Sweet (12 page)

“Thank you, my pretty,” he says. He straightens my tie.

“I got your e-mail,” he says.

“Did you tell her people?”

“Not. Just. Yet,” he says. “Have I told you how happy we all are with the coverage? Solu could not be more thrilled, especially with the Sabbi interview.”

“She's a pro,” I say.

“Of course she is.” His gaze goes out over the crowd.

“Look at them all. On the adventure of a lifetime. They will all tell their grandkids—they were the first.”

“If it works,” I say.

“Of course it works. Look at them all. Those people are thinner.”

“Yeah. For a while, anyway. Maybe.”

“Buzzkill!” He laughs, elbowing me in the ribs. “You haven't tried it? I would, but I'm working.”

“Same here. And anyway, my trainer insists I eat real food, in the right amount.”

“You're like a little Puritan, aren't you? Like an Amish person. Or a monk.”

“Yes,” I say. “I'm the first Amish television host.”

“So, listen, I think you're wrong about Sabbi. I'd like to tell you why—”

I brace myself for some seducing from him when Tamara strides right between us.

“You're a jerk!” Tamara hisses. “I can't believe you're blowing this.”

“Look, I just like this other girl, okay?”

“Who? Boots?! There's nothing there. She's a nothing.”

“You don't even know her.”

“Neither do you! You're just being a coward,” Tamara says.

She grabs my arm, hard, digging her fingernails into my skin.

“Hey—” I protest.

“You got burned by Bonnie Loo and you're scared.”

“Bonnie Lee, and she has nothing to do with this. I'm just not into Sabbi.”

“Well, get into her. Get into her right now, because here she comes and she's got a photographer,” Tamara growls.

She points with her chin, and sure enough, Sabbi is slinking over, a photographer on her heels.

Sabbi's wearing a satin gown with a slit up to her hip and has a white fur stole draped over one shoulder.

Tamara moves away from me. Rich moves away.

“Tomazino,” Sabbi purrs, her arm out to me.

She wraps one arm through mine and leans up to whisper in my ear.

I …

I …

I smile and lean in.

It's the polite thing to do. It's what I'm supposed to do.

I
am
a coward. Tamara was right.

The photographer flashes away.

This is the shot on the cover of
People.
It's happening.

“You look delicious in that tuxedo,” Sabbi whispers.

Then she nibbles on my earlobe.

And it's hot. But it's also not what I want. And I don't know what to do.

And then,

OF COURSE,

I see Laurel.

She's standing twenty feet away. Her friend is just behind her. They're both holding champagne flutes and Laurel looks amazing.

She's wearing a sequined silver skirt and a black silk camisole. Long silver earrings kind of pour down through her hair onto her neck.

The skirt is clinging to her curves and shimmering with light bouncing from the chandeliers.

She's not wearing boots but she still looks beautiful.

Sabbi reaches up and touches my face, to bring my attention back to her.

“Tom Fiorelli,” she sings. “Tomazino. Take a nice picture with me, sweetheart.”

Passengers around us are taking our picture on their phones now.

Laurel's eyes meet mine and it's like I can see her thought process.

I see her register the way Sabbi is pressing her body into my side, the fact that my arm is around her. And she's looking right into my eyes and I try to tell her it's not a real thing, but her eyes fall away.

Her lips are drawn tight and she's starting to blush.

She's thinking that she's a fool and I want to jump back in time and have played the whole thing differently, but I can't.

Laurel turns away from me—from me and Sabbi.

One of her ankles bends awkwardly. She's not so steady on the heels.

“Laurel!” I say. “Wait!”

Sabbi stands on her tiptoes, deliberately blocking my view of Laurel.

She makes a tut-tut sound with her teeth.

“Focus, Tomazino.”

Laurel kicks off the heels and runs.

Her friend shoots me a dirty look, snatches up the shoes, and goes after Laurel.

Sabbi squeezes my arm.

