“I’m excited to get off this boat,” he answered. “I’ve been feeling a little sick all afternoon.”

“I’m sure the beer isn’t helping.” She gestured to his tall, thin glass of pilsner.

“It’s medicinal.” He smiled.

“And you?” She turned to Danial, who was neatly packing the last of the pieces in their beautiful wooden box. “Have you been to Positano before?”

“I haven’t.” He shifted slightly in his seat. “Have you?”

It was odd seeing him so chastened, without the usual swagger he brought to their conversations. It made her feel almost sad for him.

“Oh, no. I’ve only been to Rome.”

“It’s such a tourist trap here,” Sophie mused from across the room, perched on a little barstool at the island, where she had apparently been sitting the whole time.

For a moment, Alex thought of releasing a guttural scream. The studied indifference Sophie had for absolutely everything—something Alex used to find intimidating and aspirational—now felt suffocating. Couldn’t she enjoy anything?

“Well, I’m excited!” Alex chirped, a direct defiance to Sophie’s blasé commentary. “It looks really pretty from the harbor!”

Across from her, Danial grabbed a cube of cheese from a tray on the dining table, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Paul declared as he walked into the salon. “You look fucking hot.” He marched directly over to Alex with arms wide open, gesturing for her to turn around so he could get a full view.

“You only think so because you picked this dress.” She smiled, moving the hem of the dress in opposition to her twisting body. She noticed that he had subtly coordinated with her, in an aqua-blue suit and chartreuse silk shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his torso.

“True! But this waistline, good lord.”

From his seat on the couch, Danial cleared his throat. “Are we heading out soon? We’re going to be late.”

Alex looked over, grateful for his equal commitment to promptness.

“We’re already late,” Dev confirmed, “but Bee is probably still in the shower.”

“Then she can go with Guy,” Paul directed, somewhat bitterly. “He’s having a little tantrum.”

“Why?” Sophie asked, adjusting her perfectly French Girl red lipstick in a silver compact.

If Alex had to guess, it was almost certainly over Paul’s aesthetics. Paul loved to dress in light drag for special occasions—back home, he had an entire walk-in closet full of corsets and silk robes, feathers and elaborate beadwork—and Guy was not a fan, to say the least. She’d received more than a few texts from Paul about Guy vetoing an outfit just as they were walking out of the door, or leaving him at a restaurant, mid-course, out of humiliation. She hated the thought of Guy policing Paul on what was supposed to be his night, that Paul had likely already changed to please him but was still being punished.