“Sabbi, I’m sorry. But I’m not into it,” Tom says.
“But the photographer is expecting us.”
“I don’t want to do it. Us,” Tom says. “I don’t want to do us.”
Sabbi’s mouth is slightly ajar. Her eyes are wide. Her head cocked to the side. She reminds me of a little bird.
It takes her a full count of three Mississippi to realize what he is saying.
“Oh,” she says.
This is definitely the first time she has been turned down.
I should not, should not, should not enjoy it. (However, I do.)
“But … if they just have photos of us together from one event, it looks like a one-night stand. That’s not what we’re going for,” she says.
“I’m sorry, Sabbi, but this girl is in trouble,” Tom says. “We need to go.”
She looks at him, at Viv, whose head is lolling back in the air, and at me.
“I will be calling your people,” she says in a voice like stone.
“Which way to your room?” Tom asks me.
TOM
DAY FOUR
“OH MY GOD,” Vivika moans. She looks up at me. “Baby Tom-Tom is carrying me.”
“You passed out,” Laurel says. She’s rumbling with her room key, having trouble getting the door unlocked.
“You can put me down,” the girl tells me.
“Viv, you fainted right in the dining hall,” Laurel says.
I set Viv onto her feet. She’s pretty wobbly.
Laurel gets the door open and Viv teeters in.
Their room is the mirror image of mine, except it’s really messy. Clothes are draped everywhere. There’s shoes and boots strewn around, and magazines.
I see the last issue of US Weekly. I know there’s a picture of me in the “Stars Are Just Like Us” section. I’m shirtless and drinking a Jamba Juice. Jamba paid me to take that shot.
Viv sits on the couch.
“Nu-uh,” Laurel says, pointing. “Get in bed.”
Viv slumps her way over to the bed.
“Tell me, what did you eat today while I was gone. Anything?”
Viv shakes her head, miserable. She starts to cry.
“I’m sorry I was so mean. I just feel horrible. I have this monster headache and it won’t go away.”
Laurel gives her a hug.
“I should go,” I say.
“No,” they both say at the same time.
“Please don’t go,” Laurel says.
She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm.
Her touch, which is very gentle, sends a jolt through my body. An electric jolt.
I can’t tell if she feels it, too, because she turns back to her friend.
I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.
Laurel hands her friend an apple and a handful of walnuts from the fruit basket and gives her a bottle of milk from their mini-fridge.
“I didn’t know the fridges had milk,” I comment.
Laurel blushes.
“Huh,” she says. “Well, ours does.”
“Because we’re underage,” Viv adds.
“Oh! I’m only nineteen, but mine is stocked with beer and liquor. Weird.”
“You’re a VIP,” Viv says.
“Hey, um, just how underage are you guys?” I ask.
They both laugh and I realize I’m the one blushing now.
“We’re both seventeen,” Viv says. Then, “Phew, right?”
I laugh out loud.
“Right. I guess.”
I push some of the clothes to the side and sit on the couch.
“Sorry it’s so messy,” Laurel says. “I was in a rush.”
“She was late,” Viv adds.
Laurel starts tidying up while Viv munches her apple.
“I went snorkeling. Have you ever been snorkeling?” Laurel asks me.
“No,” I say.
“It’s so beautiful.”
“If it’s so beautiful, why is it called snorkeling?” Viv says. “That has to be the ugliest word ever! Snooorkel.”
Laurel laughs.
She’s so pretty when she laughs. I can’t help but grin.
“It sounds like a villain from Game of Thrones,” Laurel says. “I am Snorkel. Bow to me!”
“I used to get the word snorkel confused with yodel,” I confess. “When I was around seven we did a couple episodes in Hawaii and I kept trying to get my tutors to go yodel with me.”
Both the girls laugh.
“I remember those episodes. You ate some poi and did this funny gagging thing,” Viv says.
Laurel’s done hanging up the clothes and starts tossing the shoes into the closet.
“That was vanilla pudding. The real poi almost made me throw up for real.”
Laurel comes out of the closet now and there’s nowhere for her to sit but next to me on the couch.
But she looks to me, then away, and goes to sort of perch next to Viv on the bed.
Yeah. Shy.
“Laur, play something for us,” Viv says.
“No.” Laurel shakes her head. “No.”
“Yeah! Do,” I say. “Play that crazy fast thing from the deck.”
She’s got that “modesty” look on her face—like she wants to play and is happy to have been asked, but doesn’t want to look like a show-off.
“Really, Laur. Please? It will help me to feel better,” Viv pleads.
“Okay,” she says.
Laurel rises and gets her guitar from the closet.
“Here, sit here,” I say. I slide off the couch and sit on the floor.
She takes the guitar out of the case and tunes it for a good, long while.
“Mind if I have an apple?” I ask.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Viv says. “Our fruit basket is your fruit basket.”
Laurel looks up, “This is ‘Lágrima,’ by Francisco Tárrega.”
It’s this light, little dancing melody. I’m transfixed by her fingers, darting all over the strings.
