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trying to tell me something, and it just makes me want to leave and go work out.
    Especially after what happened with Bonnie. It was … not good.
    I should have known what was coming. What an idiot.
    I liked her, in the public eye.
    I pursued her, in the public eye.
    The whole thing was under some kind of publicity dome—every night out recorded and tweeted about and blah blah blah.
    So, of course, the breakup would be public. Of course, she’d leak my voice mails to TMZ.
    But the thing is that I thought it was real.
    I really liked her so I thought she really liked me. The way we’d talk about being sick of the cameras and wanting privacy. It all seemed real to me.
    I kept telling my publicist, “Molly, please. Get the paparazzi off our trail. Bonnie and I want to be alone.” And she promised—she swore to me that she’d stopped leaking any of our itinerary to them. Yet there they were. Photographers shouting our names anywhere we tried to go. Hiking in Laurel Canyon. Getting tacos down in Manhattan Beach. At La Parilla in Silver Lake.
    So, duh—obviously Bonnie lied to me. Bonnie hadn’t told her people to let up on us. Her publicist, Shane, was feeding them everything.
    Anyway, ancient history.
    A girl who leaks your voice mails is an a-hole. Plain and simple.
    She can send me apologetic texts all she wants. She can blame it on Shane. On being drunk. Whatever.
    She’s cut off.
    *   *   *
    â€œWhere are you, Tom?” Tamara asks. “You’re fading.”
    â€œSorry, what?” I say. “I’m just a little hungry.”
    â€œHave you met Sabbi yet?” Tamara asks.
    I shake my head.
    â€œI got an interesting text from Rich. Apparently her people are wondering if you two might want to hang out on the cruise.”
    I eye Tamara.
    â€œAre you kidding?”
    â€œNot in any way.”
    I exhale and turn out to sea.
    â€œHang out” is code for a planned romance—something that our publicists can use to push us onto the front pages of People and all the rags.
    â€œRich Weller thinks Almstead would be very happy about it,” Tamara says. “And God knows your image would benefit. Not sure why Sabbi’s interested, frankly. Unless, gasp, she actually thinks you’re an intriguing person she’d like to get to know.”
    â€œNo. Absolutely not,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re even asking me.”
    â€œMost guys your age would leap at the chance to be Sabbi Ribiero’s boyfriend, even if it’s only pretend.”
    â€œYeah, well, most guys didn’t just have their heart stomped on by a teen pop princess.”
    â€œBonnie Loo was a skank.”
    â€œIt’s Bonnie Lee,” I say.
    â€œYou have to move on. She certainly has.”
    Bonnie’s dating the lead singer of the band Creeping Phlox. Stupid name for a band. Creeping Phlox is a flower used for ground cover. I looked it up.
    â€œI really need to eat,” I tell her.
    â€œOkay, let’s get those two and then we’re done,” Tamara says. She’s pointing to two curvy girls standing right at the tip of the bow. One of them’s wearing combat boots.
    That’s a good sign. Maybe she’ll give me something besides “Oh my God, I’m so excited to be here! This cruise is awesome!”
    We head over. Cubby elbows me.
    â€œI’ll give you ten bucks you get one to say, ‘I’m the king of the world!’” he says.
    I laugh.
    Cubby brings the camera up to his eye and rolls tape.
    â€œHi,” I say to the girls. “Excuse me, how are you two finding the Titanic so far?” I pimp. Can’t give a better setup than that …
    One of them turns and flashes me a broad grin.
    â€œOh my God!” she says. She elbows her friend in the ribs. “This cruise is so amazing! I can’t believe we’re getting to meet you!”
    Then the other girl