“Give me a kiss, then you can go after her,” Sabbi says.

I look at her.

Big brown eyes. Lashes thick. She's beautiful. The woman is undeniably beautiful. Millions of guys fantasize about having her in their arms.

I see now that she's very, very in control of this situation.

“Come on, baby. Make it a good one.”

My eyes dart to Rich and Tamara, who are watching us and pretending not to watch us at the same time.

I'm mad, mad at myself. I hate myself, so I grab Sabbi Ribiero and I kiss her hard.

I'm giving them what they want.

I'm acting like a child. I know I am.

And I'm so angry I don't care.

I gather Sabbi to me and her head drops back and I pull her in tighter, my hands dig into her hair. I kiss her.

Click-click-click,
the photographer's shooting as fast as he can. I hate the photographer.

Then I drop Sabbi onto her feet.

I look at Tamara.

“Can I go now?” I ask her. And Sabbi. And Rich.

Tamara nods. Rich looks sad for me.

Good.

I turn to go and realize Sabbi has hold of my hand.

“Tomazino,” she says as she squeezes. “Try to have some fun.”

 

LAUREL

DAY THREE

“WHO CARES?” I SAY.

“Yup. Who cares,” Viv echoes.

She signals to the bartender. We're at the upper deck lounge, which is deserted.

“He can cuddle up to whoever he wants!”

“Of course he can!” she says to me. Then to the barkeep, “Two mango daiquiris, please.”

The bartender doesn't miss a beat. He's certainly not asking for IDs.

“I don't even know him.”

“Nope,” she says.

“Tom Fiorelli is a jerk.”

“Totally,” she agrees.

The drinks come.

“Mango? Really?” I ask.

“Totally,” she tells me.

She's right. It's delicious.

“You can go back to the party,” I tell her. “I think I'm going to go to bed.”

“Drink up,” my best friend tells me. “And I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to go back to that ball. And we're going to eat a bunch of delicious food. And we're going to walk around and look gorgeous and have fun.”

“I don't know—”

“And we're going to get out on the dance floor and dance. We're not going to be looking for Tom Fiorelli or for anyone cute or famous or even interesting. You and me are going to have a good time. Nobody's gonna take that away from us.”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The sea air is fresh and warm. It wafts through my hair.

“Okay,” I say. “You're right. I'm not going to freak out because Tom Fiorelli is who he is. He's just that guy. He's the guy who has famous girls biting his earlobe while people take his picture.”

“Sucky, but true,” Viv says.

“I'm in charge of who I am,” I declare.

“Yes!” Viv says.

“And tonight I am a girl who goes to a fancy ball on a fancy cruise and gets drunk.”

“Okay,” Viv says. “I can work with that.”

So, you can't chug a daiquiri, because they're thick and frozen. (But we sip quickly.)

*   *   *

Tom's not at the ball when we go back.

Which is great, I tell myself.

I do notice that Sabbi is there. So they're not somewhere hooking up. Which is none of my business, I know that.

Viv was right to insist I come back to the ball.

We laugh and dance, spinning each other around. Some guys come and try to dance with us and that's okay, but really, the night's about Viv and me, being best friends.

This is a kind of relationship I know how to handle!

At midnight they wheel out a round table heaped with a huge statue of cream puffs in the shape of an
S
. The cream puffs are held together by thin strands of caramel.

“Ooooh,” a lady in a black evening gown says to her husband. “Darling, look at the croquembouche. Isn't that clever?”

(That's how I learn the name for this fancy dessert.)

The people draw close to the platform where the huge
S
stands. Rich helps Dr. Zhang onto the platform. She's handed a microphone.

She's wearing a rumpled cobalt-blue satin evening dress with her big tortoiseshell glasses. To tell the truth, she looks like someone's least favorite bridesmaid (or worse, a
brides-matron
).

