“Sorry.” James winced. “I shouldn’t have... I-I only wanted to help.”
After a pause, Mr. Livingston shrugged. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have expected you to understand.”
James stared at the carpet for a while, silently berating himself for overstepping. Eventually, he began to chew on his fingernails.
Mr. Livingston laughed a little. James looked up.
“I have the same habit,” the man said.
Mr. Livingston held out his hand, showcasing his too-short fingernails. Swallowing thickly, James lowered his own hand and hovered it right next to Mr. Livingston’s to compare them. When James looked up through his lashes, Mr. Livingston smiled at him. His intense brown eyes seemed to shine with that hint of kindness, of care, once more. James smiled back.
“Perhaps we’re not so unalike, then,” Mr. Livingston said in a warm, whispered tone. He turned and placed his nearly empty tumbler on a little end table. Afterward, he took James’s hand in his and subsequently ran his thumb over each of James’s fingernails. “I think mine are worse, though.”
James next breath shook as he mimicked Mr. Livingston’s gesture, taking the man’s hand and running his slightly calloused thumb over each of his stubby nails.
“Only a little,” he whispered back.
Commotion in the hallway—footsteps passing by the Smoking Room—caused both men to retract their hands in one fast motion. And then they sat in silence for a few ticks of the clock.
Finally, Mr. Livingston hummed and said, “Have you tried the swimming bath?”
“We aren’t allowed to,” James admitted. “When I say ‘we,’ I mean the stewards. Or other crew members.”
“Hm.” Mr. Livingston pursed his lips a bit and furrowed his brow. “I think I’d like to try it tomorrow morning. Men can swim from six to ten without paying an extra fee, yes?”
“I believe so. But I’m not sure.”
“Are you not one of the bath stewards, then?”
“No,” James said with a brief shake of his head. “I, uhm, I work in the First-Class Dining Saloon, mostly. And then either on the promenade or in the café in between meals. And in the Smoking Room, too, obviously, but only in the evenings.”
“Mmm . . . that’s a shame.”
“Sorry,”James nearly said, but he held back, literally biting his tongue to keep himself from spluttering the word.
Why did he want to please this man so Goddamned badly?
Mr. Livingston clapped his hands on his knees and stood.
“I better head back to my room.”
He took one wobbly step forward, followed by a second, equally uneven one, and then stilled. Exhaling a long breath, he shook his head once—violently—as though he was shaking off some of his intoxication, and then buttoned his jacket. He looked back at James and smiled a little—a melancholic smile that pulled at James’s heart once more.
“Have a nice evening, James.”
“You too, Mr. Livingston.”
And then, Mr. Livingston walked out of the First-Class Smoking Room.
Chapter Four
James
Back in his cramped bedroom on D-Deck, James was lying on his back, struggling to read his letter from Maggie. Even though he’d only just left London a few hours ago, he still couldn’t make himself wait any longer. Balancing a borrowed torch in his left hand, James illuminated the paper so that he could read the text. Above him, one of the other first-class stewards was asleep in the top bunk, snoring softly. In fact, most of the crew members who slept in the bedrooms here on Scotland Road were asleep by now, save for whoever had overnight shifts. James knew that he ought to have been asleep as well. But he was still too rattled from his encounter with first-class passenger Cassian Penn Livingston to evenconsidershutting his eyes.
Just the fleeting thought of their time together in the lounge had James’s stomach somersaulting, equal parts elation, unease, and guilt working his insides into a knot. He could hardly believe how much he liked the man. James tried to refocus on the letter, but then his eyes found the notebook peeking out from his nearby trunk.
Despite the low visibility—the only bit of light being the yellow-white glow shining from the torch—James could still makeout the rectangular outline of the notebook’s corner. And for the first time since George’s passing, James was struck with an urge that enlivened him and excited him and frightened him all at once: the urge to write.
