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“Jamie! Stop it! I’m not in the mood.” I cross my arms over my belly and lay back in my lounger.
“Anna Anderson?” It’s Eduardo Montoya, probably coming over to ask me to karaoke duel with him at the talent show tonight. “Haven’t seen much of you this week, hon. How has the cruise been for you?” I’m not singing. That’s the last thing I need. Anna calls my singing worse than a cat in a fight. My mother refers to it as my attempt at yodeling. So yeah, it’s time to bow out of that damn show. Let operation “too sick to sing” commence.
“It’s been busy!” I say, doing my very best impression of having a barely-there voice. I put my hand to my throat as if it’s sore and difficult to speak. “Over-did the partying a little,” I say, making my voice hoarse. “So about tonight, I won’t be able…”
“Hey,” Jamie brushes one hand over my hair and points with the other. I fall silent. Behind Eduardo, a lanky man leaves the workout area and crosses the pool deck. His thick, dark hair glistens in the sun, and his bare biceps say this guy works out and isn’t afraid to show it. He has his phone in his hand, and he’s talking at it like he’s on video. My chest hums.
“Is that?” Jamie whispers.
“It is,” Oscar says.
“Sebastian!” I stand up and wave. This is why he never said goodbye! He didn’t leave! When he sees me, he looks pained, but he says something into his phone and then comes towards us.
“You were saying?” Eduardo asks me.
“I, er…” I’ve shouted, blowing my sore throat story. “I wasn’t sure if I should still sing ‘Conga’in the talent show, or maybe something else.”
“Yes, it’s her, Gran,” Sebastian says, turning his phone towards me. His Grandma Maeve waves at me from her hospital bed and I wave back. She looks pale, but happy, and she has a cup of red Jell-O in her hands, which she seems attached to, judging from her tight grip.
“Did I hear you talking about singing ‘Conga’ in the talent show, dear?” Grandma Maeve asks.
“Maybe.” I’m still going to find a way out of this.
“How wonderful!” She sounds delighted by this news. “You know that’s my favorite song?”
“Yes, Sebastian told me.” Sebastian shifts from foot to foot.
“Goodness! You know what would make me so happy?” She taps someone next to her. Now I’m staring at both of Sebastian’s grandparents, his grandfather peering at me from the side of the screen. “Have Sebastian call me on FaceTime again tonight so I can see you sing, dear. It’ll be almost like being there myself.”
“Sebastian’s Gran loves all the fun that happens on board a cruise ship,” his grandfather says. I’m done for. Let down an old woman in her hospital bed? No way. And if she means more than anything in the world to the man I’ve fallen for, but have been lying to for a week? Hell yes, I’ll agree to whatever she wants. Even if it means making goat sounds on stage in front of two-hundred people while trying to channel the hottest Latina singer of the eighties.
But a knot forms in my belly. The last time I sang in front of people was alongside several of my cousins at Anna’s wedding. A single line of my off-key lyrics sent some of Anna’s friends into fits of hysteria, so I stopped singing and let my cousins carry the tune while I mouthed the words. This time I won’t have any cousins to help me. I’ll be alone in front of hundreds of people, all laughing at me.
“I look forward to it,” Eduardo says, dubiously. He heads off to find other talent show victims. Grandma Maeve says goodbye to me, and I hand her back to Sebastian.
“See you at the show,” Sebastian says before he trails away, still talking to his grandparents. He still looks tense. But as much as I feel for him, I’m relieved. He’s still here, which means I’ll have another chance to see him before the cruise is over. A chance to talk, for real.
* * *
SEBASTIAN
“When will Anna come on stage?” Gran asks, her voice crackling through my earbuds, which I’ve set to full volume in order to hear her over the sound system in the theater. The woman on stage is singing Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and like Adele would, she’s belting it.
“Anna’s next!” I say, shouting. The people in the row ahead of Jamie, Oscar, and me turn and glare. Jamie makes a swirling finger gesture, and I can imagine him telling them to turn their “pretty little heads around.” They do.
Since realizing there was no way to get home any sooner than a half a day before my existing flight is scheduled to land, I settled for FaceTiming Gran and Gramps as much as I can. Except for sleeping and a long workout, I’ve been on with them the whole day. Gran seems perky again, and Gramps says that seeing my face makes her feel better. Besides, it’s a relief to see her back at home tonight, in her own bed, with a clean bill of health from her doctors and simple orders to drink lots of water, get lots of rest, and take care of herself.
“Is this it? Is this it?” Gran says into my ear, as Fauxdele takes her bows. Eduardo runs onto the stage, his shiny black tuxedo lapels glinting with glitter under the lights.
“And that was Kristina Burnbaum singing Adele, ladies and gentlemen!” He shouts into his mic. “Next up, we have a very special guest, straight from Hollywood! She’s a Meghan Marconi look-alike, with a nightclub act of her own! Let me introduce Mrs. Anna Anderson-Bryson, singing ‘Conga,’ by Gloria Estefan!”
When people see Anna, the crowd goes wild. She looks a lot like Meghan Marconi tonight, in a tight, white strapless dress that comes halfway down her thighs, with big hair, smokey eyes, and a bold pink lip. When I turn Gran to face towards the stage, she inhales. I know, Gran, I know. My chest has gone tight and my mouth is dry. Anna’s beautiful, and she’s off limits, and likely a cheater, and I can’t get mixed up with her any further. She makes me want to do things I shouldn’t.
If there’s one thing that Gran’s scare has reminded me, it’s what matters. And it isn’t the fancy job at Ulla Beauty. It’s not working on this case for Mike. It’s taking care of the people I love. I’m focusing on Gran and Gramps from here on out. I told Mike about Anna’s strange phone call with someone she claimed was him, but I’m done spying on her. When I get back to LA, I’m declining the job offer at Ulla Beauty and paying Mike back for this trip.
Three blaring notes of salsa trumpet launch Anna’s act. “Conga” is riotous, loud, and sexy, but Anna looks stiff and pale. Instead of starting to sing the chorus when it’s her cue, she stares, glassy-eyed, at the crowd for a whole melody-line too long. The rhythmic cowbell tinkle taps alone in the air for several measures, and then the piano chimes in, and then an eighties synthesizer and drum machine fill in behind. But still not a peep from Anna.
The three introductory salsa trumpets of “Conga” blare again, and Anna seems to break out of her stupor, whispering the words, “Come on, shake your body, baby, do the Conga,” with little conviction. The crowd rustles.
