He scrambles for the radio beside Isaac, desperate to make a call before we slip out of range. Our speculations continue until the alcohol starts warming us, convincing us to trade serious talk for something more relaxed. When Owen rejoins us at the table, Emma suggests a game of Little Lie, or, as the Rebels call it in Crevice Valley, Bullshit.
We play for what feels like hours, everyone telling five supposed facts and the group attempting to guess which one is a lie. Xavier lets slip that he hates cats, and everyone shoves Dixie at him for the rest of the evening. Clipper and my father both admit to fears of heights, which I may have guessed about the boy, but not Owen. The story of how Sammy’s father was executed for forging water-ration cards in Taem somehow comes up, turning the mood sour, and Bree counters by sharing a handful of embarrassing things that have happened in her lifetime, many of which I wish I could unhear: rolling in poison ivy naked on a dare, wetting the bed once as a child, getting her first monthly bleeding while hunting and having to retreat home empty-handed for fear she was dying.
The team is laughing hysterically. Bree’s cheeks are flushed, but I’m positive it’s not from shame. She’s just let the alcohol get the best of her. We all have. I’ve drunk so many times in defeat that my head has started spinning. The bridge is blurry—the faces around the table, too. It’s all Bree’s fault. She keeps spotting my lies without any real effort and it’s driving me mad.
“I think that’s enough,” Isaac says, snatching the nearly empty jug back a while later. “I ain’t got a need for hungover help come morning.”
“Well, that’s what you’re gonna get,” Sammy mumbles. “At least in me.”
Owen hits him playfully behind the head and the group cracks up. I can’t remember the last time we laughed this hard. It feels good. I catch Emma grinning at me from the other side of the table, her smile inviting.
“Isaac’s right,” my father says. “Let’s call it a night.”
But my head has suddenly staged a revolt. Everything is spinning.
“You okay?” Xavier asks when I refuse to stand with the others.
I rest my head in my hands. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” Bree says, her voice laced with malice.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “I just . . . it’s too loud.”
Xavier’s laughter hits me like a raging storm and I shoo them away. Sammy’s hand goes to the small of Emma’s back. He’s been making a habit of that.
With the exception of Isaac at the wheel, I’m soon left alone. I thought the quiet would help, but it’s somehow making my head spin even more.
I’m going to be sick. I am finally going to be sick.
I get up and stumble from the bridge. My legs betray me on the steps to the main deck and I end up on my hands and knees. A pair of boots enters my vision.
“Well, aren’t you a sight.” Bree. The last person I want to deal with right now.
“I needed fresh air,” I manage as I climb to my feet. “It’s the boat. It’s making me sick.”
“You sure it isn’t the alcohol?” She’s blurry, dancing before me, but I can see well enough to note her smug expression.
“You’ve picked a real convenient time to start talking to me again.”
The Catherine lurches over a rough patch of water and I nearly fall. Bree grabs me at the elbow and helps me toward the railing.
“Just get it over with. You’ll feel better after.”
I grab the cool iron, hang my head over the edge. I need to throw up. I can feel it coming, but doing it in front of Bree seems like a terrible idea, like she’ll win some game I didn’t know we were playing.
I tighten my grip on the railing. “This is embarrassing.”
“You’re not the only one who drank too much,” she says. “You only think I’m sober because you’re too gone to know the difference.”
“It’s the boat,” I argue again.
A tiny smile. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I close my eyes, which only makes it worse. The deck seems to be moving beneath me, independent of the waves. I look out to sea and even the horizon appears to be bobbing around like a madman. The ship lurches again and finally, I am sick.
I do feel better when it’s over, even if only minimally. I wipe my face on my sleeve and turn toward Bree. She’s still a blurred version of herself, and she’s smirking.
“What? You think this is funny?”
She smiles wider. “Absolutely.”
“At least I didn’t throw myself at you,” I snap, thinking back to the last time Bree and I were drunk. I’d held things together while she begged me to kiss her and later got sick on my boots.
She scowls, vicious, furious. “I really hate you sometimes.”
“Yeah? Well, the feeling’s mutual.”
She spins so quickly her braid fans out, but when her arm finds the railing of the stairwell, she pauses. “And for some reason, I still love you,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “I hate you and I love you and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”
My chest is pounding. From her, or that word, or the alcohol. I can’t tell which.
Not that it matters.
She’s already gone.
FOURTEEN
THE HEADACHE I HAVE WHEN I wake is sharp and merciless, a pressure behind my eyes that pierces clear through to my temples. Everything seems foggy: my head, the room, the events of last night. I remember only snippets—laughter around the table, Emma glancing my way, Bree’s smug face when I got sick.
I’m lying in my bunk alone, my head pounding at the slightest of noises, when Emma walks in carrying a canteen. She glances at my bare chest, the floor, the wall, and finally sits near my knees.
“Water,” she says, holding it out.
I take a few sips and the liquid sloshes in my stomach. I groan and pass it back.
“I promise it will help,” she says. “You need to drink it.”
“Can’t you make me something for the nausea?”
“I don’t have even a fraction of the ingredients. You’re just going to have to fight it off with sleep and water.”
I sling my forearm over my eyes. In the dark, the pressure in my head feels less intense.
“You’ll be fine,” Emma says, her voice so soft it is almost a whisper. “You always are.” And then her fingers meet my skin, press against my forehead. I flinch, startled, and pull my arm back so that I can see her. She’s looking at me the way she had from across the table last night: almost playfully.
“You’re not warm,” she says, which surprises me because I’m sticking to the sheets. She leaves her palm against my forehead, staring at me like I’m a stranger, her mouth slightly parted. What feels like ages later, she moves, bringing her hand to my chest. At her touch, I feel a familiar ache between my ribs—weaker than it used to be, but still there, just barely, desperate to reach for her, to fix things.
“Emma!” Sammy shouts from above deck. “The Forgery keeps complaining about his wrists. Wants you to look at them.”
She twists to face the doorway, breaking contact with my skin. “I’ll be right up!” When she turns back to me, the space between us seems incredibly vast.
“I should go see what he needs.” She bites her lip, a small half smile sprouting, and hurries from the room.
Chest pounding, I climb out of bed, pull on fresh clothes. I should move, busy myself with something that will distract from my hangover. I don’t know if Emma has intentions of coming back, but it’s probably best that I’m not here waiting for her if she does. Especially when she didn’t wait for me.