“What do you mean?” It took Alex a moment to register that she was referencing her astrological sign.

“The answer, the body language. Cancers are self-protective—they anticipate getting hurt, so they retreat into their shell when they feel vulnerable.”

Alex leaned forward with the slightly narcissistic curiosity of someone hearing astrological truths about themselves.

“Please don’t get her started.” Sophie sighed, toothpicking an olive.

“I’ve read that your sun sign is just one piece of the puzzle, though—isn’t it?” Alex asked, encouraging the discourse.

“That’s true but, if I recall, you have—” Bee paused to tap on her phone, scrolling until she found what she was looking for and making a small ahh sound. “You have four planets in Cancer. That’s a lot of your puzzle.”

“You still have my birth chart?” Alex laughed, genuinely taken aback.

“I have every birth chart I’ve ever read,” she answered, perfectly serious.

Alex suppressed the powerful desire to ask about Danial’s.

“That’s cool,” she demurred. “What does it mean, then? That I have so much Cancer in my chart.”

At this, Sophie let out an impatient groan. “It means you probably have mommy issues,” she said.

Alex tried to hide her shock, looking to Bee for an explanation. “What? Why did she—”

“Cancer represents the mother archetype, among other things,” Bee explained, exuding her own motherly patience. “I’d have to spend more time with your chart to get specific, but in general it means the role of ‘mother’ is a dominant theme in your life.”

“Isn’t that everyone?” Alex asked, feeling Sophie’s eyes on her. It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard anyone so much as mention their mother since they’d boarded the boat—anyone aside from her and Danial.

“Yes and no,” Bee replied with a knowing smile. “Some more than others.”

“Okay,” Paul called from the sliding glass doors, “it’s ready!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to make us wait out here for another forty-five minutes?” Bee asked, looking over the rims of her sunglasses.

“Bitch, you should be so lucky. I had to lug this shit all the way from Spain.”

“We both know you had someone else carry it.” Alex laughed, standing up and smoothing her outfit with her free hand. She’d opted for a cropped white bustier with cap sleeves and a matching skirt: an outfit she had somewhat shamefully purchased on Instagram after seeing it advertised as “guaranteed to drive men crazy.”

The three women walked across the deck and into the salon, where it looked like a Party City had thrown up. There were streamers, confetti, a layer of balloons so thick it covered the entire ceiling (Where did they get helium?), board games and cards and a three-tiered cake covered in rainbow sprinkles.

“Happy birthday!” everyone shouted in tandem—everyone except Alex.

It took her a moment to understand: this was a party for her.