We found the guys just outside the casino, standing off to the side near a high cocktail table, right where they said they'd be. The ship had crossed into international waters, and the casino had come alive with slots blinking, chips clattering, and voices rising under the steady pulse of low-tempo house music drifting from overhead speakers.

It felt like a different world tucked below deck: bright, loud, and crowded. The kind of place where time blurred, and no one looked at their watch.

Still in our pool cover-ups, swimsuits beneath, and more than a little buzzed from the four-plus drinks we’d downed earlier, Pam slowed as we stepped into the glow of the casino. Her eyes moved across the space, wide and deliberate, but there was something distant in them. The abrupt shift in her demeanor after Steve’s message was still fresh in my mind. 

We hadn’t explored much of the ship before heading straight to the pool, so this was her first real look at what had been hiding just out of sight.

“Wow,” she breathed, turning in place. “Looks like Vegas.”

“Way bigger than you’d expect on a ship, huh?” I asked, watching her take it all in.

Every type of table game was spread out across the floor: blackjack, poker, roulette. Rows of slot machines buzzed nearby, and mirrors along the walls made the space feel endless.

Mike spotted us first and lifted his beer with a grin. “There they are.”

“There she is,” Steve added, smiling at Pam like he hadn’t just skipped out on one of the biggest moments first-time cruisers usually shared. “You miss me?”

Pam gave a dry smile, her eyes still sweeping the room. “How was the simulator?”

“You should’ve seen Steve,” Mike said, lifting his beer slightly. “A couple of bombs over 300 yards. He’s convinced he’s tour material now.”

Steve laughed. “Please. You should’ve seen Mike. Swinging like he was trying to break the screen. Pretty sure one shot landed in the virtual parking lot.”

Pam rolled her eyes at me where no one else could see, the kind of look only a best friend would catch. Her expression said it all; this was what we left the pool for? This was what had pulled her away from everything just as things started to get interesting?

He turned back to me. “How was it? Busy?”

I smiled. “It was perfect. And I think we’ve already gotten our money’s worth out of the drink package,” I said, laughing.

Mike took the last sip of his beer and looked around. “Alright, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.”

It was already 6:30. Somehow the evening had crept up on us, the hours slipping away faster than any of us had realized.

Pam glanced down at her sundress, then over at me. “Are we even dressed for the dining room like this?”

I shrugged. “It’s the first night. Some people probably haven’t even gotten their bags yet. This kind of attire’s pretty much expected.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, it’s not formal night or anything. Nobody’s checking.”

Steve raised his brows with a smirk. “You two are the seasoned cruisers, guess we’ll follow your lead. And formal night on Carnival?” He let out a quick laugh. “That’s hilarious.” In that moment, it was obvious where Pam’s skepticism had come from: the jokes, the TikTok anxiety, the worst-case expectations. Every bit of it carried Steve’s fingerprints.

We’d signed up for open seating, and when we arrived at the main dining room, we entered through the second level, stepping into a space that opened around us in three soaring stories. It was elegant in that classic cruise ship way: crisp white linens, polished wine glasses at every place setting, and soft lighting that gave everything a warm, golden glow. 

A hostess led us to a table along the railing, with a clear view of the lower level and the ocean beyond the windows. No wait. No dress code questions. Just an easy, unhurried transition into the evening.

Dinner started with the usual surface-level conversation, the four of us trading small talk about the day, just enough to fill the silence, not enough to mean anything. The dining room buzzed with quiet chatter, the clink of silverware, and the occasional burst of easy laughter. 

Our waiter, Elroy, introduced himself with a warm smile and a calm, steady presence. A native of Jamaica, he moved with the quiet assurance of someone who had done this long enough to make it look effortless.

He took our drink orders with a calm nod, each of us defaulting to the same thing we’d been drinking all day. It was unoriginal, almost mechanical; familiar choices we didn’t have to think about.

Elroy didn’t write anything down, just gave a knowing smile and slipped away.

