“Where’s Kai? I thought you guys were spending the day together so you could do something authentically Hawaiian.” Tanya smiles, toying with her straw suggestively. “Or did you already do that?”

“That why you’re dating another tourist?”

Okay, so it wasn’t going to be some great American romance. No romance at all—just a fling. We agreed.

Still, it hurts. Another tourist. He’d fooled me, all right: the two-year dry spell, the “you’re leaving soon” dramatics. He probably did this exact same routine with all the tourist girls that caught his eye: show them around the island, act concerned about where things are headed, then get the poor girls to practically beg him for a fling.

God, I’m pathetic. Those fifty-eight pounds I dropped cling to me now like a ghost, the weight of my embarrassment.

“Hey,” Tanya says quietly, when I don’t answer. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I blink and take the drink she made me, so distracted that I don’t even wince at her typical rum-to-cola ratio of 7:1. She raises her eyebrows as I chug, but doesn’t comment.

Being my best friend, though, she doesn’t buy my bullshit. She knows something’s getting to me, but also knows I’m not ready to talk.

So she pours me another drink, digs through one of the hush baskets for some chocolate, and makes me sit with her on the suite’s giant sofa. We put on a movie and drink every time something funny happens, sipping instead of laughing, until I can almost forget all about him.

* * *

I can’t remember how, or even when, we ended up downstairs. One minute I’m laughing hysterically at some cheesy cult horror film with Tanya, so drunk I can’t change the channel. The next, I’m treading water beside her in the pool, while she chats up one of the servers.

My head feels like it’s underwater, too. Every time I turn and look at something new, it takes a minute to come into focus.

First, I look at Tanya’s potential overnight guest: red hair, kind of dorky. So not her type, but she flirts with him like he is, while he kneels on the decking and she drapes her arms on the edge of the pool. I can’t hear their conversation, but I figure she’s trying to score free stuff.

Next, I look at the people around us. There are a lot of couples, which reminds me of Kai, even though it shouldn’t. We aren’t a couple.

Ted and Carrie are making out nearby, taking up two deck chairs. Macy scrolls through her phone, looking bored, while Ian flirts with her. He’s not doing well, but at least he’s trying.

Other than some kids messing with the controls in the attached hot tub, I don’t see anyone else by themselves, like I am.

I’m too drunk to dwell on it, though—which was probably Tanya’s motivation in making me drink after drink upstairs.

I grab a pool float skimming the water nearby and fumble onto it. The sky proves to be the least offensive thing to look at. I let the movements of everyone around me nudge the float into an easy sway.

I don’t notice I’ve closed my eyes until the rocking stops, like I’ve gotten snagged. “Hey. Taking a nap?”

I look up. It’s Damian.

“You coming in?” I ask. If he says yes, I wonder how fast I can get out.

“Not dressed for it.”

Now, I notice his clothes: nice black pants, custom dress shirt, slim blue tie.

“James and I got in a fight.” He slips his shoes and socks off, rolls up his pant legs, and eases his feet down into the water. “I guess you’ve figured out we’re a thing. Well, sort of.”

“I guessed as much,” I say, just curtly enough to satisfy my own smoldering anger, buried under all the liquor.

“Yeah.” He scans the pool. “I’ve been questioning things.”

“With James?” Shit, I really am drunk. I don’t even have the energy to push my hair out of my face. When I lift my hand from the water, the droplets skitter down like wax and mesmerize me. I plunk it back down with a splash and sigh to myself.

“I guess you could say that. It’s more like I’m questioning...all of it.”

His tone has a lilt to it, like he’s waiting for me to catch onto something.

“Questioning being gay, you mean?” My voice slurs, and I have to squint up at him; the string lights around the deck are dim, but still too much for my eyes to handle.

He looks away and shrugs.

I try to sit up, briefly forgetting I’m on a pool float and not, say, a real chair. By the time I remember, it’s too late: I’ve toppled.

When I surface, spitting water and feeling considerably less drunk, Damian is laughing hysterically.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day,” he argues. He holds out his hand and helps me hoist myself onto the decking, where I land like a fish and have to flop onto my back before I can catch my breath.

He leans over me. The angle reminds me of last night, after sledding in the ditch with Kai. It feels like a lifetime ago, now.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” He blushes, as though remembering we aren’t actually friends anymore. If we ever were.

“Okay,” I hear myself saying, the word cloudy and distant as my drunkenness takes hold again. I let him help me to my feet and lead me around the pool, towards the dining deck and bar.

I think about looking for Tanya, at least to tell her where I’ll be, but decide against it. She’d probably just lecture me for letting Damian off the hook too easily. Which I’m not doing; I’m just drunk. Maybe my disappointment about Kai is all my brain can handle at once, locking the rest away until I’m sober.

