Chapter 13
I reach the top deck just in time to catch the arresting bloom of first light.
The palm-flecked hills of the island bleed into the tropical blues of the reef, where the little harbor we’re anchored in is as glassy as a frozen pond.
There’s something delicious about being awake before everyone else.
At home, when it’s just me with my books and crispy house plants and privacy is the default, hours alone stretch out like winding, rural highways and lose their luster.
But with other people bookending every moment of my day, a few minutes without speaking suddenly become sacred—a secret slice of morning I get all to myself.
I sit back in the cushy deck lounger and allow a sense of contented relaxation to sweep over me.
So far, besides their grand entrance, Harry’s parents haven’t been as bad as I thought.
Sure, nodding politely while Jules panicked her way through their slew of questions like an overcaffeinated miss America contestant at dinner last night was headache-inducing, but they’ve mostly managed to leave me alone.
Even Matthew’s started ignoring me now that he realizes how unexciting I am.
There’s just the small matter of Jules telling Caleb I wanted to jump his bones.
I cringe. At least now that the most awkward thing that could possibly happen has come to pass, we can go right back to hating each other.
Which means I can officially declare the grueling part of this trip over.
Starting today, I will no longer be Stella stresspants.
I’m going to focus on enjoying this vacation with my sister and, dare I say it, her new family.
After the sun’s risen over the palm trees, I head down to the salon in search of a snack. When I get there, Jules is nowhere to be found, but Steven and all three of the Warren men are already seated at the breakfast bar in their pajamas. Even Matthew’s alive and talking.
I smile and slip into the seat beside Harry where a plate has already been laid out.
“Eat up, Stella,” Arthur says as I load my plate with a slice of watermelon and not one brown-sugar raspberry muffin, but two. “We’ve got quite the itinerary today!”
“Please, Dad,” Matthew groans, “no fun before eleven a.m.”
“What did you have in mind, Dad?” Harry asks. “The schedule just says, ‘Surprise!’”
Arthur rubs his hands together in anticipation.
“Jet ski race!” he exclaims, throwing a finger into the air like an ancient Sherlock Holmes. “Matty, whatdya say?”
“Hard pass,” Matthew drawls, barely looking up from his phone.
“No chance in hell, Arthur,” Patricia snaps, and I realize she’s been sitting on one of the sofas like a watchful gargoyle this whole time. “I won’t have you breaking your back on day one. Do you know how far we are from the nearest decent hospital?”
Arthur brushes her away. “Nonsense. I could run circles around this island.”
“Arthur,” his wife warns him, “I swear to god, if you put one hand on a jet ski—“
“What about something a little simpler?” Harry offers. “It’s been a while since we’ve held one of our famous Vela Bianca relays!”
“Can’t we just relax for once?” Matthew asks. “I’m still recovering from our eel sighting yesterday.”
“Relax?” Arthur butts in indignantly. I get the impression that Harry’s dad hasn’t had so much as one quiet minute in his eighty years of cognizance. “What are we, cadavers? Time’s a wasting!”
Arthur cups his hand to his mouth and shouts directly into my face. I have to actively stop myself from covering my ears.
“Caleb!”
“Keep your voice down!” Patricia snaps. “He’s on the bridge, not in Australia.”
Caleb trots down the stairs into the salon like a summoned golden retriever, his hair mussed ever so slightly on one side as if he’s been leaning on the dash. Maybe the Warrens have finally worn out Mr. Perfect.
“What are the chances of setting up a relay this morning?” Arthur asks, although I think he already knows the answer.
“Your wish is my command,” Caleb confirms like the good little golden boy he is. “What did you have in mind?”
“The usual,” Arthur provides. “Kayak races, trampoline battles…”
“High jump?”
I swear Caleb looks right at me as he mentions that one. Clearly he hasn’t forgotten.
“Are we doing a relay?” Jules squeaks enthusiastically as she trots up the stairs. Everyone looks at Matthew.
“Does it involve alcohol?” Matthew asks.
“Losing team takes a shot?” Steven offers.
“Make it two and I’m in.”
“Matthew, you can’t be serious,” Patricia scolds. “Arthur, are you even listening to your son? It’s nine A.M.!”
“Trust me, mom,” Harry reminds her, “it’s a lost cause—“
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Arthur pipes in, physically stepping between Patricia and Harry to block their eyeline. “How soon can we get it up and running?”
