Anything for Daddy’s little girl.
Sienna Sullivan is in a skin-tight, turquoise number so low-cut, her personal flotation devices are nearly exposed. She glares at me as I pass by, her eyes scanning me up and down.
I ignore her.
The ballroom is arranged with dozens of white-linen tables. We find a free one on the starboard side and take our seats.
“I’m already regretting this,” Odette announces with a grimace. I lean sideways to see her around the massive floral centerpiece. “How long are we stuck on this stupid boat, again?”
“Four hours.” Ophelia looks around. “Actually, make that three and a half. Looks like we missed the cocktail hour.”
“Is it truly a cocktail hour if they don’t serve cocktails?” Odette asks.
I shrug. “I think I saw cocktail shrimp in circulation.”
“Sonot the same thing.” She reaches into her small clutch purse and pulls out a compact silver flask. “Luckily, I decided to BYOB.”
“Planning to spike the punch?” Charlie asks. Beneath the table, he reaches for my hand.
“As if I’d waste my Grey Goose on these peasants.” She rolls her eyes and takes a discrete swig, using her date as a human shield from the prying eyes of the chaperones. Not that said chaperones are paying much attention. The two that I saw on the way in — both teachers nearing retirement age in low kitten heels and shapeless shift dresses — had their noses pressed up to the glass, peering out at the ocean like they’d never seen it before.
The ship horn blows again: one long blast, then three short ones. In the distance, I recognize the muffled metal sound of the gangplank unlatching from the lower deck.
The ship heads out of the harbor, into open water, passing Eastern Point Lighthouse. The sun is dropping steadily toward the horizon, a pink-gold backdrop to the dinner service. We pass around the flask, each taking small swings as we wait for our table to be called up to the buffet. The vodka burns unpleasantly at the back of my throat — a harsh chaser to the champagne bubbling in my stomach.
I need to eat something soon, or I’ll be queasy from far more than seasickness.
As if she’s read my mind, a server appears. Her uniform is stiff with starch. “The buffet is now open for this section!” she chirps. “Please serve yourselves.”
Ophelia scoffs. “Seriously? All the money we spent on tickets for this crap-fest and we’re expected to serveourselves? What is this, Soviet Russia?”
The server’s smile drops at the corners as she walks away.
Odette grabs her sister’s hand. “Do shut up, O. It’s not all bad. There’s a chocolate fountain!”
“Whose genius idea was that?” Her twin snorts. “I can’twaituntil we hit a rogue wave and someone takes a bath in it.”
I shake my head at their backs as we walk to the buffet. Sometimes, I wonder how we became friends.
“Do they ever stop talking?” Charlie asks under his breath.
A surprised laugh pops from my lips. “Not really, no.”
“Hard to get a word in edgewise,” he notes, handing me a china dinner plate. “Maybe later, the two of us can break from the pack. Find somewhere quiet and actually get to know each other a bit.”
An involuntary bolt of panic shoots through me as I recall the last time a boy led me to a quiet corner at a party, under the guise of getting to know me better.
Charlie is nothing like Ryan,I tell myself.He’s sweet and polite and trying very hard to make sure I have a nice night.
“Sure, Charlie.” I swallow down my nerves and smile at him. “That would be nice.”
Buffet or no, it’s an impressive spread — chicken cordon bleu, king crab legs, lobster tails, a full salad bar. We load up our plates with food and carry them back to our table. I don’t have much of an appetite, picking at my food out of necessity rather than real hunger.
My dinner mates chat animatedly, jumping from topic to topic, but my focus has slipped. I stare out the window as we pass the familiar waters beyond Great Misery Island, chugging south along the craggy Massachusetts coastline toward Boston.
Three more hours.
I’m not certain I’ll last.