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No. No, it can’t be.

But... yes! It’s him. The boy—thebeautifulboy—from the Trevi Fountain. Walking into theMediterranean Majesty’s teen mixer. For real.

How?

Why?

And even more pressing, what the fuck? Is this a nausea-induced mirage?

I blink a few times, but he’s still there. Light brown skin contrasted with a bright white tee. He runs his hands through his curls and purses his full lips as he looks around the room from the doorway.

Damn, this coin shit really worked? I probably shouldn’t tell Tessa or else her head will blow up like a balloon and float above me forever, making that smug smirk I hate. Except Iactually want to kiss her smug smirk right now because this worked! It really worked!

Of course, it’s probably not the best time to be seeing him when I look like a sweaty, sick mess. Unless he’s got a thing for Gamora, I’ll probably have a better chance if I sneak out now and hunt him down later when I’ve gotten myself together.

As if he can hear my thoughts, though, he stops scanning the room and his eyes land on me. Before I can even look away to pretend like I wasn’t just gawking at him, he starts striding toward me with purpose.

My body shakes and then tenses. This is happening.

“Hey, I’m Alex,” he says, holding out his hand. Up close, he has one of those faces that make people ask, “Where are you from?” Which I never would because I’m not an asshole.

“Hi. Lenore,” I say, trying to sound all cool. But that’s shot when I put my clammy-ass hand in his. Luckily, he doesn’t wipe his hand against his jeans when it returns to his side because then I would have to just keel over and die.

“Okay, I know this is kind of crazy,” he starts, and I feel my chest get all fluttery and shit. Is this really happening?

“Oh yeah? Well, I can be down with crazy.”

He laughs, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on something across the room.

“Ha! That’s good.” His dark brown eyes return to mine, and I swear I’m about to start writing sonnets or something equally stupid about the color brown. I want to start searching for flecks of amber or obsidian to obsess about like every girl inthose pink paperbacks. “’Cause, well, you see, my ex-girlfriend is on this cruise, too. She’s actually across the room right over there. It’s a long story, but our parents—they’re friends, and they booked this trip together? But then we broke up, and it was after the no-return window. So we all had to come on this trip anyway. And I want her to see that I’ve moved on. Because I have! So, could you pretend that we’re, you know, hanging out? Just for a little bit. Just to make her see that I’m definitely over her.”

He takes a deep breath, obviously relieved to get that off his chest. And there’s some embarrassment, too, in his expression, but mostly he looks hopeful. That I’ll go along with this plan to make his ex-girlfriend jealous.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I let myself think, even for a fleeting second, that this was finally my love story, that everything would happen for me just like it happens in all these ridiculous stories. I let myself believe in Tessa’s bullshit. Even though I know better!

But again, I’m not the prize. I’m just a pawn, a stepping-stone to another relationship with another girl. Like I was with Jay and Marcus.

I get another rush of nausea, and something hot and bitter burns the back of my throat. I need to get out of here before I make this even worse by adding vomit to the equation.

“Nah, fuck that,” I say, pushing past him and stomping out of the room.

Chapter Seven

“Why do you look like you’re plotting someone’s death?” Etta asks, wrinkling her nose.

We’re in the elevator on our way to the big Sail Away dinner, and I’m still fuming. If this was one of Tessa’s stories, what Alex did would be an exciting and promising beginning. If this was one of Tessa’s stories, we’d fake date to make his ex-girlfriend jealous before realizing that it’s not fake at all and fall in love and return to this same ship someday to get married and then have beautiful little brown-skinned babies who vacation in Italy every summer.

But it’s not one of Tessa’s stories, and instead, I’m just pissed. And nauseous.

“I’m fine,” I say, a lot sharper than I intend. The lady in a hot-pink track suit standing in the corner, who threw her arm in to stop the elevator, looks like she may be regretting that choice right about now.

“Better not be anybody in this family plotting someone’s death,” Dad says.

“Actually,” Etta says, “this would be the best place to plot and then carry out someone’s death. It would be much easier to get away with it, as prosecution would be tricky in international waters and you could always throw someone overboard and make it look like an accident. I was reading that twenty-two percent—”

“Etta.” Mom clamps her fingers together tightly, the universal motion for “shut your mouth.”

Wally laughs, though he doesn’t look up from his phone, and the hot-pink-track-suit lady stares at us with wide eyes, as if she’s memorizing all of our faces for when the cruise police come asking questions later.