She hits some wrong note only she can hear and grimaces.
There’s a center section to the song that’s more sad, and then it comes back around to the first phrases again.
She finishes.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” she says.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her.
“I need to work on that last transition.”
“No, it sounded great.”
“Ugh, my fingers are so slow. You should hear someone really good do it—”
“Hey, listen to me, when someone likes your work, just say thank you. When you apologize, it takes something away from them. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Laurel gives a single nod. Viv nods enthusiastically. “That’s what I’ve been telling her for years!”
Viv pulls the covers up. She yawns. “Play me my favorite, please, sweetie?”
“Okay.”
I lean back and stretch my legs out so I’m lying on the floor, raised on my forearms.
Laurel shakes out her hands and sits up straight. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, getting it out of the way, and begins to play.
This one I know. I’ve heard it played at weddings—very slow and pretty.
I lie down, resting my head on my elbow, and I watch her.
There’s a wall sconce behind her and it’s picking up a halo of blond flyaways.
She’s not the best guitar player in the world, but it feels really special somehow, to be in a room with someone who can make music.
It’s weird that her playing this beautiful music makes me want to grab her and make out. Do all guys have this same urge to, like, tackle delicate things?
She finishes and there’s a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Viv’s heavy sleep-breathing.
“Beautiful.”
She takes a beat, then says, “Thank you.”
Laurel sets the guitar next to her on the couch and I rise, on my knees.
I put one hand next to her on the couch.
S
he looks at me, our eyes connecting in the dim light.
I move toward her, just a bit, and she moves away. I’d better do this right.
“Laurel,” I whisper. “Can I kiss you?”
She gulps, and her eyes dart to her sleeping roommate.
She takes my hand and rises.
I get to my feet and Laurel leads me …
Into the closet.
There’s shoes everywhere—the ones Laurel threw in earlier—and we stumble a bit. She pulls the doors closed behind us and the light goes out.
I can’t see a thing.
She is really shy.
I graze my fingers up her arm, tracing them along her neck.
Go slow, I tell myself.
I put one hand on either side of her face and I bring my mouth to hers.
Her lips part. Her mouth is soft.
She has her hands up, touching my hair.
I move my hands to her back.
She’s not all skin and bones, which I like. I like it too much.
Slowly now, I tell myself.
I lean into her, just a little, and we sway. She steps back to steady herself.
“Ow!” she says.
“Sorry!”
“No, it’s good. I stepped on a hanger, that’s all,” she says.
“I think I’m standing on a boot,” I confess.
“That’s probably true. I like boots.”
I can feel her breath on my neck.
“Do you want to go up on deck?” I ask. I’m thinking about starlight. Should be romantic. Moonlight on the waves. That kind of thing.
“Can I tell you the truth?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
“No.”
LAUREL
DAY FOUR
“OKAY,” HE SAYS, drawing back a bit.
He’s got his hands on my hips. Mine are resting on his (hugely muscular) forearms.
I know he’s nineteen, but he smells like a full-grown-man man. Like a lumberjack. Leather, soap, spice—everything you ever thought they’d put into the best cologne in the world.
He smells so good I feel faint in the knees.
That’s the problem.
He’s so everything that my brain feels flooded.
How am I going to explain this to him?
“Is it … because of people with cameras?” he asks.
“No!” I exclaim. “That’s not it.”
I put my hand on his shoulder and pull him back to me.
My heart is hammering so hard.
“The thing is, about you, is that you are very, very handsome.”
I’m so glad he can’t see my face right now.
“And when I’m around you, I get a little overwhelmed. So if we stay in the dark for a while, I thought maybe it would help me … get used to you.”
And now I feel like I can hear him smiling.
“Okay,” he says.
His breath is sweet, like nutmeg.
He moves and pushes some boots or shoes with his feet.
“It would be easier if there was less stuff around,” he says.
It is pretty cluttered in this closet.
“Wait,” I say. I bend down and feel around on the floor, moving all the shoes up onto one of the built-in dressers. I’m basically on my hands and knees, rooting around his legs.
“This is a new one, for me,” he says.
A laugh bursts out of me.
“This is what we do in Fort Lauderdale, on dates,” I say. “We get boys into dark places and then we clean around their feet.”
“It’s pretty kinky.”
I try to get up, but it’s awkward, then he finds my elbows and hoists me up.
“You’re really strong,” I say.
“I’m pretty strong,” he says. He puts his mouth on my neck and kisses me.
“And you can breakdance.”
“We call it b-boy,” he says. “I don’t know why it’s called that, but it is.”
His hands are so strong. Everywhere he touches me lights up with this warm, electric longing.
“Tom?”
“Yes?”
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being famous,” I say.
He pulls away and exhales. I feel him run his hand through his hair.
“Dumb question. I’m sorry,” I apologize.
“No, it’s okay.”
He leans away from me, onto the bureau behind him.
“I don’t know,” he begins. “It’s fun. And it’s a pain in the ass. You feel like you never have enough. And sometimes you wish you were just a regular guy … but not for very long.” He sighs and my heart wrenches in my chest.
