All of us from the second car shake our heads no. “We didn’t have anything,” I say.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Summer exclaims. “We had them, so I figured you did. We have to get you something to eat.”
Bernard looks up from his cell phone and shakes his head. “We go to the boat. John wants you there when he arrives.”
Summer sighs and looks at us with genuine pity. “I’m so sorry. You can have whatever you want as soon as we get to the boat,” she promises.
We force smiles and nod.
“The tender is down at the water.” Bernard points toward the water, a few hundred yards away. “The cars are too big. We’ll walk.”
We follow Bernard down another picturesque cobblestone street, the reflected light between the buildings turning gold as the sun makes its daily journey toward the sea. The only one of us talking is Brittani, loudly telling Amythest a graphic story about a guy she was having sex with at a fraternity party and managed to throw up on, then passed out naked on his bed, only to wake to two guys standing over her, pouring beer on her. It’s nauseating. I want to slap some sense into her, for the sake of womankind. But I know that would be an exercise in futility. I briefly wish my thoughtful, clever little sister were here in her place. Ha! As if Lauren would be caught dead playing the role of eye candy on some billionaire’s yacht.
As we near the bottom of the hill, the road empties into a promenade along the sea where lovers stroll hand in hand and children splash in a fountain. The sun is sinking in the sky, taking with it the heat of the day, and a fresh breeze blows off the water, lifting my hair from my shoulders. A row of restaurants overlook the lapping sea, their outdoor tables filled with laughter over afternoon aperitifs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the breeze on my skin, inhaling the salt air, and imprint the scene on my mind, for use at a later date when I’m back in my real life.
I open my eyes to see that the others are almost at the bay and run to catch them as they scurry across the wooden planks behind Bernard toward a large white motorized tender. A tall, thin guy about our age dressed in a crisp white uniform with a name tag that reads HUGO hands us into the boat one by one. His shoulder-length curly brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his smile is warm as he warns each of us in heavily accented English, “Careful, slippery,” and “Sit in back if you don’t want get wet.”
I take a seat on the back row next to Summer and turn to appreciate the sight of the town growing smaller as we chug out of the bay. Wendy whips out her phone and begins taking pictures, and all the girls follow suit, snapping a flurry of shots of the town, the sea, and one another. I frame the town with the mountains above and water below, and post it with the tagline “Vacation begins.” I briefly worry that I’ve somehow violated the NDA, but Summer doesn’t say anything, so I’m probably okay.
Once we exit the slow zone, Hugo shouts over the rumble of the motor, “Ladies, hold on to your hats,” and hits the gas.
Brittani whoops. I do indeed hold on to my hat as the front of the boat lifts up and we skim over the tops of the waves headed out to sea. Summer leans in and shouts in my ear, “I’m sorry about the food. Believe me, there will be plenty the rest of the trip.”
“No worries. I’m just glad to be here. I’ve been needing a vacation. The bar is killing me.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long. We’ll figure something out. You’re so talented, and now that John’s funding movies, I’m sure we can get you in something soon. I mean, he has the money—he can kinda make them do whatever he wants.”
As much as I would love to believe that’s true, we both know John would never in a million years stick out his neck for me. “That would be awesome,” I say.
Wendy scoots over next to me. “What are you girls talking about?”
“Just plotting Belle’s imminent success,” Summer says. She grabs our hands and gives them a squeeze. “I’m so glad you guys are here. Now we just need to get you appropriate boyfriends.”
I laugh. “I think our ideas of ‘appropriate’ are a little different.”
“Whatever,” Summer says. “I’m telling you, you’ve gotta stop dating these broke artists and meet a real man who can give you what you deserve.”
“You date who you meet,” I say. “And I meet struggling actors, mostly. Dylan wasn’t, though.” I study her for a reaction, but she’s unreadable.
“You went out with him once,” she laughs. “I wouldn’t exactly call that dating.”
“Because he lives in a different country,” I protest. “But we still message each other sometimes.”
She raises her brows.
“He’s devastated about losing his brother, understandably,” I plow on. I can tell I’m getting under her skin now. “His grandmother lives out here apparently, though? He said he might be visiting, so I told him I’d let him know if we were close.”
“You probably won’t have time to see him this trip,” she shrugs, keeping her cards close to her chest. “And anyway, if you guys were really into each other, you would have found a way to see each other again before now.”
She’s not wrong. “Sorry for bringing it up,” I say. I wonder if we both know how far I’m stretching the truth.
“It’s okay. Just don’t say anything about Eric in front of John.” She looks pointedly at both me and Wendy. “You guys know I’m still messed up over what happened, but the last thing I need is everyone talking about it.”
“What does John know?” I ask.
“Nothing. And I’d like to keep it that way. Okay?”
Wendy and I nod obediently.
Summer pats my knee, softening her tone. “We’ll be having dinner with plenty of John’s friends this trip. Maybe you’ll meet someone; then you won’t have to worry about getting acting parts anymore.”
I laugh, a little offended. “I’m not in it for the money.” But she could never understand that. “And anyway, I’m good being single right now, just having fun.”
“You don’t wanna wait too long or it’ll be too late,” Summer warns. “We’re not getting any younger. Once we reach thirty, it’s over.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me!” Wendy wails.
I’m more worried about my career as I move toward my thirties than my marriage prospects—Hollywood isn’t exactly known for its supply of amazing roles for women who don’t look like teenagers. Nevertheless, I’m interested to hear her reasoning. “Why thirty?”
“Because guys know that girls over thirty want to have babies, like, yesterday.”
“God forbid anyone want a family,” I say.
“I can’t wait to get married,” Wendy sighs. “I’ve had my wedding planned since I was in kindergarten.”
“We know,” says Summer.
“A vineyard, Vera Wang,” I chime in, laughing. “It’ll be beautiful.”
“Unless his family insists on a church, of course,” Wendy adds.
“John has a vineyard,” Summer offers. “And a church.”