Their posture is so intimate that I feel like I’m seeing something that should be happening in a locked room.
Where the fuck did this person come from? Did she randomly strike up a romance with some guy from surf class in the four hours since she left my bed?
Hope ducks away from the man and waves at us in a fashion that is unnaturally casual for a woman who was just staring into her companion’s eyes like a lover.
Prue, who is never at a loss for words, is frozen, looking daggers at this gentleman with whom Hope appeared to have been having a moment.
“Sorry, we’re interrupting!” Pear calls. “Don’t mind us.”
“Not at all!” Hope exclaims. “Join us!”
My sisters glance at me for a cue.
I don’t know what to do. If I refuse to say hello I’ll look infantile.
I nod, and head in their direction.
“Gabe, these are the Segraves,” Hope says. “Prue, Pear, and Felix. They’re on the cruise with us.”
Us.
Could it be that she met him days ago? That I’m not the only person with whom she’s been having a cruise ship flirtation? But where would she find the time?
The guy beams at us and holds out his hand to Pear. “Gabe Newhouse.”
Pear inclines her head inquisitively. “Where do I know that name from? Oh! You aren’t by chance related to Eliza Newhouse, are you?”
“My sister,” he says.
“I knew it! We met during my gap year in Paris. What a star, that one. I’ll have to call her to catch up, it’s been ages.”
She turns to me and Prue. “Eliza’s a film producer. She didAlouette. A real powerhouse.”
Gabe nods, the very picture of a proud sibling. “Nominated for Best Picture last year.”
“And they wererobbed,” my sister says.
“And how do you know Hope, Gabe?” Prue asks. Her tone is polite but not friendly. She is clearly not any more pleased to see Hope with this man than I am. “Did you meet on the boat?”
“Oh, no,” he says with a laugh. “We’re dear friends.”
His tone clearly implies they are more than that. Am I to gather that some lover of hers is on the cruise with us, and she didn’t think tomentionit? Surely not. I’m jumping to conclusions. And even if I were correct, I’m not sure I have a right to the hurt that I feel.
But it’s there nonetheless.
“Can I get everyone a drink?” Gabe asks.
“Yes, please. What are you having, Hope?” Pear asks, looking covetously at the cocktail glass sweating in front of her.
“Pineapple jalapeño margarita,” Hope says. “It’s delicious.”
“I’ll have one of those,” Pear says.
“Same for me,” Prue echoes.
“And for you?” Gabe asks me.
I’m dying for a Coca-Cola, but I can’t stomach the idea of this man ordering me one. “I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”
