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Victor
At breakfast the next morning, I say a few quiet words to the waiter. When he brings all the plates of sausages and eggs, he hands me a little plastic carton of strawberry yogurt. My happiness as I peel the top back and lick the creamy bits of strawberry off my spoon dies when I realize Dad’s glaring at me like I just embarrassed all of our ancestors. Since it’s already too late, I cross my legs in my chair and make eye contact as I run my tongue up the spoon.
A woman from the film crew stops by our table, leaning between Ethan and I to show us the plan for today’s commercial shoot. “The story is pretty simple. You two have just met and Victor is taking you out on his yacht.”
Ethan’s face pales, and his eyes search out mine. “A boat?”
“It’s ok.” I poke his knee with my finger. “The Mediterranean is only about five thousand feet deep, and it’s never choppy except for windy days like today.”
The assistant gives me a weird look as she hands me the schedule. “The yacht is perfectly safe. Please be at the dock by nine o’clock so we can get started on hair and wardrobe.”
“I’ll be joining you today,” my father announces from across the table. “This is our relaunch ad; it needs to be perfect.” My skin crawls.
As the assistant walks away, I wad up her document and stuff it into my empty yogurt container. I stand up, nudging Ethan’s chair with my foot. “Let’s go.” It’s not until I reach the door of the dining room that I realize he’s not behind me. My father and my fake boyfriend have their heads together; every time Dad says something, Ethan nods.
My hand tightens on the door, and I regret not leaving my stomach empty. I’m so hungover that I take out my sunglasses and slide them on.
Is he the reason you came to the party? Is he the reason you didn’t let me fall?
Of course he is.
No one comes for me unless they want something.
And you want money a fucking hell of a lot more than you want anything I have to offer.
He doesn’t look at me as he passes and leads the way to the cars waiting outside. There’s a hint of sunburn on the back of his neck and arms that reminds me how sweet he tasted.
The day is beautiful but uneasy, bright sun with a breeze that’s just too strong for comfort, sending clouds scudding across the blue sky. A huge, cream-colored yacht with teakwood accents rocks slowly at mooring, dotted with film crew setting up their equipment.
Ethan hesitates at the bottom of the loading ramp. “What’s she called?” I ask, nudging him with my shoulder. “Titanic Jr.?”
“That’s the best you could come up with?” he grumbles as we take off our sneakers and put on deck shoes. Dad and Gray are immediately escorted to a shaded dining area, while Ethan and I head to a room inside that has been converted into a wardrobe. The blue shorts they hand me fit very tight, and when I start to button up the shirt they gesture for me to leave it open. It’s hard not to laugh at how awkward Ethan looks in white pants and a navy-and-white striped polo, but at least he gets to wear real clothes.
Sansone Campagna, dressed in yet another infinity scarf, shakes our hands. “Welcome on board, gentlemen. We’re about to push off. I want to get a shot of your backs as you watch the land recede.”
Those last few words have Ethan looking queasy again. He stands as far from the railing as possible without ruining the shot.
“We’re supposed to like each other, remember?” I hook an arm around his waist as the engines purr to life and the water below us starts to churn. Naples, green and gold, spread wide across the hills, moves steadily away from us. If I turn I can see Capri as a dot in the distance. It really is a hell of a way to swim with nowhere to rest.
Ethan’s hand finds the spot where my shirt rides up on the back of my shorts. “Why do people have boats? They’re awful.” He’s sulking like this isn’t one of the most beautiful sights in the world.
“You love to fucking suffer, don’t you? If you don’t have enough reasons, you make something up.”
Just as he’s about to answer, Campagna ends the shot. For the next hour, we’re herded all over the boat—sit here, sit there, look at the water. It’s almost relaxing. Ethan smiles a few times, for real, forgetting where he is, and I pass the time waiting to see if it will happen again.
For the first time, I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I don’t need to fight.
“Let's have Victor do some still shots,” Campagna calls out. “To drive social media engagement. Tanner, you can go ahead and sit down for lunch. We’ll only be a minute.”
My photographer leads me along the deck, then turns down some steep stairs into the cabins. I hesitate, glancing back to where Ethan is climbing down from the sunbathing area near the bow. He gives me a sharp look, a Dad look, that saysjust do what you’re told.
We walk so far it feels impossible, like we should be outside the bottom of the boat, into a huge berth with a king-sized bed illuminated by a bank of studio lights. I stop in the doorway and dig my toes into the thick carpet.
“Can you sit on the edge of the bed?” the guy asks, fiddling with his camera.
“What’s this for again?” I bite my lip, studying the room.
He sighs. “Social media. We need some pictures to draw people in, get a lot of shares and likes so they follow the link to the app.”
