“Yes.”
It doesn’t feel like it’s me having this conversation. I’mfloating somewhere up above, swooping down like the cormorants, listening in.
“Whatever,” Sienna blows out a harsh breath. “I’m going inside the house to take a nap. See you at six for the cruise.”
My heartbeats slow as I watch her stomp off through the sand. Farhana calls to her, and Sienna turns, yelling that she wants to rest. She continues on, but her walk has less stomp and more whimsy. She’s remembering she has a crowd, and now she’s playing the role of jaunty, unbothered bride-to-be.
It appears I’m not the only one behaving a certain way in the name of meeting others’ expectations.
CHAPTER 35
Paisley
Climb aboard a boatfor a sunset cruise, they said.
It’ll be fun, they said.
They lied.
Sienna forgot to mention my dad would be on this boat. My mother and Ben’s attendance? She left that out, also.
Waiting on the dock for the boat to arrive was torture, the sticky humid air made thicker by my mom and Ben’s steamy canoodling. My dad kept his distance, waiting twenty feet away with his cell phone pressed to his ear. I’m not sure if his call was business or personal, because I busied myself by catching up with Shane’s mom while we waited.
Now here they are, sharing the same space for the first time since the divorce was final. Mom and Ben snuggle at the back of the boat, my father at the front. He cuts an interesting figure, alone up there in his khaki pants rolled at the bottom and navy woven half-zipped pullover,hands tucked in his pockets. Forced to face the fallout of his bad choices.
The bridal party huddles around the table on the top of the boat. A platter of fruits and cheeses sits half-eaten on the table, surrounded by nearly empty beer bottles and glasses of wine.
They’re mid-debate, volleying the merits of twist-off wine versus corked. Klein, seated across from me, looks bored to tears.
When I catch his eye, he offers me a reassuring wink.
I try to do the same, but my stomach is in turmoil. The water is choppy today, the result of high winds. The boat responds to the waves in a way my stomach doesn’t appreciate. I don’t know the specifics of seasickness, but I’m not appreciating its symptoms right now.
Standing up from the table in an effort to get control of my ill feelings, I step from the group and grip onto a railing. The first mate, Crew, comes up from the galley with a fresh round of drinks for everyone. He finishes handing them out, then joins me at the railing.
“Did you want a glass?” he asks. “I can go below and grab one for you.” He offers an eager smile. He’s handsome, with deeply tanned skin and jet-black hair. When we’d first climbed on and met the captain and first mate, Maren commented that Crew should be in the marketing material for the sunset cruise.
“No, thank you,” I answer. “I’m not feeling great at the moment.”
“Ahh,” he nods knowingly. “You need to get your sea legs under you.” He rubs my back, and I’m too precariouslyclose to vomiting to step away from his inappropriate touch.
My stomach sloshes. “I might need to get a bucket under my face soon.”
He grins, thumbing over his shoulder. “I have some ginger candy on hand. It’s below deck with my stuff, if you’d like to come with me to grab some?”
The boat bounces. My body stretches, one way and then the other, like pulled taffy. Another wave slaps the boat, rocking us.
Sustained nausea has weakened me, and though my grip tightens on the railing, it’s not enough to keep me in place.
I stumble, and Crew grabs my waist, fingers digging in and keeping me upright. “Whoa,” he says, eyes glinting.
“If you want to keep your soft hands, I suggest you take them off my girlfriend.”
The voice reaches deep into my belly, ribboning through me. He could be a knight on a white horse, arriving to rescue his fair maiden. And threaten bodily harm to his opposition, of course. Even in my sickened state, I can take a moment to appreciate his possessive behavior, his menacing tone. “Klein,” I murmur, reaching for his shoulders.
I don’t know if Crew has a response, I’m too busy attempting to get control of this feeling. Crew releases me, his hands replaced by Klein’s. He twists me into his broad wall of a chest, holding me still while the boat rocks. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He guides me down the stairs, leading me around the corner to a quiet place.
