“Everyone else coming?” Bobby asked.
Scotty rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
Sarah clapped her hands together. “I’m on it.”
—
The first suite was Shawn’s. Sarah gave a polite knock and put her ear close to the door for a moment before moving on down the hallway to Keith’s room. He popped out of his room quickly, like he’d been waiting to be summoned.
“How are you doing, Keith?” Sarah asked. She had seen photos of every angle of every stage of Keith’s face, and she just had to take it for granted that things were different in the ’80s, in a good way, more forgiving of actual human variety. He’d had a truly horrible haircut, sort of like an atom bomb’s mushroom cloud, and teeth that only an orthodontist could love. With his veneers and his close-cropped hair, Keithnow looked like the longest-standing employee at a nice restaurant—somewhere the servers had to wear ties. He wore glasses most of the time that he wasn’t onstage, and his hair had a light stippling of gray at the temples. He didn’t seem to be fighting as hard as the rest of the guys to remain forever unchanged. Sarah liked Keith best.
“Oh, I’m all right,” Keith said, kicking the toe of his sneaker against the carpet. “Happy to be here,” which didn’t seem remotely true, but she appreciated his effort. He was chewing gum, which Sarah knew was either nicotine gum or regular gum that would shortly be replaced by nicotine gum. His was the only room where she had placed an ashtray. There wasn’t supposed to be any smoking on the ship except in the designated areas, but Sarah had seen how many people came up to Keith every time he was on the smoking deck and how many people went there specifically just to find him, which seemed like a breach of conduct, and she trusted him not to set his cabin on fire.
Sarah knocked on the next door, and after a moment, Terrence pulled it open. “Oh, hey, sorry,” he said, rubbing his cheeks. “We were napping.” He propped the door behind him, giving a clear view of his wife, Kelsey, pulling on her jeans. She was Sarah’s age, easily twenty years younger than her husband. They were newlyweds and had sex whenever and wherever possible, including in unused rooms on the ship. Last year, before they were married, Sarah had interrupted them on top of the air hockey table while she was walking through the arcade to get to one of the interior staircases. There were other cruises for that—no doubt Terrence would have enjoyed a swingers cruise more than his own. Not Sarah—on the production end, those were the worst, because you had to bring aboard your own cleaning crew because the regular housekeeping staff refused to deal with that many condoms, that much semen, all those sheets. If Scotty was the most liked, Terrence was the opposite. Sarah couldn’t help but agree.
“Okay, we’ve got three,” Sarah said. She clicked the button on her walkie-talkie. “Anyone seen Shawn?”
“He texted me and said he’d be right back,” Terrence said. He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we’ll meet you in the greenroom. Kelsey’s just finishing getting dressed.”
Sarah nodded and watched Terrence close the door, knowing he would be coming out again no sooner than twenty minutes later. She turned around to face Keith, who was waiting next to her.
“You go in,” she said. “I’ll round up your brother. Or not. But have something to eat, chill out, whatever you want.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Keith said. He paused there for a moment, looking at the floor. Keith was the only member of the band who got seasick, and so he wore a patch behind his ear, a little white dot that sent anti-nausea medication into his bloodstream. Lots of people wore them, but on Keith, it struck Sarah as extra tender and proof to the thousands of Talkers that he was a real person, not just a breathing cardboard cutout of a childhood fantasy. “See you in there.” He turned around and walked slowly down the hall. Sarah watched to make sure he didn’t vanish back into his room.
5
Thursday, 2:20 p.m.
Deck 7
When Shawn finally barreled in, his sunglasses were still on, and the armpits of his shirt were dark with sweat. Keith watched everyone else rearrange themselves to make room for his brother. Bobby was leaning against the wall, one hand holding a plate of crudités that he rested lightly against his chest. Shawn made his way across the room and opened his arms for a hug, and Bobby moved his plate out of the way, clapping one hand around Shawn’s wide back.
The cruise was the one time they would all be in the same room all year. In the old days, it was solid months at a time, more on the road than off, an endless kaleidoscope of tour bus bunks and interchangeable hotel rooms. Now they could all go months without speaking to each other, let alone seeing one another face-to-face. Keith saw his brother when he came back to Jersey, and he’d see Scotty if Keith was in LA for longer than a day or two, but otherwise, they were all like high school friends, scattered to the winds and in touch mostly via text on each other’s birthdays. Keith didn’t know how much Corey talked to the other guys—maybe he only talked to Shawn. Keith certainlynever heard from him. Nobody liked to Zoom, and so they hardly ever did that either.
Shawn and Bobby let go of each other, and when they did, Keith noticed the man standing behind Shawn’s shoulder.
“Yes, yes,” Shawn said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve been waiting to introduce you. Bobby, guys, this is Jonathan. Jonathan, this is Bobby and the guys.”
The man was tall and burly, younger than they were, probably, but too old to be called young. He had dark brown hair pulled back into a bun and a beard that covered the half zipper on his fleece. Shawn had always collected people—it was his gift, both in the band and out, corralling people into his life from all different places. He’d probably met him at the airport.
“What’s up, man?” Bobby said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Jonathan smiled. “Cosmic,” he said. “I knew you were going to say that.” Jonathan grabbed Bobby’s hand with both of his own and just held it for a moment instead of doing the more arduous work of an actual handshake. He reminded Keith of Father Michael from St. Joseph’s, one of the Fiore family’s favorite priests, whose gaze had always felt both glittering and dangerous. “I’ve been so looking forward to this. Shawn has told me so much about you.” He spun around the room and held everyone else’s hands too, like he was running for president of all hippies.
Shawn grabbed a Red Bull out of a bucket full of them and handed Jonathan a bottle of water. Jonathan did a strange prance in place, his feet landing toe-first, then heel.
“I have to move after flights, get my qi going again,” Jonathan said in explanation. He crossed his arms over his chest and swiveled from side to side in a stretch. He was talking to all of them now, smiling andwinking. Maybe hewasrunning for president. Shawn had waded into the political waters once before, and half the Talkers got so mad that Keith didn’t think his brother would do it again, but you never knew what Shawn was going to do. His next idea was always his best.
Shawn nodded. “Jonathan’s my new coach,” he said. He slid his baseball hat off his head and then put it back on. Shawn did that when he was nervous. He’d had his hairline redone, and it was thicker now, the black pinpricks having grown into actual hair.
“Oh, yeah?” Bobby said. The room was quiet—everyone had been waiting for Shawn, and so now everyone was listening but pretending not to.
“Executive coach, holistic adviser,” Jonathan said. “People call it different things.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself.
“Cool,” Bobby said. He raised an eyebrow at Keith, who shook his head in return.
“No, really, man, I think this is going to be great. Jonathan and I have been having really deep conversations about what it means to be a leader, what it means to have a team. About our legacy. It’s real alpha stuff.” Shawn put his hat back on and smoothed the sides of his head with his hands.
