Chapter 24
The Atlantic Ocean
The American Fantasy was so big that Keith hardly felt it moving, and his patch worked well enough to keep his seasickness at bay.
The second his first sneaker touched the deck of the small boat, though, Keith’s stomach began to revolt.
There were small waves rocking the boat back and forth, and every time the boat dipped, Keith felt like he was mid-drop on a roller coaster.
Up, down, up, down. He hurried on board and took the seat closest to the center of the boat, which he had been told was the steadiest on any vessel.
Keith breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“This is crazy. I feel like we’re on a lifeboat getting rescued, and I’m Kate Winslet, and you’re Leo DiCaprio, baby,” Kelsey said.
She slid in next to Keith, knocking him a little bit sideways, and his stomach lurched again.
“Sorry!” Kelsey said, looking over at him.
Keith shook his head and waved her off, unable to speak.
Terrence’s wife was closer to Keith’s daughter’s age than their own; he wasn’t mad at her.
Keith closed his eyes. Steffani would never have said something like that to him, not even when they were young and first dating and never in front of other people.
He’d never been into PDA because people were always watching him anyway—why give them a free show?
Maybe he would have felt differently about it if the person who was kissing him seemed like she was really enjoying it.
Steffani used to, at least he thought so, but when Keith thought a little harder, she’d always been the first to pull back, to turn away.
That made Keith’s stomach feel even worse.
Terrence stroked the inside of his wife’s thigh with his thumb.
“Maybe you should have waited on the ship,” Scotty said, hopping onto the deck. He pretended to surf.
“It’s too late,” Keith said, or started to say before he felt telltale acidic popping in the back of his throat, and he lunged to the side of the boat and threw up into the ocean.
“Awwwww,” some Talkers said from above. The large tender was still there, accumulating more passengers, and a row of women had lined up along the side to watch the guys board the smaller boat.
It was the sound new parents made when their constipated baby finally pooped.
There was nothing too disgusting to be loved.
Shawn hopped onto the boat and rubbed his brother’s back. “Need a mint?” Keith nodded. Shawn flipped open a tin of Altoids like it was a case of Cuban cigars, and Keith plucked one out. Sarah crouched down next to him with a bottle of water.
“Here you go, champ,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’ll be a short trip, I promise.”
The rest of the group appeared on the tender and slowly made their way onto the boat until everyone was aboard.
Jonathan stood in the middle, his hands up, balancing.
He made Keith nervous, or more nervous. It was hard to tell which discomfort to pay attention to at the moment.
Corey was the last one on, as if he was trying to make this boat ride take as long as humanly possible, and Keith glared at him.
All the seats were taken, and the three bodyguards stood in the center, holding on, their reflective sunglasses sending beams of sunlight back in the opposite direction, as if the men were protecting the group from the sun too.
The boat started moving, and Keith gripped the side tightly with both hands.
Water sprayed up in his face, which felt good.
The bathrooms on the island were pretty bleak—a single stall in the seafood shack where they usually set up the karaoke stage.
He would need to clean up a little bit before everything started.
The only thing worse than doing the cruise was the idea of doing it badly, of doing a job that the Talkers would complain about.
“All right!” Sarah said, loud enough for everyone to hear her over the motor.
“Captain Steve is going to pull us in as close as we can, and then everyone’s going to hop off and wade up onto the beach.
Sound good? The teams are already set up and waiting, so it’s one game of volleyball and then karaoke, and then we’ll get you back on the ship—depending on the tide, we’ll either come back this way or use the regular tender. Everybody good?”
Keith let out a little moan.
“You want to be the ref? Instead of playing?” Sarah reached into her pocket and pulled out a whistle. It dangled in front of Keith’s face, and the swaying made his stomach feel worse. He grabbed it and held it against his chest.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
“I’m going to destroy you,” Shawn said. Keith couldn’t turn his head without throwing up again, but even without looking, he knew that his brother was talking to either Corey or Terrence, who were on the other team.
He hoped that Shawn was talking to Terrence, because if not, it would mean an afternoon of bare-chested boasting, of loud high fives, the unmistakable sound of testosterone flares.
This was what Shawn and Corey did: They one-upped each other endlessly.
It had meant setting farts on fire, sending things flying out of hotel windows, sleeping with the same girl.
Keith hated feeling left out, maybe even more than he hated boats.
“Can’t wait to see you try,” Corey said. In a way, being in a boy band was like having three extra brothers. Anything could turn into a feud if given half a chance. Drawing blood was half the fun.