fascinated and terrified me. Now, there’s something so peaceful about this part of their routine.
I shield my eyes, looking around.
Shoot.
A cruise ship is docked in the distance. It must be close to seven. Have I missed them? Will they have gotten my voice mail? I push myself to my feet, my body heavy and sluggish from sleep. I jog across the sand as quickly as my legs will carry me, pushing forward on my way to them.
Please still be here.
Please.
Please.
I make it in time to see cruisers leaving the ship and heading into security. I search the crowd for familiar faces as I can’t be sure this is our ship. My memory of what it looked like is still fuzzy. Hurrying, I jog around to the exit, watching as people leave, looking varying degrees of sad, tired, hungover, and sunburned.
I stand there, jumping a bit every time the doors open and someone appears, only to be let down when, time and time again, it isn’t them.
Until it is.
When the doors open and I catch sight of Florence, she’s staring at me in disbelief. She glances down at her phone, then back up at me, and instantly drops her bags. Her eyes fill with tears that must match my own as she runs toward me.
“I stink,” I tell her before she reaches me. “I need a shower and—”