Chapter 22
Dinner is mostly a disaster.
After my tense conversation with Fiona, she announced we’d be eating at seven and flounced off.
The interaction left me unsettled, and afterward I understood it was because it felt like Fiona was checking up on me.
Would she run off and tell Viv everything I said?
Or would she be the Fiona who sneaks another beer behind Viv’s back and keeps it to herself?
When I arrive at the main level though, Viv says hello cheerfully and Fiona waves.
We all take our seats at the large mahogany table between the kitchen island and the front panel of windows.
The storm has blotted out the view—the glass is covered with water; water running down from the roof, water being splashed against the hull, water in the form of raindrops that cluster together and create rivulets racing down the panes.
I can’t tell if things outside are getting better or worse. The wind is loud; the waves are slamming against the caissons underneath us. Yet Empress is holding steady and staying watertight. It’s the strangest dining experience of my life.
Rachel has prepared the mac and cheese unearthed from the crew mess with cooked leftover veggies from the party.
Although I definitely feel much better scarfing down the warm meal, I can’t forget my conversation with Fiona.
I notice Viv clocking who finishes their food (Fiona, Ashley, me) and who doesn’t (Rachel, Piper).
“So, did we figure out if the radio can be fixed?” Viv asks Trey and Carl, who are wolfing down Rachel’s meal with fervor.
“It’s totaled,” Carl says, taking a bite and then hacking the food back up. He coughs, forcing a hunk of half-masticated pasta into a cloth napkin. “Sorry. Wrong pipe.” His breath comes out staccato and raspy.
“Chill, babe,” Fiona murmurs, patting him on the back.
“Radio is a done deal,” Trey says, picking up where Carl left off. “But I think maybe the sat phone might be salvageable?”
“Do you have a background in electronics or engineering?” I can’t help but ask. I thought Trey Bardi was a businessman, but if he can fix the phone and call for help, I’d gladly welcome those talents.
“Well, no,” Trey says, clearing his throat and reaching over for his third beer in half an hour. He’s drinking them like they’re water. “But I know this yacht inside and out. It’s my design. I know how it works.”
Which, of course, means nothing if someone smashes up its control panel.
I sink back into my chair, looking at the plate I’ve picked clean.
I lift the glass of white wine Viv poured for me and pretend to sip from it.
Everyone else is drinking like this is a New Year’s Eve party, but I’m not taking any chances. I need a clear head.
“Anyone want to take credit for this spectacular betrayal now?” Viv asks, folding her hands in front of her table setting and leaning forward.
She’s at the head of the table, no surprise there, and she’s wearing a slinky black dress.
It looks amazing on her, but it’s also like wearing a bathing suit to a funeral—inappropriate and strange.
“You asking for alibis?” Carl asks, voice croaky. He takes the highball glass of brown liquid Fiona hands him and downs it all in one gulp.
“I mean, are we supposed to pretend that someone here didn’t do it?” Viv answers. Her tone is mild, polite even, but it’s laced with something dangerous.
“I thought we agreed it must have been a party guest. Please, let’s try to get through this,” Rachel begs. “We don’t need more drama. It happened. We can’t fix it now. We have to work together until someone comes to get us.”
“Work together? Someone is actively working against us,” Piper points out. She refused most of the food, opting instead for a drink and a sleeve of crackers she scrounged up from somewhere. “Someone doesn’t want us to get off this boat.”
Silence settles over the table at her words.
Viv straightens. “Rachel is right; we need to focus on staying safe and getting through this weather. I’m almost positive that in the morning, the weather will break and we’ll realize we’ve been worrying for nothing.”
The way Viv constantly flip-flops between differing opinions and moods is giving me emotional whiplash.
I don’t know how to deal with her because I don’t understand which version of her we’re going to get.
It reminds me of a girl I was friends with for a few years in elementary school.
Lizzie—her father played for the Brewers and she was extremely popular.
She had plucked me from the pool of girls desperate to be her friend, and I felt so special.
But being Lizzie’s friend was work. Her mood, like Viv’s, fluctuated based on strange, unpredictable whims. She was writing me friendship notes and giving me expensive gifts one day, and the next she wasn’t talking to me, because I had somehow slighted her.
I started picking my nails until they bled, I was so anxious about her volatile behavior.
It only stopped when her father was traded to the Tigers and her family moved to Detroit. It had been a relief to say goodbye; I didn’t know how to stop being her friend on my own. I slipped a rotten mushroom I found in the park into Lizzie’s suitcase the last time I saw her.
“Hopefully the Coast Guard will be here by then.” Trey interrupts my train of thought, nodding to Viv. “All of Islamorada knows we’re out here. Someone will come get us.”
I glance around the table, watching as everyone nods and pretends like there is nothing to worry about.
But there are side-eyes. There are little looks.
There is an undercurrent of mistrust pregnant in the air.
And I’m not stupid. Some of that undercurrent is directed toward my end of the table.
I’m new; they might blame me instead of someone already firmly cemented in their elite influencer circle.
The layers of unease around my heart keep getting thicker. I have to worry about the saboteur, if they were involved with whatever happened with Elena, but I also have to worry about the rest of the group turning on me.
Please, let this be over soon, I beg the universe.
An enormous wave slaps against the side of Empress, smashing itself against the glass with a horrifyingly loud thwack.
Rachel screams. Ashley grabs her hand; even Viv startles.
The rest of us stare at the remnants of the wave, washing down the wall of windows and joining the streams running across the deck. Rain hurtles against the boat, gleefully reminding us that we’re in the thick of it. There’s nowhere to run.
Piper slams down her empty glass, looks around, and then announces, “Well, I’m getting fucked up. Who’s in?”