Caleb shrugs. “An hour?”
“Thirty minutes,” Arthur corrects him, and I get the distinct sense it’s not a request. “What do you say, Olsens? Are you ready for a good old fashioned water war?”
Jules whoops, and my stomach clenches a little.
Normally my sister doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body, but when it comes to games, we’re both borderline ruthless.
I can’t remember a single game night growing up that didn’t end in tears, flipped gameboards, or an array of silver monopoly pieces flying at someone’s head.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask Jules as we walk through the salon. “I still have a scar on my shin from the last time I played twister with you.”
“Stella, that was years ago. And it’s not like we can refuse. Even Patricia seemed excited about it.”
“Jules, Patricia has the emotional range of a grumpy housecat. What about her reaction seemed excited to you?”
I soon learn that when Arthur says thirty minutes, he means it.
I barely have time to slather myself in enough sunscreen and give myself a half-hearted mirror pep talk before the blare of the ship’s horn rings through the halls.
I trot upstairs to find Gia passing out colored handkerchiefs as we file out to the back deck—blue for Jules, Harry, and Steven, and red for Matthew, Arthur and me.
Patricia, I notice, hasn’t even bothered to change out of her funeral wear.
“I’ll referee,” she tells Gia as she tries to hand her a scarf.
“You’ll be my rally girl,” Arthur winks at her, bumping her with his hip. I can feel the ice queen’s eyes rolling even through her dark glasses.
“Arthur, if you get tanning cream on my blouse, I will throw you from the bridge deck myself.”
We join Caleb and Jim, our team captains, on the swim platform. I’m relieved to see that Jim, and not Caleb, is championing team Red. After our little incident upstairs last night, I don’t think I can look at him again without combusting into a puddle of sea jelly.
“Welcome to the winning team!” Jim greets us as we huddle beside a large whiteboard.
The relay legs are each listed beside one of our names: Jim on the kayak, Arthur on a jet-propelled diving scooter called the Seabob, and Matthew on the trampoline battle.
It’s the first listing that scares me most: Stella—high jump.
“Everything look good here?” Jim asks. I look up to the top deck and cringe. I may be working on my crippling altitude aversion, but jumping under pressure? With the whole family watching? You might as well ask me to hit a bullseye blindfolded.
“Stella on the jump?” Matthew cringes too. “Please, we’ll be standing here til morning. Switch her with Dad—she can Seabob.”
“Absolutely not,” Patricia calls from her chair above. Apparently her ears have aged as well as her wrinkle-less face. “You want to throw your aging father off a four-story drop?”
Arthur butts in, “I’m not dead yet, Pattie. I’m perfectly capable of—“
“Matthew, you do the jump,” I interrupt the ensuing battle Royale. “I’ll take the trampoline.”
I look over to the opposing team’s whiteboard to see who it is I’ll be fighting, and my stomach drops.
Trampoline Battle: Caleb
“You want to foam battle that?” Matthew looks back and forth between me and Caleb, whose arm muscles look liable to rip free from his white polo. I narrow my eyes at Matthew.
“I’m scrappier than I look.”
What I don’t tell him is that after Caleb’s Oscar-winning performance with Jules on the stairs, the idea of beating the crap out of him with a foam noodle actually sounds pretty appealing.
“Fine,” Matthew sighs, definitely still skeptical. “Jim, there’s been a change in the program.”
We gather on the bow (look at me speaking trust-funder) as the boys prepare to start the first leg. Yara stands in the center with an airhorn, ready to kick us off.
Steven cracks his knuckles beside me.
“You’re going down, Matty boy.”
“The only thing going down on this deck is my flawlessly executed double backflip,” Matthew quips back. “You’d better hope your team can make up all the time you’re about to lose.”
“On your marks,” Yara counts down. “Get set…”
The airhorn goes off like a smoke alarm, startling me so badly I smack my hands over my ears.
But Matthew does not, despite his smack talk, kick Steven’s ass.
As the horn sounds, the boys both launch themselves from the rail, their bodies spinning through the air and breaking through the turquoise water almost simultaneously.
But, as expected, the one who didn’t spike his morning coffee pulls ahead in the swim.
Steven reaches the back deck ten long seconds before Matthew, giving Jules a clear headstart on the kayak race.
“Don’t worry, Stella,” Jim whispers to me as Matthew splashes towards us. “I’ll catch her on the back end.”