Page 24 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I would not describe myself as a possessive person. But I physically recoil when I see Hope being touched—tenderly caressed, more accurately—by some strange man.

Their posture is so intimate that I feel like I’m seeing something that should be happening in a locked room.

Where the fuck did this person come from? Did she randomly strike up a romance with some guy from surf class in the four hours since she left my bed?

Hope ducks away from the man and waves at us in a fashion that is unnaturally casual for a woman who was just staring into her companion’s eyes like a lover.

Prue, who is never at a loss for words, is frozen, looking daggers at this gentleman with whom Hope appeared to have been having a moment.

“Sorry, we’re interrupting!” Pear calls. “Don’t mind us.”

“Not at all!” Hope exclaims. “Join us!”

My sisters glance at me for a cue.

I don’t know what to do. If I refuse to say hello I’ll look infantile.

I nod, and head in their direction.

“Gabe, these are the Segraves,” Hope says. “Prue, Pear, and Felix. They’re on the cruise with us.”

Us.

Could it be that she met him days ago? That I’m not the only person with whom she’s been having a cruise ship flirtation? But where would she find the time?

The guy beams at us and holds out his hand to Pear. “Gabe Newhouse.”

Pear inclines her head inquisitively. “Where do I know that name from? Oh! You aren’t by chance related to Eliza Newhouse, are you?”

“My sister,” he says.

“I knew it! We met during my gap year in Paris. What a star, that one. I’ll have to call her to catch up, it’s been ages.”

She turns to me and Prue. “Eliza’s a film producer. She did Alouette . A real powerhouse.”

Gabe nods, the very picture of a proud sibling. “Nominated for Best Picture last year.”

“And they were robbed ,” my sister says.

“And how do you know Hope, Gabe?” Prue asks. Her tone is polite but not friendly. She is clearly not any more pleased to see Hope with this man than I am. “Did you meet on the boat?”

“Oh, no,” he says with a laugh. “We’re dear friends.”

His tone clearly implies they are more than that. Am I to gather that some lover of hers is on the cruise with us, and she didn’t think to mention it? Surely not. I’m jumping to conclusions. And even if I were correct, I’m not sure I have a right to the hurt that I feel.

But it’s there nonetheless.

“Can I get everyone a drink?” Gabe asks.

“Yes, please. What are you having, Hope?” Pear asks, looking covetously at the cocktail glass sweating in front of her.

“Pineapple jalapeno margarita,” Hope says. “It’s delicious.”

“I’ll have one of those,” Pear says.

“Same for me,” Prue echoes.

“And for you?” Gabe asks me.

I’m dying for a Coca-Cola, but I can’t stomach the idea of this man ordering me one. “I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Nonsense, have a drink,” he says affably. “A beer?”

“I’m sober,” I say flatly.

This is not something I would normally announce to a stranger, but I hate being pressured to drink. Especially by a charming all-American golden boy who is dear friends with the woman I—

I what?

Fucked?

I remind myself I don’t have a claim on her. I shouldn’t be pugnacious.

“Oh, sorry,” Gabe says.

“No worries. I’ll have a Coke, actually,” I say, straining for an ease I don’t feel.

Gabe flags down the bartender and orders a round.

“I thought you guys were zip-lining today,” Hope says.

Yes. Clearly.

“We tried,” Pear says, “but it was ghastly. Rickety ropes two hundred feet in the air? No thank you. I insisted we leave.”

“Prue and I were enjoying ourselves but dear sister here threw such a fit that it was more pleasant to go,” I say.

I’m not feeling particularly chatty, but I decide it’s better to make conversation than to stand sullenly off to the side and let Hope think I feel threatened.

“I did not throw a fit ,” Pear says primly. “I imposed a boundary. Anyhow, our guide recommended this beach club for lunch. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” Hope says. “We attempted to surf, but neither of us could get up on the board, even on land. Never made it into the water.”

