Page 53 of Saltwater

Martina could be me—long dark hair, folded legs, arms crossed protectively across her stomach, passing on the champagne in a way that reminds me of the pregnancy test I still haven’t opened. I want to take her aside later. To tell her how to get out. But there’s no way out. And I would doanythingto never be her again. Which is why I’m here, why I work for the Lingates.

It’s hard to admit that I’ve switched teams.

“Are you joining us for dinner?” Helen asks. She’s settled next to me and is smiling. And I can see it then—I know the girls can, too—the difference. The way her skin and teeth and hair blister with health. The kind of health that says,I’ve never been desperate, I’ve never been hungry.Even after I nearly drowned her earlier, she still glows.

“No,” Sasha says. “Just a drink. Then we go to shore. There’s a party later tonight. At Taverna Anema e Core.”

“I’ve never been to Taverna Anema e Core,” Freddy says, and I’m surprised, even impressed, that he’s the one bridging the gap, “but I’ve heard great things. A big party spot, right?”

“Huge,” says Giulia. “That’s where we met Stan.”

The way she says it, she hisses theSat the beginning of his name, and it feels like a release, like the air being let out of our group. I can’t help it, my shoulders drop.

“You should go.” The voice comes from behind us, and we all turn to see Naomi. Her eyes are glassy, and she unsteadily sets a hand down on the back of the couch before slipping onto one of the seats. It’s possible she’s been there all along, lingering in the shadows that seem to proliferate on boats like this.

“Yes,” Sasha says. “Stan is coming after dinner. You should come with him.”

No.

“We’d love to,” Helen says.

It should warm me, the way Helen eagerly accepts Sasha’s invite, makes her human. But I don’t want to spend more time with Stan, give him more opportunities to corner me. And even though Helen doesn’t know it, she doesn’t want that either. It won’t help us.

“Where did they go?” Naomi asks. She means Marcus andRichard, who are no doubt on their way down to visit Stan’s replica of his original office, the one where he pioneered his first company. Stan, who paid to have a shrine to himself built on a boat that was already precisely that. Even the girls are looking at Naomi now, their eyes sliding from her to one another. It’s recognizable—her intoxication.

“I’m sure they’ll be right back,” Helen assures her.

“It’s just the champagne,” Naomi says to the girls.

Somehow, she knows they can see it.

It’s so much more than the champagne, but I’m surprised she can tell they’ve noticed. I have, perhaps, missed how observant Naomi is.

“Are we going to go to the bow?” Stan asks, returning with Richard and Marcus in tow, and he gives the girls the look that says:I hope you behaved.“I thought it would be nice to watch the lights of Amalfi during dinner.”

Before we came aboard, I considered anything that might get me out of this situation. But that’s the thing about men like Stan: they push hardest when they sense an opening. And what is fear if not an opening? I want to get this over with, so I stand. No one mentions Sasha, Martina, or Giulia. Before we leave the salon, I turn to them and say:

“Hopefully we’ll see you later.”

Ahead of me, I can hear Stan say, “The reason I wanted to show you the helicopter was to set up the big surprise tonight.”

“You’ve flown in a chef,” Marcus says, his voice deadpan.

“Well, yes. But”—and it’s clear he needs us to know this, that the food won’t be as good if we don’t—“not just any chef. When I heard that Cracco was vacationing in Positano, it seemed like a small favor to ask. Dinner for some good friends?”

Only they aren’t good friends. But Stan continues.

“Naturally, he said yes.” As we reach the bow, he adds, casually but cutting: “I’m surprised you haven’t booked anyone for while you’re here.”

“We make do,” Marcus says.

“Of course you do.”

The table is set with thick white linens and place cards. Stan sitsdirectly across from me, and I can feel my neck beginning to hurt from turning at an angle just to avoid his gaze. A constant physical strain to keep the peace. The first course comes out only minutes after we’ve placed napkins in our laps—delicate radishes and tomatoes, dotted with green foam and torn burrata. I take two bites, and Stan says:

“So how long have you two been together?”

“About two years now,” Helen says.

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