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But maybe I do. Maybe my body is physically rejecting the lie I’m living, the charade I’m perpetuating. Maybe I’m literally sick of myself, of what I’ve become in this glossy, artificial world.
“I think I need some air,” I manage, standing too quickly. The room spins sickeningly.
Serena is at my side in an instant, her arm around my waist, steadying me. “Let’s get you outside.”
We make it to the deck just in time. I grip the railing as my dinner makes a spectacular reappearance into the Caribbean. Serena, bless her, stands beside me, rubbing my back in small circles as I heave and gasp.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak when I can speak again.
“Don’t apologize for bodily functions,” she says practically. “Though I am trying not to take this personally.”
A weak laugh escapes me, interrupted by another bout of nausea. “I think... I think I need to go back to shore.”
“I’ll tell the captain.” She squeezes my shoulder before disappearing to find a crew member.
Minutes later, the yacht changes course, heading back toward the island. A producer materializes, his expression oscillating between concern for my well-being and panic about the derailed date.
“Hayes, we can’t cut this short,” he hisses. “We need the morning-after breakfast. It’s in the episode outline.”
“Unless you want footage of me vomiting on thousand-dollar sheets, we’re going back.”
“But—”
“Kevin,” Serena interrupts, returning with a bottle of water for me. “He’s clearly ill. This date is over.”
The producer looks between us, calculating angles, contingencies. “Fine. Be up and together for the morning after shoots. But Darren’s not going to be happy.”
“Darren can join me at the railing if he wants to discuss it,” I mutter, taking a small sip of water.
By the time we dock, I’m feeling marginally better, though still shaky and pale. Serena walks me to the waiting golf cart, concern in her eyes.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” I tell her again.
“Don’t be.” She smiles, a hint of sadness in it. “I think your body was just being honest, even if you couldn’t be.”
Her perception is unnerving. “Serena, I—”
“It’s okay, Hayes. Really.” She leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more later.”
The ride back to my villa passes in a blur of nausea and shame. When I finally stumble through the door, I make it to the bathroom just in time for another round of sickness. Afterward, I collapse on the cool tile floor, too exhausted to move.
My phone buzzes from the bedroom—and I’m glad to have it back now. But it’s probably Darren, demanding an explanation. Instead, it’s a text from my mother with a photo of August, grinning proudly beside a contraption of wires and recycled parts that vaguely resembles R2-D2.
Something breaks inside me at the sight of my son’s innocent face. What am I doing here? Playing games, manipulating emotions—all while August watches from afar, forming impressions of relationships, of love, of the kind of man his father is.
What would Sarah think of me now? The question hits with physical force. My late wife valued honesty above all else. She would be appalled at what I’ve become, at what I’ve allowed to happen.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial Darren’s number.
“Hayes,” he says, irritation evident in his tone. “What the hell happened out there? The crew says you got seasick? You? Mr. I-Did-A-Photoshoot-In-A-Hurricane?”
“I need to go home,” I say, my voice raw but firm. “Tomorrow. Just for a day. I need to see my son.”
“What? Absolutely not. We have a schedule. Annabelle’s date is tomorrow, and—”
“I’m not asking, Darren. I’m telling you. I need twenty-four hours with my son, or I walk. Right now. Tonight. Contract be damned.”
Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken threats.