"And Jackson... if you are not gliding by 18:00.. I will have Enzo break your legs and reset them myself."
She marches out of the Cathedral, her heels clicking like gunshots on the marble.
The silence returns.
"Well," Preston says, dusting salt off his hands. "That went well. I particularly enjoyed the part where O'Malley praised the Pontiff for the open bar."
"She’s going to kill me," Jax says, sliding down the pillar until he is sitting on the holy floor. "She’s going to throw me overboard. I’m going to die in the Hudson. I’ll be Jennifer the Drowned Bride."
"Jennifer is a survivor," Luke says, patting Jax on the head. "Here. Have some pretzel. It absorbs the fear."
Jax takes a bite of the pretzel. He chews slowly.
"It needs salt," Jax decides.
"I told you," Luke says.
"To the boat," I say, reaching down to help Jax up. "We have one hour to change. And Jax?"
"Yeah?"
"Change the shoes."
"Oh, thank god," Jax breathes. "I was going to amputate my feet in the limo."
We are standing outside of our apartment building. The city is loud, busy, and indifferent to our drama.
A white stretch limousine pulls up. It is gaudy. It is excessive. It is Alistair’s.
The window rolls down. Alistair leans out. He has changed into his "Boat Attire"—the white dinner jacket and the neon magenta cummerbund.
"Get in, losers!" Alistair shouts, turning down the volume onThe Girl from Ipanema. "We’re going to sea! I brought the life vests! And the Xanax!"
"Why life vests?" Jax asks, eyeing the car with suspicion.
"Because we are sinking!" Alistair laughs, a maniacal, joyful sound. "This family is a sinking ship, Jackson! But we’re going down with style! And an open bar!"
"He’s not wrong," Preston says, opening the door. "Shotgun."
"You can't call shotgun in a limo," Luke argues, diving in after him.
I look at Jax. He is pale. He is holding a packet of ginger chews like a rosary.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No," Jax says. "But I love you. So... let’s go get yelled at on a boat."
"That is the spirit," I say.
We climb into the limo. The door shuts. The air conditioning hits us. And as the car pulls away into the Manhattan traffic, heading toward the pier and the inevitable disaster of theS.S. Sovereign, I take Jax’s hand.
"If I were to work out the probabilities," I whisper, "I suspect I would find that we will survive."
"Don't quote me odds," Jax says, resting his head on my shoulder. "Just hold my hand when I throw up."
"Always," I promise.
And we drive toward the water.