We get some Long Islands at the bar and sit on the planks that lead to the beach, our toes turning up sand and digging little moats that merge between us.

“So,” I say, “you’re not into guys, after all?”

He laughs. “No, I am. I just...don’t know if that’s it.” He looks at me, but when I make eye contact, he shifts his gaze to my feet. “There are some girls I’ve been attracted to, so I guess I’m bisexual, or something.”

“Well, why would James care if you’re bi? You’re with him. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?”

“That’s the problem—he wants things to be more, you know, exclusive. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

I nod along robotically. The liquor and long day are hitting me harder now. All I want to do is wander upstairs and sleep.

“Mollie.”

My eyes snap open. I look at him.

“You were right.” He’s staring at his hands now, stirring his drink.

“About what?”

“About homecoming night, and all that.”

Ah, here it is. I sit up a little straighter, trying to make myself look poised when I accept his apology.

“I did like you back, once.” He peers at me from under his curls. It’s hard to remember when the sight of them made me melt.

“You did?” I feel the planks underneath me tilt. I can’t tell if it’s from this revelation, or just the rum. “You said you didn’t.”

“I guess I didn’t want to admit it to myself. James and I.... We’ve been hooking up for a while now, and for the last few months, he’s been pressuring me to come out. We were going to do it together, actually.”

He pauses. I realize, after a beat, that he might be waiting for me to apologize for accidentally outing him to our entire friend group.

Well, he can keep waiting. I finish off my drink.

“Uh, anyway,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’ve been questioning things again, so I’m not sure I should come out yet. To my family and stuff. Not until I know how serious James and I are. Because—well, you know my folks.”

This earns another nod from me. Junior year, none of us could afford to fly or drive home for Thanksgiving—at least, this was the story we gave our parents, so that we could crash at Damian’s parents’ mansion upstate, instead.

The entire stay was exceedingly awkward. His dad complained about the cold incessantly, only pausing to ask probing questions about Tanya’s “ethnic roots.” When she finally forced a smile and said, “Sir, I’m American,” he grumbled into his turkey and decided she must be part-something.

“Can you believe that dick?” she’d hissed later, as we were brushing our teeth side-by-side in one of the guest bathrooms. “The only thing ruder was when he told Carrie to cover up her cleavage.”

Granted, Carrie was showing way too much skin for Thanksgiving with strangers, but Tanya was right: Damian’s dad didn’t need to point it out, much less glare at her until she fetched a sweater.

“And his mom isn’t much better. Did you hear her grilling Damian about bringing a ‘gaggle of friends home’ instead of a girlfriend?” She elbowed me, smiling with a mouthful of foam. “Bet they wouldn’t mind if you broke the rule.”

The “rule,” which we’d been informed of the second we stepped into their massive foyer, was that Damian’s parents wanted boys and girls on separate floors, no exceptions. The fact we were all in our twenties, men and women instead of “boys and girls,” didn’t matter to them.

Of course, I wasn’t brave enough to tiptoe downstairs that night, just like I wasn’t brave enough to seize any opportunity that came before or after that trip.

“Okay,” I say now, “so let’s say you and James aren’t serious—would you still tell them you’re gay? Or bi, I guess?”

“No way. There’s no point coming out to them unless I end up with a guy.” He sighs and sets his drink down in the sand, then leans back with his elbows on one of the steps behind us. “They’re going to disown me if I tell them I’m attracted to guys at all, that much I know. So my thing is, why tell them unless I have to? Like...what if I end up with a girl, instead?”

I nod, trying to catch on. I think I understand what he’s telling me, but my brain is making slow work of processing it.

Suddenly, I feel him looking at me.

“And James didn’t take that well, I imagine.”

“He said I’m putting him on the back burner. But it’s not like that. I just don’t want to make this huge life decision—coming out to my parents—when I’m not even sure I want to be in a relationship with James, or any guy, for that matter.”

Damn, he talks a lot. I don’t think I noticed it before, but when he talks, he doesn’t sound like he’s conversing, but just listening to himself speak. There’s this weird projection to his voice, like he’s giving a miniature speech. Like he thinks every little thing he says is just so profound.

“Mollie?”

I open my eyes again, jerking awake as Damian puts his hand over mine on the stair between us.

“What are you doing?” I pull it away. “You’re with James.”

“No, Mollie,” he says, like I’m a little kid arguing the color of grass. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. James wants to be official, and I still want to figure things out more.”

I look at him. “With me.”

“Yeah. I like you, you like me. Why can’t we just...try it out?”