Amid the light small talk, mostly Steve still going on about Mike’s golf simulator performance, Elroy returned with our drinks, placing each one in front of us with the same calm, practiced ease. When he reached Steve, setting down his rum and Coke, that’s when it started to go downhill.

Steve took a sip before any of us had touched our glasses, then slapped the table with a loud, obnoxious chuckle.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, reacting to the strength of the pour.

Then, without hesitation and loud enough for nearby tables to hear, he made a racist comment aimed at Elroy. Offhand. Confident. As if it were just casual conversation.

But it wasn’t. It landed hard, sharp, and ugly. The table went still. My stomach knotted. And Pam didn’t say a word.

She sank lower in her chair with a quiet sigh. 

“Steve,” she said under her breath, her tone sharp but familiar, like it wasn’t the first time she’d had to remind him that what might pass back home didn’t belong anywhere else.

Elroy froze for just a beat. The tray still balanced in his hand, his posture shifted, shoulders tightening, the warmth briefly leaving his face. It was subtle, but unmistakable, like the air had been sucked out of the space around us. 

He took a breath, steadying himself, and then the calm returned. He straightened, offered a tight, professional smile, and gave a polite nod.

“Enjoy, sir,” he said evenly, then turned and walked away without another word.

The silence at our table was immediate. Mike and I had heard about Steve’s behavior, but this was the first time we’d experienced it firsthand. Pam’s face, already tan, flushed a deep, burning red, while Steve sat there, completely unaware that anything was wrong with what he’d just said to Elroy.

I reached under the table and gave Mike’s knee a squeeze. The kind that didn’t need words. The kind that said, “This is why we’ve never vacationed with them.”

Around us, a few people at nearby tables were still looking, their conversations paused, their expressions tight with discomfort or disbelief. Pam didn’t meet any of their eyes. She stared down at her napkin instead, her shoulders rigid. But once the heat started to fade from her cheeks, I caught something else in her expression, something quieter. Not shame, not embarrassment.

Relief.

Like she was glad we’d finally seen it for ourselves. Glad we understood what she lived with every single day.

Eventually, we made it through dinner, each of us settling into a rhythm of quiet bites and surface-level conversation, just enough to fill the space. No one addressed what had happened, but the air at the table never quite cleared. 

Steve, unbothered as ever, started talking about heading back to the casino after dessert. Mike nodded along, offering a polite laugh—the kind he reserved for smoothing over tension. He didn’t have to be Steve’s best friend, but he knew civility mattered. Three more days together demanded at least that much. He gave both of us a quiet look, one that said he understood his unspoken role now: mediator.

Pam and I exchanged a glance—the look that said let them go, let them chase cards and cocktails. No eye roll, no words, just that quiet understanding between two people who didn’t need to speak to agree. Their exit would be a gift. Pam didn’t say a thing, but it showed in her posture—distant, a little deflated, already drifting. We both knew exactly what we needed: space. From the noise, from the tension, from Steve.

We split off just outside the dining room, the guys heading toward the casino, already talking blackjack strategy like either of them had a clue what they were doing. Pam and I drifted the opposite way, no real plan, just moving with the shared understanding that we needed something quieter.

We ended up on the Serenity Deck, a tucked-away, adults-only area the hostess had recommended on our way out as a low-key spot to grab a drink. It took a bit of a trek to get there. An elevator, a few quiet hallways, and a short walk through a covered breezeway that opened to the warm night air.

We considered stopping by the room to change, maybe freshen up, trade the swimsuits and cover-ups for something else, but the thought passed as quickly as it came.

The moment we stepped onto the deck, I felt the shift. Adults only. No music. No chaos. No kids. Just low lighting and the steady breeze rolling in from the open water. It was separated from the rest of the ship by a set of sliding glass doors that sealed shut behind us, muffling the noise and matching the name: Serenity. 

A small bar sat tucked into the corner, a hot tub quietly steaming nearby, and rows of lounge chairs and tables stretched across the space without feeling crowded.