I dislike her use of the word we . I also dislike that she seems slightly tipsy. A thing I have no business disapproving of, but which deepens my sense of unease about this whole situation.

My sisters ask Gabe where he lives and what he does, and he says he’s a book editor from New York.

My forced chill deserts me.

How many book editors from New York could one woman have dated? This must be the guy. The ex who broke her heart. He’s here, and he seemed on the verge of kissing her when we ran into them.

I feel absolutely shattered. I’m barely following the conversation—I’m wondering, in fact, if I can come up with an excuse to leave—when I hear my name.

Pear is telling Gabe about my pubs. He reacts as though she’s told him I own Noma, and starts peppering me with all sorts of questions about the cuisine and locations with a seeming genuine interest and friendliness that makes it hard to dislike him as much as I’m inclined to.

“Do you happen to know Matthew Reynaldo?” he asks. “We’re good friends.”

Matthew Reynaldo is a three–Michelin star chef and the owner of Schoolmarm, the most difficult booking to get in town.

“Afraid we haven’t met,” I say.

“ Great guy,” Gabe says. “If any of you ever need a table send me a word, any time. Hope has my number.”

“Yes, please ,” Pear says. “I’ve been dying to go, but they’re booked out five months.”

“Oh God, you must go,” Gabe says. “The nettle-smoked mackerel terrine is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Another round of drinks is ordered, and Gabe suggests we all sit down for lunch. Since lunch is the reason my sisters and I came here, I don’t have a plausible reason to say no.

We migrate over to a table with a view of the sea.

“So how exactly do you two know each other?” Prue asks Hope.

“We used to date,” Hope says, flitting her eyes in my direction for the first time since we got here. A silent apology? An acknowledgment of how uncomfortable this all is?

Gabe looks at her fondly. “She’s the one that got away.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but his expression makes me think he’s not kidding.

Her face twists like she just bit into a lemon she thought was an orange.

I can’t parse it. Is she angry at him? Or moved to hear he longs for her?

Whatever the case, there’s some emotion at work between the two of them that is not at all neutral, and it is excruciating to observe.

Hope stands up abruptly. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. “Can someone order me the snapper if the waiter comes by?”

“Of course,” Gabe says, at the same time I say, “Sure.”

Gabe’s eyes follow her as she walks away.

Pear starts peppering him with questions about books, looking for recommendations. Gabe goes into a monologue about upcoming releases and brilliant debuts with apparent relish, while Pear whips out her phone to write it all down.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Hope.

Hope: This is so awkward. I’m sorry!

My acculturation as a Brit makes it my impulse to write something like “not at all” but I am too frankly pissed to wave it away. I settle on:

Felix: It’s a bit weird, yeah.

Hope: I didn’t know he was here—he’s randomly on the cruise with his grandma.

Hope: Just found out this morning.

It’s not generous of me, but I can’t help wondering if she’s telling the truth. Could she really not have known he was here? Am I a pawn in some sort of revenge game? An effort to make him jealous?

Regardless, I’m not going to ask her via text.

Felix: Got it.

Hope: Coming back. Just wanted to let you know privately.

I don’t like the formal nature of her phrasing. I type “thanks.”

The food arrives right as Hope returns. The fish appears to be perfect, served blackened with a side of rice and peas and a bright slaw of onion, cabbage, and mango.

I can’t taste it.

Gabe looks at his phone and winces. “Hope, we’d better go. Our van leaves to go back to port in five minutes.”

She nods and wipes her mouth with a napkin as he throws several hundred-dollar bills on the table.

“My treat,” he says. “It was so nice to meet you all. Let’s do it again on the boat.”

“Absolutely!” Pear says.

Hope, standing out of his eyeline, looks at me, clenches her teeth, and shakes her head no.

I know she wants to reassure me. I can see that, whatever is happening here, she feels terrible.

But as I watch them walk away together, I can also see the familiarity between them. The way they fall into step like people who intimately know each other’s rhythms.

I can’t shake the fear that I’ve lost something I just barely had.