While I’m collecting my thoughts to list out the hundreds of reasons we can’t “try it out,” Damian turns and cups my face in his other hand. He pulls me in for a kiss, which I allow, if only because I’m so exhausted I can’t stop it.

It’s just skin against skin. There’s no rush of adrenaline, no halting of time, no fireworks behind my eyelids. His tongue brushes my bottom lip and his hand skates up my thigh, and all I can think about is how mean he was at dinner. “We all know you’re obsessed with me.”

When he pulls back, it’s obvious he thinks I’ll throw myself at him, something I couldn’t manage in this state even if I wanted to.

So when I don’t, he starts to get nervous.

“You realize,” I say slowly, dumping the ice from my cup into the sand as I get to my feet, “you’re doing exactly what you did to me on homecoming night?” My voice takes on an edge; my anger’s officially too high for alcohol to dumb it down. “You’re using me. Again.”

“Using you? I’m talking about us just hooking up, Mollie. It’s not like I’m taking you home to my parents, pretending you’re my fiancée or some shit.” He laughs, like I’m being ridiculous, and stands. “We like each other. We don’t have to make things complicated.”

“No strings attached. No promises. Nothing has to get complicated or messy.”

I said basically the same thing to Kai, just a few hours ago. I can’t believe both of us were really okay with it. Because right now, hearing Damian say it, it just makes me feel like shit.

“Except, you don’t like me.” I set my glass down on the step and fold my arms, challenging him to prove me wrong. “And you never have.”

“Then why did I just kiss you? Why did I kiss you homecoming night, huh?”

“You said it yourself—to figure things out.”

“I just didn’t want to admit it to myself that I might like girls after all, because it took me so long to accept I like guys, too.”

I close my eyes again, like that can decode his words. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Come on, sit back down.” He reaches for me, then scowls when I pull back. “God, Mollie. Sorry, didn’t realize you were such a homophobe.”

“Are you kidding me?” I step closer to him, which makes him stumble back into the sand. Disappointingly, he doesn’t fall over. “I don’t have a problem with gay people, or bisexual people, or anything on that spectrum, Damian.” I point at him. “My problem is with people who use any reason they can to justify being a whore.”

“So, what, now it’s a crime to sleep around?” He motions to the upper deck. “I don’t see you giving Tanya shit for all the people she fucks.”

“Tanya,” I shout, “doesn’t hook up with people who have feelings for her, just because she knows they’ll let her.” I knock over his drink on my way up the stairs, hearing the ice crunch under his sandals as he follows me.

“Hey, slow down.” He grabs my arm. I try to jerk it back, but he tightens his grip. “You can’t call me names and then walk away.”

“Uh, I think I can, actually.” I twist my shoulder. He finally lets go when we notice the bartender staring.

“Fine,” he hisses, “get your petty revenge for me turning you down. Pretend you haven’t wanted to fuck me ever since we met. Back when you were heavy and insecure, and I was the one guy who was nice to you. Remember that? Because without me, you wouldn’t have met anyone else in the group.”

I stare at him. Soft curls, pale blue eyes. Charm you can spot across a room. It’s no wonder I was drawn to him, the minute we met.

But it is a wonder, and probably the biggest mystery I’ll ever encounter, that I pursued him for all those years afterwards. Because up close, with the shine worn off and his true self exposed, he’s basically hideous.

“Between you and your ego,” I tell him, “would there even be room for me in the bed?”

He rolls his eyes. “Nice one.”

“Look,” I go on, ignoring this, “I don’t care that you’re not straight.” For once in my life, telling Damian exactly how I feel is coming easily—and no amount of eye-rolling or impatient sighs can stop me. “I don’t care if you want to sleep around. And I don’t care anymore whether you like me or not.”

This seems to get his attention, even if he refuses to show it.

“I do care,” I say, “that you’re so unbelievably full of yourself, you see no problem hurting other people’s feelings, as long as you get what you want.” I point to myself, then up at the resort. “You did it to me, and now you’re doing it to James. If you feel like fooling around, figuring shit out, that’s fine—but don’t do it with people you know have actual feelings for you. That isn’t fair.”

He shakes his head. But he doesn’t protest.

“You never even apologized to me. That’s what I care about the most.”

Damian exhales dramatically. “I’m sorry.” He shrugs, letting his hands slap against his legs.

He sounds about as sincere as he looks. But I know it’s the best I’m going to get from him, and by now, I’m officially done: with him, with this entire day, with this whole freaking island. I just want to sleep.

So I say a quiet, but confident, “Thank you.”

Then I leave. It’s not the most graceful exit—I trip a little on the stairs leading to the beach, then bump my hip on the handrail—but even so, it’s the best damn walk I’ve ever had.