We chose a small table near the railing, close enough to hear the rush of water below, but tucked just far enough from everyone else to feel like we had it to ourselves. Within a minute, a server appeared; he was relaxed, smiling, moving with the kind of calm that told us he already knew we had nowhere to be.

We were tempted to stick with what we’d been drinking all day- bright, sugary pool cocktails, but the server sized us up with a subtle grin.

“If you’re done with the sweet stuff, try the Dark Ship,” he said. “Rum, amaro, a little ginger, and just enough lime to keep it dangerous. No umbrella. No garnish. Just a real drink.”

Pam raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. I gave a slow nod, reached into my bag, and handed him my room card with a little flourish, almost showing off the unlimited drink package.

"Sold," I said, smiling up at him.

He walked off without writing a thing down, and we sank into our chairs as the breeze rolled in, steady, quiet, the kind of air that made it feel like the rest of the ship had disappeared.

He returned a few minutes later and placed the drinks in front of us without a word, his movements calm and precise. The glasses were heavier than expected, solid in the hand. One sip, and the flavor hit: dark rum, sharp ginger, something bitter and grounding beneath it all. It was bold, smooth, and stronger than it looked.

Pam and I looked at each other, sharing a small smile and a quiet nod, both of us silently agreeing.

Before we knew it, a second round appeared, delivered without a word, just a quiet grin and a subtle nod from the server, like he knew we couldn’t say no.

We hadn’t even finished the first, but these went down fast. Easier than they probably should have. The kind of drink that slid in quietly, slipped past your defenses, and settled in before you realized.

We were still buzzed from earlier, from those rounds by the pool, but dinner had tricked us into thinking it had worn off. It hadn’t. Not even close. The edge came rushing back, smooth and sharp, and Pam leaned into it.

She didn’t say it, but I could feel it—she wanted to get to the part of the night where the weight of dinner could finally lift, and maybe, if the drinks kept coming, even the poolside confessions might find their way back to the surface.

“See what I have to deal with?” she said suddenly, swirling the ice in her glass, the inevitable frustration finally bubbling over. The alcohol had loosened her quickly, dissolving her usual hesitation and daring her to say what she normally kept in.

I glanced at her, watching the words fall out like she was finally tired of holding them in. I began to say something, to offer comfort, maybe agreement, but stopped short. She didn’t need a response. She just needed to let it out.

“He says things like that and then looks at me like I’m the one being too sensitive.”

“He doesn’t even realize he’s a racist,” she went on, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Or maybe he does. Honestly, I don’t know anymore. He’s always had this... pride. Like, ‘my people, my way, my home.’” She gave a dry laugh. “As if Mississippi is supposed to be some kind of moral compass.”

“His dad was worse,” she added. “That man used to say things I can’t even repeat, and Steve would just sit there like it was normal. I used to think he wasn’t like that, not really. That he just didn’t know better. But now?”

She looked at me, eyes a little glassy, her voice softer.

“Now I think maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s just in his DNA.”

She paused, then spoke quietly. “And that’s what scares me most, that Lily has the same DNA. That one day, he’ll get to her the same way he got to me.” Her eyes fell to her leg as the words settled, heavy in the silence.

I let the quiet linger for a moment, the weight of everything she’d said settling between us. Then I leaned back, letting out a soft breath.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “a three-year-old can’t be racist. That stuff’s taught, not passed down in blood.” I paused, her last comment still processing as I looked at her. “And what do you mean... got to you?”

She didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod, her fingers tightening around her glass before setting it down on the table. Then, without a word, she shifted; opening her legs slightly, pulling up the hem of her sundress. The motion was casual, almost tired, but deliberate.

The bottom edge of her white swimsuit came into view, revealing an angle I hadn’t seen earlier, neither by the pool nor in the room while we were changing.

And then I saw it.

A three-inch scar curved just inside her upper thigh, faint but unmistakable. Beneath it, even in the soft shadows of the Serenity deck, the ghost of something was still visible, what existed beneath it.

A rebel flag. Faded, but not gone.

