Even though the sudden itch to put pen to paper was not nearly as strong as it had once been—instances when he had often foregone sleep for a whole night in order to hastily scribble more of whatever story had taken hold of his imagination—the fact that he was interested in writing at all was a small miracle in and of itself. Other than the three or so paragraphs that he’d written on the boat train (which he had subsequently crossed out with large, blotchyX’s), James hadn’t managed to write in what felt like forever. Over the years, he had forced himself to try here and there, but he hadn’t ever reallywantedit. Not like he used to.
Until now.
Closing his eyes, James began to imagine a scene from a story, one that immediately felt as vibrant and established as any other he’d ever written, even though he had never once thought of it before that very moment. Still, it felt as though the story had been simply hiding in his heart, locked away and waiting for something—or someone—to come by with the key. It was, at once, both unsettling and calming, for there was nothing more that James wanted than to finally escape from the fog of melancholy that had been hindering him from experiencing life to the fullest, blunting every other emotion from happiness to lust to even fear for so Goddamned long.
And yet, as he let himself become lost in the scene, his heart began to race, the thought of stumbling out of the long-lasting haze of grief somehow suddenly frightening. After all, how could James ever love, lust, fuck, and create without George? And what would happen if he let his crush on Mr. Cassian Penn Livingston lead him out of the mist only for him to have to part with theman as soon asTitanicreached New York’s harbor? Would James’s newly refound spark of creativity exit the ship then, as well? Would the story he might soon try to pen remain unfinished as his foolish excuse for a muse returned to his lavish life on shore, leaving James feeling empty once again? Good God, would all of James’s efforts to regain his sense of self by coming out to sea be for naught?
James wasn’t sure if he could survive losing himself for a second time. Still, he wasn’t sure if he could survivenotsurrendering to these feelings, either. He hadn’t felt soalive, sohimself,in years.
Temporarily pushing both thoughts of Cassian Penn Livingston and images of the unwritten scene from his mind, James reopened his eyes so that he could read the letter from his closest friend. And he hoped that, as so often happened, Maggie might help him know how to proceed.
Dearest James,
I pray that by the time you read this letter, you are in happy spirits. Or, if not, then I hope that you are at least on your way to happiness and that relief from your melancholy is on the horizon. Remember, sweet James, to seize connection where and when you can. It is my sincerest wish that you might make some friends on your travels and that both the excitement of the sea and the newness of your work might reawaken the passion and enthusiasm you once had in your heart.
Know that when you read this, I will of course be missing you, but take heart thateven thoughI miss you, I support you in choosing to walk (or, more precisely, sail) this new path. I may be missing your presence, but these past three years, I have been missing that earnest and easy smile of yours even more, and I shall forever offer my encouragement in your pursuits to find it again.
Fondly Yours,
Maggie
James smiled to himself, his eyes welling with tears. He wondered if Maggie was right (as she so often was) about seizing connection whenever he could. And maybe, in this particular instance, that meant not fretting so much about thisthing—whatever it was—between himself and Mr. Cassian Penn Livingston.
Because regardless of whether or not his and Cassian’s burgeoning connection could ever become either permanent or romantic, the intense attraction that James felt enlivened him in a way that nothing else had since George’s passing. And for that reason alone, perhaps, this new and likely fragile link between them might be worth holding onto, even if only for a little while, even if it would be severed once they reached the shore.
Eager to see what tomorrow would bring, James fumbled to refold the letter so that he could finally get some sleep. His slightly erratic movements caused the light to shine haphazardly around the bedroom, and the beam awakened the steward in the bunk beside him.
“Jesus, hell!” the man blurted out in a harsh whisper. “Be careful with that, please. I have to wake up at five thirty to work in the bath complex.”
James’s heart stuttered, a flutter of hope stirring in his chest.
“Apologies,” James said, creasing the letter one last time. “I’m finishing up.”
Once James had refolded the letter, he sat forward to stash the letter back in his trunk. And then, rather than lie back down, he turned to face the man he had woken with the light. He shined the torch on the floor between them, which provided enough visibility for James to see the man’s face without blinding him.
“I’m supposed to work breakfast tomorrow,” James whispered. “At eight. Or, well, I need to be there a little earlier. At seven. Still,that’s better than five thirty. I’d, uhm, I’d be happy to switch with you since I woke you by mistake. If you’d like.”
“Really?” the man asked. James nodded. “Alright, yes, I’d like that very much. Serving food can’t be that hard to learn, can it?”
“It’s not. I promise. Just copy everyone else.”
“Hm. I’ll leave the key to the bath complex on your bag, then.”
James’s heart sped up a bit. Oh, God, it had worked. He could hardly believe it.
“Great,” he spluttered. “Thank you.”
“No, no. Thank you.”
James clicked off his torch and set it on the floor. He rolled it beneath the bottom of the bunk so that no one would trip on it before morning. Afterward, he pulled the woolen blanket up to cover his chest and stared into the blackness of night, feeling foolishly excited for his morning shift.
***
April 11, 1912
In the morning, James was walking down the corridor, heading forTitanic’s swimming bath with a coffee cup and saucer balanced in his hands. Earlier, he’d swiped them from the Verandah Café in hopes that the object of his misplaced, ill-fated affections might like to have coffee in the morning, even before the start of breakfast service. Although James knew that he shouldn’t be trying so hard to please the haughty passenger, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Even one of his first thoughts upon waking had beenhow he could impress the ever-hard-to-please Mr. Cassian Penn Livingston when he surprised him by the pool. If, in fact, the man even showed up.
Blowing out a breath, James rounded the corner to enter the room with the swimming bath. No one was there. Which made sense seeing as it was only five fifty in the morning and the swim time started at six. Still, James frowned at the empty room. He walked over to the long row of changing cubicles and leaned against the wall between two of them. Every second that followed seemed to stretch on into eternity. Stomach in knots, James stared at the green-hued saltwater, watching it slosh and roll with the ship’s motion. He began thinking of his story—the one he had yet to write—and a shiver of excitement needled up his spine as he imagined his characters navigating turbulent seas together.
