Chapter Eleven
At first, there was a long beat of stunned, possibly revolted silence.
And then, everyone seemed to erupt like tiny individual volcanoes, variant in their force.
Jamie vaulted from his chair suddenly, but then stood stock-still, as if someone had pressed the pause button.
Manon gasped and grabbed up at Robert’s arm, rising more slowly and staring after Samantha in the same way she’d looked at those petunias being eaten.
Emily’s hands jolted up to clap over her own startled gasp, Michael’s “Oh no” a bubbling echo, setting off Damaris’s quiet “Oh dear,” and her husband’s gruff “Indeed.”
Rosie, as usual, held nothing back, standing from her own seat and saying, “A hundred euros that it was the tuna,” which made Céline crack out an inappropriate laugh.
It felt like only Layla sat still, her brain sluggish to process the disaster of the last minute and a half: Her former father-in-law had thanked her for coming, had said she was still like a daughter to him, and then her ex-husband’s new girlfriend had literally gotten sick.
She didn’t see how this didn’t ruin a boat cruise.
Let alone a whole entire wedding week.
She blinked, trying to snap out of her stupor, but when her eyes focused again, they went straight to the only other person who’d remained perfectly still and silent.
Griffin Testa.
For once, he wasn’t looking right at her.
He was looking beside her, at where Emily and Michael still sat, his face set in barely leashed frustration. She could imagine that his hand—that very same hand he’d touched her with—was back to its white-knuckled Fix it fist.
She let her gaze follow his, seeing now that Emily had dropped her hands again, her expression slack. There was a vacant, trancelike look in her eyes, as though a vision of the future was passing before her mind.
A future where this wedding failed.
This cannot possibly get more fucked-up, Layla thought, which, as any doctor knew, was always the thought you had right before things got immeasurably more fucked-up.
“Jamie,” Robert said, a scolding note in his voice.
Apparently, no one had yet pressed the play button on Jamie again, because Layla’s ex-husband still stood frozen a few steps away from the table. He wasn’t quite looking toward Samantha, who had most of her front half still hanging over the boat’s railing.
“Oh, man,” he said. “You know how I get when someone…you know, when there’s, ah—”
Layla lifted her napkin from her lap and put it on the table.
She knew how he would finish that sentence.
During her first year of residency she’d gotten norovirus, one of the top five worst experiences of her life, including this boat cruise, and Jamie and his notoriously weak stomach had only ever been able to come as close as the closed bathroom door.
Layla had thought it was sweet—endearing, really—the way he sat in the hallway for hours.
She’d laughed weakly at him when she finally emerged, finding him asleep with noise-canceling headphones on, the sounds of her sickness so distressing to him.
She pushed back her chair.
“I’ll go,” said Emily weakly, but Layla could not let that happen. God forbid Samantha had something contagious, and gave it to Emily.
“I’ll go,” said Layla. “Obviously, I’ll go.”
“Lay,” Em said, concern in her voice, but Layla pretended not to hear it.
Instead, she made her way to the other side of the table, past her in-laws, past Jamie, moving as quickly as she probably should have a minute ago. Behind her, she thought she heard Rosie say, “She’s a doctor,” which was a helpful reminder.
She slowed her steps as she approached the railing, seeing Samantha’s back heave, one hand clutching her long hair—gorgeous hair, Layla had noticed upon introducing herself—at the nape of her neck.
Layla felt a bracing pang of sympathy. It was awful to be sick, anytime, but this—on a boat, in front of all these people, god.
She tried not to think too much about the passengers on the deck below: There were windows down there, at least, but what an unpleasant shock to see this go by.
“Samantha?” she said gently, quietly, as though she could restore some of this woman’s privacy by pitching her voice a certain way.
Samantha turned her head and looked in Layla’s direction.
Then she groaned, closing her eyes.
“I’m just checking on you,” Layla said, still quiet. “I’m a doc—”
“I know,” Samantha said.
Layla cringed.
Samantha groaned again, but this time, it sounded more rueful.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and before Layla could respond, she rushed out, “I know how this must look. But it wasn’t because of what Robert said, I promise.