I stared at her, stunned. “What the hell, Pam?”

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed on the scar, not on me, as if she couldn’t bear to see my reaction.

“Two more treatments,” she said flatly. “And it’ll be gone.”

She let the sundress fall back into place, smoothing it over her thighs as if that might somehow erase what I’d just seen.

Her jaw tensed. “That’s what’s been causing all the tension lately, why we’ve been so off. He hates that I want it gone.”

She picked her drink back up and stared out toward the pitch-black ocean, the glass motionless in her hand.

“It was a mistake. A drunk, stupid mistake. A few years ago, Steve and I were out, date night, one of the rare ones. He took me to this shitty little bar with a tattoo place next door. Told me it’d be funny… a nod to the Dukes of Hazzard. Something harmless.”

She gave a dry, humorless laugh. “And I believed him. Thought it was cute. But it wasn’t. Not for him. It was planned. Strategic. His way of branding me with everything he believes in, without ever having to say it out loud.”

Her voice dropped. “And I let him.”

The weight of the moment hung between us, and I decided to shift the energy, gently nudging us back to something lighter. I gave her a crooked smile, lifting my glass slightly.

“You know,” I said, “I don’t think Steve would’ve said a damn thing to the guy at the pool today.”

Pam let out a sudden, sharp laugh, catching herself with a hand over her mouth like it had slipped out before she meant it to.

“No,” she said, still smiling, clearly happy for the change of subject. “That would've been the last joke he ever made.”

A brief silence settled over us, perfectly timed with the arrival of another round, our third in barely thirty minutes. Maybe it was wrong to bring up the man at the pool again, but I had my reasons. Part of it was to steer us away from the heaviness of Steve and the talk about inherited racism.

But the other part? That was selfish.

I needed her back in that headspace from earlier. Maybe it was petty, a quiet kind of revenge for Steve’s behavior at dinner, or for what I’d just learned he’d done to her. But knowing I had the power to pull her back there, to nudge her toward something that defied everything she’d been taught to avoid, sent a thrill through me.

And using the man at the pool to do it? That was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Another drink went down, smoother than the last, and suddenly it felt like we were back in our sorority days. I could see it happening in real time, Pam loosening, little by little, with each sip. Her posture eased, her laugh lingered just a bit longer, her guard slowly slipping beneath the surface.

Then, without warning, she looked over at me. “Do you still talk to Amir?”

I laughed, surprised by how casually she asked it. "No. Not for a long time."

Even with the drinks in her system, her questions still came carefully, like she was dipping a toe in before letting herself wade deeper.

“Do you miss him?” she asked, her voice softer now.

The question hung there, a little braver than the last, each sip giving her permission to go further.

It suddenly dawned on me that maybe I needed this conversation, too. Pam was the last person I ever expected to have it with, which made the whole thing feel oddly ironic—she, of all people. But the truth was, I had never really spoken about my time with Amir, not out loud, not to anyone.

The shift from him to Mike happened so quickly I could barely process it. One moment I was wrapped in something raw and consuming, and the next, I was married, building a life I loved, one that would ultimately bring me to my dream of motherhood.

But now, sitting across from Pam, buzzed and barefoot on a quiet deck in the middle of the ocean, the chance to relive that part of myself had surfaced. And ironically, it felt like the most honest I’d been in a long time.

I shook my head slowly. “Not emotionally,” I said, answering her question.

She tilted her head, voice a little lower. “But physically?”

I paused. Looked at her, then down into my glass.

“More than anything in the world, girl.”

The words slipped out before I could catch them, honest and unfiltered, my body speaking from its own flashback before my mind had a chance to intervene. They hung between us, warm and unapologetic. She didn’t respond right away, and neither did I, but something shifted. Saying it aloud cracked open a door I hadn’t touched in years, a passion I’d buried when I married Mike. One I’d never dared to speak of, convinced no one would understand. Until now.

Pam wasn’t judging. She was listening. Her silence wasn’t discomfort. It was curiosity.

