Love and Chaos (4 page)

Julia leaves the room; I can hear her
stompstompstomping
up the stairs. “Sort it out, Pia! This is your goddamn problem!”

I’m not Pia’s problem. I’m not anyone’s problem except my own.

“Ladybitch?” Pia says softly. But I don’t reply. I don’t even move. I can’t. I just lie still, in my bubble of aloneness, my arms still covering my face, and listen to the
whompthump
of the pain in my head, and a weird rocking feeling in the base of my throat. A tear escapes my right eye and runs down to my ear. “Angie? Do you want to talk?”

Something warm and sticky is running down behind my ear, different from the silky tickle of tears. Blood.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Julia shouts. “The landing is trashed! What the hell is
that
?”

Oh God. The wine. I forgot to clean it up.

“This won’t come out! It’s dried on the carpet. And the wallpaper is stained. How dare that fucking ice queen treat my home like this!”

“Calm down, Jules,” says Pia. I hear her open the cabinet under the sink and pull out cleaning products. “Angie, I love you, but you’re going to have to start talking to me.
Now
.”

Right. Because she’d totally listen right now. And stick around more than five minutes after I stopped talking. What’s the point of ever sharing problems with anyone? People always just leave, and then they have your secrets, and you can never get them back.

“Angie. I mean it.”

I ignore her, my arms still hiding my face. When she leaves, I slowly roll over to my tummy and feel my head to figure out where the blood is coming from. A little graze to the temple, that’s all. The kitchen linoleum is cold against my face. From this weird angle I can see that it’s gritty with dirt, it needs sweeping or Swiffering or mopping or something, and it’s probably my turn. I haven’t even looked at the stupid chore sheet in weeks.

Three thousand dollars.

Don’t think about it.

“She’s a fucking liability, Pia,” I can hear Jules saying upstairs. “She’s unreliable, she’s selfish, she just does whatever the hell she wants to do and everyone else can go fuck themselves. I can’t take living with her much longer.”

“Would you give it a rest, Jules? She’s been my best friend since we were born.”

“And she’s always drunk. She’s got a problem, Pia.”

“She is
not
always drunk. Sheesh! And you call me a drama queen. She’s just … tough to get to know.”

“Tough as nails and cold as ice, you mean.”

I don’t want to be here anymore.

I stand up, steadying myself against the counter. Woo! Head rush. I grab a kitchen towel, hold it to my bleeding temple, and rush upstairs as quickly as I can—past the first floor landing where Jules and Pia are cleaning the carpet and wallpaper—to my room. I grab my big duffel and swiftly throw in my clutch, bikinis, summer dresses, heels, travel toiletry kit, makeup bag, and passport. At the last minute I add two packs of Marlboro Lights, take one cigarette out and put it in the corner of my lips, and grab my open bottle of wine. Then I change out of my dad’s Princeton sweater and pull on a white cashmere sweater, my fur/army coat, and sunglasses.

Duffel over my shoulder, I head downstairs, lighting my cigarette as I go.

“Where are you going?” snaps Julia.

I exhale my cigarette smoke and take a swig of the wine, my face twitching with the effort of a cold smile. “I’m going to the fucking beach.”

CHAPTER
5

Good decision.

Coming to Turks and Caicos was a good decision.

Right?

Yes.

I called Stef the moment I left the house.

It sounded like he was in a bathroom. “Babe! Hosting a gathering at my place. And my friend Hal is throwing a party tomorrow. He’s dying to meet you!”

I wanted to ask him who I slept with at the Soho Grand. I wanted to ask him if he knew why someone would give me three thousand dollars for no reason. But I didn’t. I just shut up, drank my wine straight from the bottle, gave the driver a twenty to let me smoke in his cab, and tried not to think about it. Tried very, very hard.

Stef greeted me with a handful of pills and a bottle of Grey Goose. The next few hours became a blur. A party, a car, an airport, a plane charter, people laughing and shrieking. I just kept my sunglasses on and tried to look in control.

For a split second, as we boarded the plane, I wanted to turn around and run back to Rookhaven.

But I said I was going to the beach. And I hate going back on my word.

I sat in a corner and zoned out while everyone else partied, and next thing I knew, we’d landed. Everything had the glow of early dawn, and I could smell the ocean. We were finally in Turks and Caicos, a tiny, rustic, decidedly un–New York group of islands somewhere in the Caribbean. Sunshine and bare feet. Exactly what I need.