I’m—god, this is so embarrassing. The tuna—the smell of it got to me, and I’ve never been good on boats, like, I get seasick on pool floaties, and—”
Any relief Layla might’ve felt at this—it wasn’t because of what Robert said—couldn’t really find a foothold under the circumstances, the circumstances being that she was standing next to her ex-husband’s barfing girlfriend and probably everyone else at this dinner thought it was exactly because of what Robert said.
But she spoke reassuringly anyway. “A bad combination, for sure.”
Samantha hung her head again, spitting a little, then giving the most despondent nod Layla had ever seen in her life.
Layla could tell she was getting anxious now—the shock of getting sick setting in, the waiting confrontation of everything happening behind her.
In her periphery, Layla could see the head server speaking in hushed tones to Robert and Manon, probably some decision-making about whether to bring out the remaining small plates.
This poor girl, Layla thought, even though she could register it was patronizing, unfair. Samantha, Layla had learned over the course of the evening so far, was three years older than Emily, but right now, she looked to Layla about as small and scared as Willa. The saddest déjà vu.
She took a step forward and set a tentative hand on Samantha’s back. “Maybe let’s try some deep breaths?”
They did it together, a few inhales and exhales, until Samantha started to uncurl herself from the railing. If Layla had to guess, it was some combination of motion sickness and sensory disgust, though of course, it’d take some time to know for sure if this truly was a one-and-done situation.
Samantha stood up a little straighter, still facing the railing, her breathing evened out.
“Is everyone watching?” she ventured, which was one of those questions no one actually wanted the real answer to.
“No,” Layla lied. A quick glance revealed that everyone, in fact, was watching, and no one more intently than Griffin, who Layla was trying desperately not to think too much about at this particular moment, since she knew he probably had déjà vu, too.
Of the the floor is probably disgusting variety.
“Just Jamie,” she added, lying to herself now. “He’s worried.”
“He has a sensitive stomach,” Samantha said, in explanation, and the comment hung awkwardly in the air, waiting for an I know that Layla was absolutely not going to voice aloud.
Samatha winced and said, “This is humiliating.”
“I’m sure this is not the first time in the history of these boat cruises that this has happened,” Layla said, even though she was reasonably sure that the particular humiliation Samantha was talking about went far beyond the boat cruise.
The woman rubbed a hand over her dewy forehead and finally turned to face Layla. “God, you’re as nice as everyone says you are. I am so—”
She broke off, her eyes dropping and slowly widening in horrified realization.
“What?” Layla said, but the question was ultimately unnecessary.
Before the syllable was even all the way out of her mouth, she’d followed Samantha’s gaze down: first to the wet spot on the skirt of her own dress, and then over to the low wall of the boat, where some of Samantha’s sick hadn’t quite made its way over the edge.
When Layla had stepped forward to pat Samantha’s back, her skirt must’ve blown right into it.
The boat’s bell rang, absurdly punctuating the moment. They’d be heading to their next stop soon.
Layla couldn’t help it.
She huffed out a disbelieving laugh.
“It’s okay,” she managed. “I’ve had much worse stuff on me.”
But not at something like this! her overloaded brain howled hysterically. Not at your former sister-in-law’s pre-wedding river cruise in the most elegant city in the world, which you’re supposed to be helping her through while your entire former family watches!
“I’ll run downstairs to the bathroom, do a little cleanup. Everything will be totally fine!”
That last bit, she could tell she hadn’t managed. It sounded very nearly like a squeak.
“Sam?” Jamie’s voice cut in, and Layla turned to find him approaching tentatively, apparently hopeful that the stomach-turning part of this whole disaster had passed. “You okay, babe?”
Babe, Layla’s mind echoed, weirdly grateful. That was not a pet name he’d ever used for her.
She thought about warning him off, telling him not to come any closer, lest he get a sense of the skirt-slash-wall situation. But before he could take another step forward, someone else stepped in front of him.
Griffin.
He did not say, Excuse me.
But he also did not say, Your dress is disgusting.
He simply came straight for Layla, red-hot lava down the side of a trembling mountain, and this time, when he reached out and took her hand, there was nothing tentative or begrudging about it.
His hot palm against hers, his strong fingers curling tight against the edge of her hand.
He said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “We’re going.”
* * *
It was a long time before Layla breathed a word again.
And when she finally did—when she finally could make sense of the streets passing outside the cracked-open back window of a rideshare that she could barely remember being guided into—it was way too late.