Page 1 of Cabin Fever

Chapter One

Over three thousand people boarded the Dreamboat Aurora this afternoon, and seventy-three of them are here for my sister's wedding. I know it's seventy-three because I built the spreadsheet, color-coded by dietary restriction and cross-referenced against a seating grid that took me three drafts and one minor existential crisis to complete. The document is tabbed for the rehearsal, the ceremony, the reception, and includes a contingency plan I've labeled IF AUNT BEV DRINKS.

Dahlia and I have been planning this for eleven months. She picked the colors and the man. I picked everything else since Dahlia's idea of an agenda is a Pinterest board and good vibes. Mine is a Gantt chart.

Even though Mom did the actual cruise booking and cabin assignments, the cruise line staff somehow decided I was their point of contact. Could be because Mom only checks her messages every four days and has the memory of a goldfish. Regardless, a woman named Pam from Guest Relations now texts me directly. And I have an official Dreamboat lanyard.

I flip the cord between my fingers and stare at Dahlia in her pale pink, strapless sundress, her blond curls bouncing. She’s laughing with her college roommate near the rail while I stand with a tablet on the pool deck.

“Harper, quick question.” Aunt Bev is at my left elbow, waving a laminated card. “Is the welcome dinner formal, formal or just, you know. Nice.”

“Nice.” I don’t look up from my screen, where the seating grid for said welcome dinner has just informed me that Table Six now contains both of the groom’s divorced parents. One of the groomsmen canceled a week ago, and I haven’t yet found the end of the chain reaction. “Cocktail attire. No floor-length gowns needed. You'll be perfect.”

I wobble a little as the boat shudders to life and drag his father to Table Nine. I drag his mom to Table Two and shuffle the guests so she won’t sit behind a pillar. The grid turns a soothing green, and I release a breath.

“Harper.” The florist's assistant walks up with a clipboard and an apologetic smile. “The peonies didn't make the port in Miami, so we have garden roses instead? But there's a dye lot issue? So they're reading more coral than blush?” She says everything like it’s a question.

Since the ship is literally beyond the harbor, there’s nothing to do about it, which means she’s only looking for forgiveness. “Coral's fine. It’s warmer in photos anyway.”

It’s not fine. Dahlia asked for blush, but it isn’t this woman’s fault. Plus, I care more than my sister ever will. She’ll find a way to be happy with anything, which is probably why I’m so stressed. I don’t want her to settle. She’s had to do that her whole adult life, and this should be exactly how she envisioned it.

The assistant nods and flees, and I do a quick scan of the deck to make sure I haven’t missed anyone. This is a seven-day sailing out of Miami with two ports, an open bar, and a spa I’ve already promised myself I’ll visit and already know I won't. The brochure called it a floating dream where memories set sail. The brochure has never met my family.

“Do that long enough and your face will stick.” And here is the one person I would never dare reassign to a different table.

Dahlia comes toward me glowing, a cocktail in each hand. She holds one out like a peace offering. Or a hostage negotiation.

“Drink,” she says. “You. A fun beverage. Five minutes of being my sister instead of my wedding planner. Which, by the way, I didn’t hire you to be.”

“You couldn't afford me.” I take the drink because refusing it would take longer than accepting, then set it on the round, primary-color-blue table beside me.

Dahlia’s eyes narrow. “Wait, are you pregnant?”

“What?”

She throws out an arm like one of those models in old cigarette commercials. “That would be just like you. To find a way to outshine me on my literal wedding day.”

I snort. “Damn. Where were you nine months ago?”

“Oh, now you’re going to give birth at my wedding?” She’s laughing, and I can’t help but join in. “When? While we’re saying our vows?”

“Definitely a few minutes before. Way more dramatic.” I pick up the glass and take a sip, giving her a pointed look. “Table Six was a crime scene, by the way. I moved your future in-laws so they wouldn't have to make eye contact over the salmon. You're welcome.”

“See, I don't want you to have to deal with that.” She sighs and leans into me. “Why don’t you hand that tablet to someone else, come stand with me at the railing, let a hot stranger refill your glass, and pretend to be twenty-nine for one afternoon.”

I grin and nudge her away with my hip. “You’re such a brat.” Dahlia and I are exactly two years apart, to the day. Of the two of us, she’s the only one still in her late twenties. She also knows I’m ticked about it.

Dahlia gives me a pout, and I promise to put the screen away as soon as I answer the last few messages sitting in my inbox. There's a version of me who could probably keep that promise. Set the tablet on a deck chair, let the coral roses be coral, let the attendees at Table Six sort themselves out like functional adults.

That version of me exists in a parallel life where our father's smile meant something and nobody ever came to the door on a Tuesday with a warrant. Where he wasn’t somewhere on this ship, ready to show up at any moment and send my entire life into a tailspin.

I don’t know how Dahlia’s so chill about everything. Neither of us has seen him since he got out of prison. As far as I know, he’s honored our requests for no uninvited contact. Dahlia and Mom decided to invite him to this. Two against one.

“After the ceremony,” I call after my sister. “I swear, after the ceremony I’ll be insufferably relaxed. They'll have to fish me out of the pool!”

Dahlia opens her mouth to call me on my BS, and then her whole face changes. Her smile widens, and her eyes light up at something over my shoulder.

“Finn!” Dahlia bolts past me, and every muscle in my body tightens like I’m about to get my blood drawn.