Forty days till I turn twenty-three.

Within minutes of landing, we’re in open-top jeeps on the way to the party. I’m in the back of the smaller jeep, next to some Swedish guy called Lars, but he’s been on the phone most of the time. Stef’s sitting up front. He’s hungover, I think, and very quiet underneath his straw boater hat. (“It’s ironic!” he said, when I raised an eyebrow at it. “If you have to explain that it’s ironic, it’s probably not,” I replied.)

I love—
love
—the Caribbean. I love sandy roadsides and paint-chipped houses and blue skies that look like they stretch forever. I love the big, strange blocky buildings that pop up now and again by the side of the highway, banks and hospitals and supermarkets, with parking lots that could fit hundreds, as though they’re expecting a population boom any minute now. I love the eye-achingly bright light and the way the air feels so pure and warm when you breathe.…

I’m so fucking over New York.

And I’m
really
over Brooklyn.

The hot sun on my bare skin right this second is possibly the best thing I’ve ever felt. I’m sitting on my fur/army coat, wearing a little white sundress that I put on when we landed, and my studded Converse because I forgot to pack my flip-flops. With every breath of warm salty air, I can feel my bones thaw, my jaw relax, and the cold anxiety in my soul ease, for the first time in weeks.

When we arrive at Turtle Cove Marina, it’s shiny and new and weirdly out of place in the shabby warmth of the rest of the island. Three young men wearing white polo T-shirts, shorts, and knee-high white socks—the kind of crew uniform that tends to indicate someone’s working on a very, very,
very
big boat—come and grab our bags.

Everyone surges ahead, racing down the pier as though there’s a prize at the end. There are eight of us in total: four other girls, all about my age, all gorgeous, all acting like best friends but ignoring me, all constantly reglossing suspiciously plump lips. Plus Swedish Lars, some guy called Beecher who kept cracking unfunny jokes about the mile high club while we were taking off in New York, and, of course, Stef. And me.

Three thousand dollars.

Don’t think about it.

I look ahead and see a worryingly shitty-looking speedboat onto which our luggage is being loaded by the boat boys. The girls start squealing.

“Where the fuck did you find them?” I murmur to Stef.

“Old friends, babe, old friends.”

Stef looks like shit. Pale and blotchy, with cracked skin in the corners of his mouth. It hits me that I’ve never seen him in daylight before. And I’ve known him for six years.

Wow. The realization stops me for a moment.

What am I doing here? Taking a vacation with Stef, the Jovial Medicated Playboy, and a cast of strangers?

Standing still, trying to gather whatever wits I have left, I watch everyone else surge ahead. The girls step from the pier into the speedboat, all squealing with excitement or fear or both, even though the boat is barely rocking at all and the boat boys are on hand to help them. One is offering them glasses of champagne.

But where are they taking us?

And where is the host? Hal, or whatever his name is?

Is getting on a tiny speedboat with people I don’t really know the worst idea ever? Or the best, given my reality right now?

To stall for thinking time, I light a cigarette.

“Hey, you can’t smoke on the marina,” shouts a voice. I look over. One of the boat boys. Tall, tan, clean-cut, blond, ridiculously chiseled, as though he was bioengineered as an example of perfect all-American manhood. “Fire hazard. Gas spills.”

I look around. The pier is totally dry beneath my studded Converse.

He reads my mind. “I know, it’s not likely. I’m just saying, it’s against the rules. You’ll get a fine.”

“The
rules
? Whose rules? What are you, some kind of nautical Nazi Youth?”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, and then assumes the professional all-American mask again. “Something like that.”

I take one last drag of my cigarette, stub it out, and walk toward the speedboat, ignoring him. How bad can a yacht party be when some angel-faced boat boy is freaking out about a stupid cigarette? This is just another rich guy’s folly. Some loaded, insecure friend of Stef who wants to impress his friends and a bunch of girls by showing them a good time in the Caribbean sunshine. Bet you twenty bucks this Hal guy wears his shirt undone to midchest and says things like “island time, mon.”

Once on board the speedboat, I grab a glass of champagne. Cheers to me.