“You get used to it,” he says.
“Can I ask you one other thing?” I say.
The darkness is helping me feel brave. I know I’d never ask him this, not in a million years, in the light of day.
“Do you wish I was thinner?”
“No!” he says immediately with a gentle scoff in his voice. “No.”
“Because I know I don’t look like girls in Hollywood and I don’t even want to be like them, to tell you the truth—”
“Your body is … it’s … it’s luscious and soft and, I don’t know, real.”
I am experiencing a whole-body blush.
“And reality’s okay?” I ask.
“Reality’s … hot,” he says.
His hands slide around my hips and up my back.
“Reality is hot,” I say.
I put my hands on his neck. I run them up, over his stubbly jaw, over the cleft in his chin. He makes a low sound in his throat that makes me weak in the knees.
I touch his cheeks, his eyebrows, his ears.
“I really like reality,” he says.
His thumbs rub down my hipbones. Right near my belly and I don’t draw back.
I lean up and kiss him on the mouth, pressing my mouth into his. Pressing my body into his.
“When you touch me I feel like … uhm, like I’ve never felt this way before. Not with any other girl.”
“Not even that famous one?”
“Nope. What we had … I think I get it now. She was right. It was no fun. There was no juice. No spark.”
I kiss him and he kisses me back.
(There’s a spark, all right.)
“Okay,” I say after a while. “We can leave the closet.”
“It is getting a little hot in here,” he says.
“Steamy,” I add.
He laughs and I push open the doors.
We step out of the closet, out of the room, and into the hall.
It’s really, really weird to be out in the light. We’re both squinting and I shield my eyes against the light.
“I liked it better in the closet,” he says. “Do you want to go get a drink or something? Some milk?”
“No. I think I’d better go to bed,” I say.
It’s a lot to take in, frankly.
And I don’t want to rush anything. It would be easy, very, deliciously easy, to go too far with this guy. I don’t want to do that. (I like him too much.)
“We’re in Belize tomorrow,” I say. “Any chance you can get free to do some yodeling with me?”
He smiles.
“I doubt it. Tamara’s got me working all day. But I have my night free.”
“Okay,” I say.
He pulls out his iPhone. “I should get your phone number. I’ll text you when I’m free.”
I’m about to explain that I’m not allowed to use my phone on board—that it’s too expensive, when he frowns. “This is weird. I have no bars at all. I had five just before dinner.”
“The ship has its own hotspot thing, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“Tamara told me we’d probably lose connectivity,” he says. “I guess she was right.”
He frowns at his phone, trying to refresh the screen.
It’s still easier to look at him when he’s not looking rig
ht at me. I can’t help it.
He looks like he did when he was a boy, as he’s working the phone. It’s something about the way he is concentrating.
It’s weird that I know what he looked like as a boy.
And also weird that his real personality is nothing like the goofy rascal he played on The Magnificent Andersons. He’s more restrained and serious.
Maybe more ambitious. I get the feeling he doesn’t goof around, much. Focused is a better word.
“What?” he says, looking up and seeing my expression.
“I was just thinking how much better you are in person,” I say.
He pulls me into an embrace.
“You’re a real surprise, Laurel Willard,” he tells me.
“You, too, Tom Fiorelli … Hey, how’d you know my last name?” I ask.
“I made the concierge give it to me. Didn’t you get my messages last night?”
I shake my head.
“Well, do yourself a favor and erase them!” he says.
“Are you kidding? I’m going to listen to them right now.”
“Oh, jeez. That’s just … whatever.”
He’s grinning and embarrassed. He’s beautiful.
“Good night,” I say.
“Good night.”
“Laurel, hi, this is Tom Fiorelli. Look, the thing with Sabbi. I don’t know if you even care, but listen, that’s something our publicists cooked up. It’s not real. I don’t like her at all. Please. My suite is number 1041. Just call me back if you get this, okay?”
“Hi there, it’s Tom Fiorelli again. Well, I really hope this is the right room. Laurel, I looked everywhere for you and I realized on the last message I left that I didn’t say sorry. Well, I am sorry. Sometimes I’m a jerk. That’s the truth. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t give me another chance because everyone acts like a jerk sometimes. Right? I mean, I think they do. Anyway I did and I’m sorry and I’d better hang up now before I say something even more stupid … God, please don’t sell this to TMZ, okay? My publicist would kill me. I hope I get to talk to you again soon. Find me, okay?”
I am grinning and spinning with joy as I lie on the bed next to my konked-out best friend and listen to Tom Fiorelli’s sweet run-on apologies.
My Tom Fiorelli, who feels for me what I feel for him.
Viv was right—this cruise is changing everything! It has changed everything.
TOM
DAY FIVE
I’M DRESSING in the day’s wardrobe—fresh from my workout. It felt great to hit the gym hard. Exercising when you’re pissed feels good ’cause you can work it out. But exercising when you’re actually excited about something in your life—it’s like going to church.
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