Chapter 9
My sleep is fractured, splintered by dreams of thrashing waves and the sound of dripping water, and I wake the next morning at dawn, unable to rest any longer.
Grabbing my phone, I pull the one sweater I brought with me over my head and slink out into the hallway in blue pajama shorts and bare feet.
As expected, the yacht is silent. No sounds come from the billiards room, but I can’t forget what I saw there last night. I tiptoe to the main level, the air-conditioning chilling my exposed legs.
When I pad across the floor, I note the cleanliness. The line of glasses on the counter is gone. The trash is empty. Sometime during the night, the stews came and worked their magic. It looks like there was never a party at all.
My head is fuzzy from the gin drinks and the lack of sleep, so I head directly to the fridge, opening one of the doors and grabbing a bottle of water as my stomach lurches. A combination of hangover and hunger hits me hard.
“Shit, I need to eat something.”
For the first time, I realize we didn’t have dinner last night.
There were small plates and cheese boards at the party, but I haven’t had anything substantial to eat in over a day.
I scan the fridge, blinking in surprise.
The shelves are basically empty. There are leftover cheese plates covered in plastic wrap, various condiments, a glass pitcher of fresh orange juice, and several cartons of berries.
That’s it. No eggs, no produce, no boxes of takeout.
Besides the orange juice and water bottles, the only other beverages are beer and hard seltzers.
When I check the freezer, there’s only vodka and ice. I’d kill for pizza bagels right now.
“No groceries…” I mutter.
My skin prickles underneath my oversized sweater, and not from the air-conditioning. The overwhelming apprehension returns.
The main level is dark; only a few of the floor lamps are on, casting soft, low yellow light on the furniture. The navy sky bleeds in through the windows surrounding the kitchen, but the creases of the horizon are beginning to pale as sunrise approaches.
Well, I’ll have to make do with what we currently have.
I pull a ceramic plate from the cabinet and make myself a breakfast of leftover cheese cubes and a pile of blackberries.
I pour some of the orange juice into a freshly cleaned crystal glass, the citrusy smell brisk and welcoming.
While digging through the cabinets, I find a battered box of cereal, forgotten but not yet expired.
There’s no milk, so I dump the cereal into a bowl and add some water instead.
It’s not the first time I’ve done this—being broke as hell this past year has made me very familiar with creative ways to eat.
It’s not a half-bad meal, considering how I’ve been eating at home.
When we lived together, Sage was the cook; I’d clean.
Without her at the apartment, I was doing everything, and failing at it.
Sage and I had a symbiotic relationship, or at least, I thought we did.
After cooking for us, Sage would scold me for always jumping up to clean the kitchen right after dinner.
“Relax for ten minutes! Enjoy my food!” she’d say.
“It’s my responsibility. It makes me feel better to get it done right away.”
“If only you felt that way about your writing,” Sage teased.
I had drawn back, hurt. “I wish I was a faster drafter, but I need to take my time. Make sure I have everything perfect first.”
Sage reached for me. “I didn’t mean it like that. Listen, it’s fine. Who cares when it gets done as long as it eventually gets done?”
That was easy for her to say; maybe she was already thinking about stealing my idea by then.
Maybe she was even writing the book. The part that was difficult to wrap my mind around now was that Sage was still the same Sage she’d always been—enthusiastic, charismatic, extroverted—even while she was betraying me.
Our friendship stopped suddenly and immediately after she told me the truth eleven months ago.
Her absence from my life is almost as painful as the backstabbing.
My rib cage clenches around my heart, threatening to impale it with broken spears of bone. I would give anything to go back to that kitchen, arguing with Sage about doing the dishes. Maybe I could do something differently. Stop her from taking my idea. Write my own book faster. Something. Anything.
I shake my head, unwilling to think about Sage right now. Instead, I head outside, sitting on one of the outdoor couches, the cotton seat cover cool from the night wind. I watch the horizon as I spoon watery cereal and berries into my mouth.
Birds begin to circle above the yacht. One swoops closer, as if it can tell I have food.
The underside of the seagull glows a brushed yellow from the lights of our floating oasis; only the strongest stars are visible behind its wings in the wakening sky.
Clouds shred across the horizon, retaining the deepness of night, but through gaps in their corners there are pockets of a pale washed-out blue.
The sun is rising behind a heavy curtain, the horizon blending into pinks and reds.
Ligia, so close yet so far away, is a dark smear in front of me, no lights bouncing back from the island.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Glancing over at the glass doors, I expect to see one of the other girls, up early like me, beckoning me inside. But the main level is dim. No one is inside. No influencers. No stews. I’m the only one awake. Where is that noise coming from then?
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound is not unlike the dripping water in my bathroom, except this time it’s louder. Not quite a knock—more like the sound of someone rapping a finger against a metal drum.
It pulls me to my feet, and I follow it to the side of the boat.
Something must be bumping against the hull or the concrete “legs” holding Empress up.
Clutching the rail, I lean over, squinting.
The waves below undulate in the pinkening sky—there’s no gap between the water and the bottom of the boat today.
Frothy eddies lap against Empress, splashing her sides.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Everything in my body drops to my feet, puddling in my soles like spoiled milk. The berries and cheese congeal in my stomach, heaving, trying to come back up. My fingers slip on the railing, sweaty and shaking.
The sun isn’t out yet, but the creep of yellow casts enough light to make out the shape below: a woman clinging to one of the caissons, her bloated, fleshy hand thwacking against the side of the yacht.
Dark hair, slimy and tangled like seaweed, drapes over her cheeks and spreads out on the surface of the water, rising and falling with the waves.
Her skin is bluish-gray, like the belly of a dead fish, and sea-foam gurgles from her open mouth. She twitches, and her neck cranes as if she’s looking at me. The woman raises her hand again, pausing, and then slams it down on the hull.
Tap.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a pathetic whimper leaking from my lips. Taking a huge breath, inhaling the salty air and the fresh breeze, I reopen them.
The tapping has stopped. The woman is gone.
I lean over a little farther, hands clammy against the cold rail, casting my gaze upon the heaving surface. There’s no body. No wake from someone swimming away.
Gagging, I stumble back, heart dancing against my sternum, trying to remember if I saw a scaled tail in the water under the bedraggled woman.
No. I stop that train of thought ferociously.
Of course there wasn’t a tail.
What I saw was likely a clump of seaweed that got stuck to the caisson and then shifted off with the waves.
Everything is fine.
I place a hand on my chest and wait for my pulse to steady as I gaze at the clouds, watching as the sky turns bloodred.