And like I say, it’s a good decision. Because the minute we clear the marina, the yacht—sorry, the superyacht—we’re about to board comes into view. It’s stunning, like something out of a movie, over 250 feet long, with three tiers stacked up like a wedding cake.

“A staff of eighteen for the comfort of up to twelve guests.” A rote speech from one of the boat boys. I look around for my clean-cut goody-two-shoes. He’s up front, staring into the wind. “Equipped with a swimming pool and a helipad, the
Hamartia
also boasts nine staterooms, including an indoor cinema and a fully equipped gymnasium with two state-of-the-art Pilates reformers.”

“Oh, gnarly. I can work on my core,” I say, to no one in particular. Which is good, because no one is listening.

“I am
literally
freaking out, you guys!” one of the girls squeals. “
Literally
. This is me,
literally
freaking out.”

We pull up to the
Hamartia
and go on board. It’s even bigger up close: shiny, white, and immaculately clean, like a bathroom turned inside out.

The other girls are squeaking and clapping their hands, and then accept yet more champagne from another boat boy. The crew is all men, I notice. And the host is nowhere in sight.

Something isn’t right.

I turn to Stef. “What are we really doing here?”

He smiles, looking as unattractive as I’ve ever seen him. “Just good fun, babe.”

Hmm.

Thinking, I gaze out at the view. We’re a long way from shore. I can just make out the luxury hotels along Grace Bay beach, some with cabanas set up out front. People lined up working on their tans, or their marriages, or whatever people go on vacation to do.

There are three other yachts within swimming distance, and I can see a family running around on one, the daddy showing his kids how to do the mainsail, or some shit like that. My father taught me to sail, too. He taught me to sail but can’t bother to call and tell me about the divorce.

My parents are divorcing.
Wow. Every now and again it hits me, however much I try to ignore it. He hasn’t called, and I haven’t called my mother back.… It’s like our family died or something.

I suddenly have a thumping headache that the champagne won’t help. Caffeine. I need caffeine. And sugar.

“Could I please get some Coke?” I ask the boat boy offering the champagne, a short guy with a terrible cliché of a goatee.

“Si.”
Goatee draws a little one-inch-square plastic packet of white powder from his pocket and drops it into my hand. I stare at it for a second.

“No, um, a Coca-Cola,” I say, staring at it. Cocaine. Fuck me, the crew is actually handing out drugs?

“I’ll take that for later,” says Stef, smoothly pocketing it. He swings an arm around my back. It’s annoyingly ownership-like, but reassuringly protective at the same time. “I’m going to bed with Dr. Ambien and Dr. Dramamine, babe. See you in eight hours.”

“Uh—okay—” I say, suddenly feeling panicky. Stef is my only link to quasi-normality.

“Just enjoy yourself, hon,” Stef gives my waist a little squeeze and heads belowdecks.

I look over and see that clean-cut boat boy staring at me again, but I ignore him. I am in control of this situation. I can handle this. I can handle anything.

“I’ll take you to your cabins,” says Goatee, and we all follow him, the girls shrieking all the way down.

The décor below deck is sort of pan-Asian, with dim, sexy lighting, Chinese illustrations, Thai sculptures, and Japanese blossom prints on the bed. Interior decorators don’t always care about the cultural sanctity of their creations, I’ve noticed.

The girls pair off to sleep in doubles together. I’m given my own room, a single with a tiny en suite. Three bottles of Coca-Cola are already waiting in a bucket of ice on my dresser. Wow. That’s good service.

With the door shut and locked, I lie down on the bed, still wearing my Converse and sunglasses. I have that numb thoughtless inertia that I always get after a heavy night of meds and booze. I should really stop doing it. I will, I will stop …

The yacht is rocking gently, the bed is soft and clean and … I’ll just close my eyes.

CHAPTER
6

I wake up alone to the sound of happy shrieks outside my cabin window (porthole, whatever). I can see a speedboat going around, trailing two of the girls in one of those blow-up donut things.

Man, I am going to get seriously sick of hearing those chicks squeal.

It’s just past 3:00
P.M.
I should let Pia know where I am … but I don’t have cell reception out here on the goddamn ocean. And she probably doesn’t want to talk to me after my behavior last night. She’s at work right now anyway. And I’m all the way down here in the Caribbean. Weird. The world is so big. It’s easy to get lost.