Chapter 30 Lainey
I am shaking with anger as I storm out of the bar and exit the hotel. I glance over my shoulder to confirm that my friends aren’t following me. I guess they know better than to try when I’m this upset, but their lack of effort is even more hurtful.
I really can’t believe it. Hannah’s lies and betrayal are astonishing, especially given how much I’ve had her back. But the fact that Tyson was in on it, too, is even more devastating. I was feeling so close to him, and I foolishly believed he was feeling the same way.
How could I have been so stupid? I never make this sort of error. I know better. I think back to last night when I got out of the cab and followed Tyson into the hotel. I should have stayed with Ian.
I tell myself it’s not too late, quickly returning to the spot where I last saw him. But when I get back to the Piazzetta, he and Archie are nowhere to be found. The girls they were with are still lingering, though, and I walk over to them.
“Hi. I was wondering if you might know where those Scottish guys went?” I ask. “The ones you were talking to?”
“Don’t know. They probably went back to their hotel,” the shorter girl says in an accent that sounds Eastern European.
“Do you happen to have their number?” I ask. “Or know where they are staying?”
“No. Sorry,” the short girl says.
“It’s okay. Thank you, anyway.”
I start to walk away, then stop myself, feeling desperate. I turn back to them. “Look. I won’t get in your way if you’re interested in them. I was just looking for something to do tonight—and my friends and I had fun hanging out with them last night.”
“No worries,” the short one says, finally loosening up. “I’m Petra.”
I nod, attempting a smile. “I’m Lainey.”
“And I’m Iris,” the tall friend says.
I tell them it’s nice to meet them both, then ask where they’re from.
“Croatia,” Petra says. “But we live here now. You?”
“New York City.”
An awkward beat follows before Petra says, “We’re going to a yacht party later. Down at Marina Grande. The boat is called Andiamo. You should come. We’re just going to change first.”
“Cool. That sounds fun,” I say, nodding. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
I wave goodbye and continue on my way, walking another few minutes before I find an available taxi. I make eye contact with the driver as he leans against his car, smoking.
“You need a lift, miss?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I say.
He takes one last drag of his cigarette, then crushes it out before opening the back door for me. I climb in.
“Where to?” he asks me after sliding into the driver’s seat.
I hesitate, then say, “Marina Grande, please. Where the yachts dock.”
He nods and starts to drive.
As we wind our way downhill, I put my head back on the seat, close my eyes, and picture my next drink.
A few minutes later, we arrive at a dock close to where our ferry anchored. As I pay my fare and get out of the car, I can hear music coming from the water.
It doesn’t take long to figure out that it’s coming from the very yacht my new friends just told me about: Andiamo. I look up and see people dancing on the top deck. It’s definitely a party. I walk toward the boat behind a chic couple. The woman is wearing a Missoni dress and five-inch wedges.
I watch as they both stop, remove their shoes, and lay them in a woven basket, boarding the boat via a wooden plank. I follow them; it won’t be the first party I’ve crashed.
As I enter the main cabin, I pass about a dozen people lounging, talking, and drinking. I walk over to the makeshift bar, helping myself to a glass of champagne. I throw it back, then start to refill my glass.
“Would you like something stronger?” I hear a voice behind me say in an American accent.
I turn around to find a very attractive man with a Gatsby vibe. He’s older—but not too old.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask him.
He smiles and says, “The bartender upstairs makes the best vodka gimlets.”
“Well, then. Let’s go,” I say.
He smiles and says, “Yes. Andiamo!”
“Wait. Does Andiamo mean let’s go?” I ask.
“It does,” he says, giving me a wink. “Welcome aboard.”
“Oh, shit,” I say with a laugh. “Is this your yacht?”
“It is,” he says, looking smug but friendly.
Feeling a bit sheepish, I say, “So I guess you’re aware that I’m not an invited guest?”
He laughs. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you could come.”
“That’s awfully kind of you,” I say. “I’m Lainey.”
“Hello, Lainey. I’m Jonathan,” he says.
I try to shake his hand, but he takes mine and slowly raises it to his lips, kissing the back of it. It’s pretentious as hell, especially for an American, but at the moment, I don’t mind.
Jonathan leads me up a ladder to the top deck, where the party is in full swing. We head over to the bar as he cuts the line, saying hello to everyone before asking the bartender for two of his famous gimlets.
A moment of small talk later, Jonathan hands me one of the glasses. I take a long sip, then another.
“Oh, this is delicious,” I say.
Within minutes, I start to feel euphoric, the alcohol surging into my bloodstream. I know I need to slow down and pace myself. But when I hear Tyson’s voice in my head, admonishing me to be careful, I do the opposite. I drain my gimlet, then order another.
I lose track of my drinks after that. I lose track of everything. All I know is that I’m having fun. I’m the life of the party. I’m mixing and mingling and dancing, making the most of every delicious moment, knowing I can’t last much longer. The only real question is whether I will pass out or black out. Either way, the crash is coming. The crash always comes.