After a moment, I gave a slight grin and took another sip. “There’s nothing like a BBC,” I said, half-laughing through it.

Pam blinked. “BBC?”

“Big black cock,” I said, shaking my head with a smirk. “You really don’t get out much, huh?”

Her eyes widened, then she burst out laughing with me, the sound landing somewhere between shock and relief.

She was quiet for a while after that, turning her glass slowly in her hands, her mind clearly racing. I could see her working up to something, the way her lips parted once or twice like she might speak, then stopped herself. Her cheeks were flushed now, maybe from the drinks, maybe from the direction our conversation had taken. 

After a long pause, she shot me a quick sideways glance, her voice barely more than a breath. “So, how big was he?” The words came out fast, like hesitation might strangle them if she gave it the chance.

I’d been waiting for the question. And I couldn’t wait to answer. There was a need behind it, more than just curiosity. Like she had to quantify what she’d seen at the pool, to know she hadn’t imagined it. To confirm that it really was as massive, as obscene, as impossible as it looked.

I tilted my head, giving her one last second to pull back. One last chance to pretend she didn’t need to know.

“You sure you want to know?” I asked, the words curling out with a hint of a smirk, almost daring her to press further.

She nodded and took another sip, braver now. Or at least buzzed enough to fake it.

I set my drink down without hesitation, my hands moving apart instinctively, like muscle memory.

"Twelve inches," I said, letting it hang there between us, unsoftened and deliberate.

She didn’t respond right away, but I saw it in the way her fingers tightened around her glass, nearly letting it slip. Condensation slid beneath her hold, trailing down her hand in slow, cold lines before dripping onto her leg, just below where the sundress met her thigh.

Her breath caught—subtle, but there. Her eyes dropped to the table, like she needed a second to steady herself, like her body had reacted before her mind had the chance to keep up.

I could see her practically calculating the size in her head. 

I knew it was coming. She’d been holding onto it for hours, replaying the image behind her sunglasses, through dinner as Steve embarrassed himself, and through every quiet minute we’d spent out here. 

Her questions about Amir were just a gateway, something safe to ask before getting to what had really consumed her all day.

Then it slipped out.

“What do you think the guy at the pool was?”

There it was, the question I’d been waiting for. And I won’t lie, it excited me.

Just four hours earlier, Pam had been forced to act repulsed by him, afraid of what it would mean if she didn’t fall in line with everything she’d been groomed to believe.

But now here she was, openly asking for my opinion on the size of the behemoth who had been stretched out in front of us that afternoon.

“Slightly bigger, if I had to guess,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Bigger?” she turned to me, eyes wide.

“You saw that thing, right?” I laughed, needing her to admit it out loud.

“How could I miss it?” she said, laughing too.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “That was eight inches in that spandex… soft,” I said, letting the weight of it linger. “A man like that doesn’t just leave an impression—he rewrites you.”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh my God,” she whispered, glancing around like someone might overhear. Then a breathless, almost guilty laugh slipped out. “Steve’s maybe five inches. Hard. Not that I’ve seen it in three years.”

I almost spit out my drink. “Same with Mike.”

The laugh at our husbands’ expense faded fast. Pam’s phone buzzed. She glanced down, then turned the screen toward me without a word.

“Not a good night. Got wiped out in the casino. Going to bed”, Steve had written.

And just like that, I watched the shift in her. Even drunk, even loose from the drinks and laughter, her whole energy changed. She sat up straighter, her face tightening, her voice quieter. 

“I should probably go to bed too,” she said, barely meeting my eyes.

It was like flipping a switch. Her personality dimmed, pulled back into something smaller. Controlled.

It was clear then that she didn’t just love Steve. She lived in fear of him.

And I hated him more than ever for it.

I knew that by morning, everything we said out here would be forgotten, or at least pretended to be. A distant blur, chalked up to too many drinks and too much sun. And that was fine. I didn’t need it to last beyond tonight.

Because drunk or not, the seed had already been planted.