The people draw closer and closer to the platform. They're surrounding it and cheering—clapping like crazy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zhang says. “I just wanted to thank you all. This dessert has been created in honor of Solu—but I dedicate it to all of you—”

It's kind of hard to hear her voice over the cheering.

The people are getting so close to the little stage that it gets jostled.

Dr. Zhang loses her place.

“On behalf of Almstead and myself—”

And then a man reaches out and grabs a handful of the cream puffs.

He shouts with joy.

“Wait,” Dr. Zhang says. “Hold on.”

But the man's grab is followed by another and another and people swarm up onto the platform.

“So much enthusiasm!” she tries to rally. “All right—enjoy!”

Dr. Zhang actually loses her footing and I see Rich helping her down.

Men and women in their elegant clothes are edging forward, grabbing cream puffs. There's a lot of laughter and whooping, good-natured elbowing, stuff like that. But there's a feeling of fakery to me. Like they're pretending to be playful, when what they really want is to get as many pastries as they can.

I look to my side and see Viv, staring hard at the pastries.

“They're trying to act so dignified,” I say.

And I see her swallow.

She looks at me and laughs.

“Solu,” she says. “It tastes good.”

She steps forward. One step, two steps.

I put my hand on her arm.

“Viv.”

She shakes her head, smiles at me.

“Let's get more champagne,” I say. I've had … okay, a lot of drinks, but I've also eaten a lot. Now that my appetite's back, I've been making up for lost time.

Viv, on the other hand, has eaten hardly anything. “Or maybe a Pipop?”

“Yeah,” Viv says. “Okay.”

Then she looks back at the table.

“But it just looks like people are taking more than their share. And I haven't had a dose since lunch. So…”

She heads toward the table.

Everyone,
I realize, is heading toward the table.

I'm like a rock in a river. They all flow around me, toward the table.

Huh.

*   *   *

Maybe it's just me, but it seems like after the passengers have their Solu, the party seems to get wilder.

People call for the music to be turned up. The band stopped playing after dinner and now it's a DJ.

“Louder!” a guy shouts. He gets up on the table and everyone's cheering for him. “Louder!”

They turn it up.

The dancing gets very, well, dirty, with lots of grinding and grappling.

Viv is totally spaced out, dancing with her eyes closed.

“Okay,” I say. “I'm done here. This is too much for me!”

She opens her eyes and she has trouble focusing on me for a second.

“Viv!” I shout. “We need to go!”

She nods and keeps dancing.

I grab her by the arm.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She drapes her arms around me.

“I got a little drunk,” she says.

“I know. Me, too.”

She kisses me on the cheek.

“Did you have fun, Laurey?”

“So much fun!” I say. It's hard to help her walk when I'm in these stupid heels. We kind of careen out of the banquet hall.

“I want us to have the best time,” she says.

“We are!” I promise her. “We really are.”

Well, we
were
.

Before the stupid dessert.

 

TOM

DAY FOUR

UPPER DECK, LOWER DECK
. I couldn't find Laurel anywhere.

The concierge wouldn't give me her suite number, he said it's the ship's policy, but he did connect me with her room phone.

I left only two messages—any more would have been pathetic. Given my history with messages, leaving just one was colossally stupid, but I was obviously on a stupid jag.

Then I called Derek.

He didn't pick up.

“Man!” I said to his voice mail. “I really wish you'd pick up. I need to hear … I need a friendly voice. Argggh. Okay. Call me. Whatever.”

Then I went to the gym and exercised until I threw up.

Which is what I should have done
before
the stupid ball.

If I don't work out twice a day, I don't get rid of all my … whatever, emotion.

I should have known better.

*   *   *

At breakfast, Rich came and found me.

Doing damage control. Checking in on me. Seeing how I was.

Would I still be acting like a jerk or would I be rational?

I could see him sussing me out as he walked over.

“Good morning, Tom,” he said. “I wanted to apologize for last night. I never meant for you to be put on the spot that way.”

“Whatever, Rich,” I say.