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Steve Arthur Harrington sits in the dining room of the RMS Titanic. Around the table are his parents, his fiancée, Thomasina Thompson, and several more acquaintances his father has made on the journey. No doubt more marks to swindle in the name of Wall Street. His father looks at this watch, clearly eager to go to the smoking lounge, while Steve’s fiancée shows her newest brooch to the gaggle of ladies around her.
Steve stares at his plate, not acknowledging the party around him. The chatter makes his ears ring, and suddenly it strikes him how banal it all is. He sees his whole life as it would be - an endless parade of parties, political negotiations, and polo matches. Each event would be visited by the same narrow people with the same mindless chatter. No one cares about him; he was just a pawn to be moved on the board.
Citing the need for fresh air, Steve excuses himself from the table and walks towards the doors, a perfect picture of calm.
But once he's outside, he runs.
He runs along the deck, panting and red, shocking people as he passes. After all, how dare he have such an outward display of emotion in public? He runs until he hits the stern railing and, without a second thought, begins to climb over.
Sixty feet below him, the massive propellers churn the Atlantic into white foam, and he wonders how it would feel to hit the water and leave it all behind. He grips onto the railing, trying to work up the nerve to just let go. He loosens one finger off the white metal when he hears, "I wouldn't do that.”
Steve doesn’t look around to see where the voice is coming from, afraid that looking back would send him tumbling before he intends to jump.
"Stay back! Do not come any closer!”
“Look, I won't say nothing to no one about you crying out here. Just take my hand and I'll pull you back.”
"No! Stay right there. I mean it. I'll let go if you get any closer!”
"No, you won't,” the stranger drawls, oddly calm for the situation.
"What do you mean, ‘no, I won't’? Do not presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You do not know me!” Steve pauses for a moment a thinks about the bills he has in his coat. "I will pay you if you leave and do not report this. I have one thousand pounds in my right pocket.”
"Rich people," the man mutters under his breath, "you think you can solve everything with money. But I can't just go. I'm involved now. If you let go, I have to jump in after you.”
The man states it so matter-of-factly that Steve had to scoff. "That is absurd. You would be killed.”
The air is silent for a moment, but then Steve hears shuffling behind him. He hopes that the man is coming toward him just to take the bills and takes the chance to finally look back. The first thing Steve notices is that the stranger is unusually handsome, with a riot of curls only partially tamed by a hair ribbon. The second thing is that the man is stripping.
“What are you doing?!” Steve shrieks.
“Getting ready to go in after you. I’m a good swimmer.”
"The fall alone would kill you," Steve argues. It is then that Steve realizes just how high up he is and begins to reconsider, now that the adrenaline of escape is leaving him. He comes to and notices that the man is now leaning on the railing beside him, assessing the water below.
"The fall would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill. To be honest, I'm a lot more concerned about the water being so cold.”
"How cold?”
"Freezing. Maybe a coupla degrees over zero. Have you ever been to Indiana?” the stranger asks.
“What kind of questions is that?”
“The pertinent kind given the circumstances. See, our winters get pretty cold. Once when I was a kid me and my uncle went ice fishing. Ice fishing's where you chop a hole in-"",
"I know what ice fishing is!"
"Sorry. Just you look like kind of an indoor guy. Anyway, I went through some thin ice and I'm tellin' ya, water that cold, like that right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives all over your body. You can't breathe, you can't think...least not about anything but the pain. Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I said, I don't see a choice. I guess I'm kinda hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here.”
"You're crazy.”
"That's what everybody says. But with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship.”
“I know what you must be thinking,” Steve spits. “Poor little rich boy, what does he know about misery?"
Steve hears the man step closer to him, treating Steve like a frightened animal.
“No, no, that's not what I was thinking. What I was thinking was, what could've happened to this guy to make him think he had no way out? My name is Eddie. And I promise, you don't want to do this. Now, give me your hand.”
***
Steve sits on a crate on the deck of the Carpathia. He’s draped with a warm blanket, wearing spare clothes from the sailors aboard, happy to have shed the sopping suit he was wearing when they pulled him out of the water. He sits there watching other survivors. Those finding their family and friends. Others sobbing at the news that their loved one’s body was among the wreckage.
A pair of legs suddenly blocks Steve’s view, and he looks up, trying to hide his frown when the person in front of him isn’t who he’s been looking for.
“Name?” the officer asks him, holding a clipboard and pen.
“Munson. Steve Munson,” Steve says, his voice still hoarse from the ordeal.
The man simply nods and walks away just as Steve feels a body sit on the other half of the crate.
“Munson, really?” Eddie smirks, passing him the tea he’d gone to retrieve. “People will think we’re brothers, or cousins.”
“Then let people talk. It is what they do best.”