Below Deck (Anchored 5)

And I have.

I put myself through school and I opened my own, very successful, business.

I’ve done a lot in my 30 years, but it all boils down to this moment.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

This is the moment where I find out why Ryder isn’t who he seems to be. I didn’t mean to snoop through his pants, but when his phone started to ring, I figured he’d want to take the call. I thought finding the phone would be helpful: not harmful.

So I reached into his pants and I found the phone.

But it wasn’t the one ringing.

There was another phone.

So this is it?

This is Ryder’s big secret?

He has an alternate identity?

I kind of figured that.

Still, a man who has two very different, very separate cell phones has to have some pretty good secrets.

I’m looking forward to the story.

***

Ryder

June is staring at my phones like they’re on fire, like they’re the worst thing she’s ever seen.

“I can explain,” I tell her, hurrying into the room, but I already know that it’s too late. It’s too late because now, no matter what happens, June will always think I’m a liar. She’ll always think I’m suspicious. No matter what happens next, she’ll always suspect I’m withholding information when I talk to her about a problem or an issue.

She’ll always wonder what’s true.

Can I really blame her if she walks away now?

“Okay,” she says, and hands me the phones. There’s a missed call from my boss, but he’ll have to wait. I can call him back in am minute.

Then she sits down on the bed and pats the spot next to her. “So explain it.”

“That’s it?” I ask, surprised. “You actually want me to explain?”

“You just offered to,” she says, looking confused. “Did I misunderstand?”

“No, it’s just…” I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down beside her. “I guess I just figured that you wouldn’t actually want to hear what I have to say.”

“Ryder, you’re not making any sense. I asked you why you have two phones. I didn’t ask you for a dramatic back story or ask some really personal question. I know you aren’t who you say you are.” I must look horrified, because she throws her head back and laughs. “I mean, come on, Ryder Hawke? What is this? Like your fan fiction name or something? I run a sex club, Ryder. I’m not dumb. Are you an undercover reporter or something?”

She looks at me with interest and curiosity: not with anger or malice.

“What?”

“Your phones,” she says. “Are you a reporter? You know, some people have very particular jobs and they have to keep all of their work calls separate from their personal ones. Is that what’s happening with you?”

“Something like that,” I tell her.