Porsha is insane. When I caught up with them last night, she and Kojo were kissing like it was going out of style, right in the middle of the lobby. She brought him back to our house, and I had to put on my headphones to block out the noise. Every time I tried to turn onto my side to get comfortable, my stupidly big headphones prevented me. So, I lay on my back and cursed all of them for my misery. Then I remembered Harry’s taunting “don’t you have earbuds?” that afternoon, and I’d almost cried at the unfairness of everything.

Porsha is also shameless. This morning, she’d informed me that Kojo was the best lover she’d ever had and that she’d be spending as much time with him as she could until it was time for us to head back to Accra.

So tonight, it’s dinner for one. I'm sitting at the bar by the outdoor area they use for their nightly entertainment at the resort. I can hear the waves crashing into the beach, the moon is fat and low tonight, and the weather spectacular. I'm having a drink called an Old Jamaican. The bitters and champagne make for a potent combination, and I’m swaying to the music that irritated me when I'd first gotten here. I should be happy. Instead, as I watch the dance floor full of drunk revelers, I’m envious of their ability to cut loose and be happy. Oh, just wait, I think scornfully as I watch them. The aftermaths of nights like this are usually full of headaches, stomach aches, and plenty of regret. But not me, not anymore. And that’s how I need it to stay.

I'm glad I'm rid of him. He's so presumptuous. Thinks he knows me. Judges me. Excites me, my traitorous mind sings at me.

I finish my drink and contemplate ordering another one. I am on vacation, even if it’s all going straight to hell. I feel a hand tap my shoulder. Annoyance and disappointment rise in my chest because I know, at once, that it’s not him.

I would have felt it before he touched me. I fix a smile on my face before I turn around to see who's decided to give me a try.

It's the man from breakfast the other day. Porsha had sent him scampering off when he told us he was on a college trip and not in town for business. "Go away, peasant. We're busy," she'd snapped, and he’d scrammed.

"Hey," I say with a casual grin that is so false that I know he's got to be completely drunk to not see that I'm not in the least bit glad to see him.

"Hey yourself, sexy." He grins sloppily. He's a nondescript guy. Brown hair, decent tan, if somewhat uneven, average height, average build, and drips with self-confidence that he, in a just and equal world, shouldn’t possess. But the world isn’t just, and even basic idiots like him feel like they run shit.

"What's up?" I ask, not bothering to hide my boredom because I know he won't notice anyway.

"Your friend's not here." He waves a finger in my face, leering at me and shaking his head in mock disapproval. "She's not nice. But you are, aren't you? Where've you been hiding?" His slurred speech annoys me, and I decide to shut him up.

"You've found me now, right?" I signal to the bartender to bring me another drink. He nods and turns around to mix it for me.

"I sure have." He plops down on the seat next to me, elbows resting on the bar for support as he gives me what I'm sure he thinks is a flirtatious wink. It’s more of an awkward blink.

If I fucked him, he'd go in my journal as Mr. Mediocre. Right behind Mr. Just Fine and Mr. Adequate, Mr. Forgettable. I don't remember their names. I hardly remember their touches since none of them made me actually feel anything. Sex is a transaction, an exchange of fleeting release.

I don't really need them - I always make myself cum anyway. With one hand gripping the blanket to anchor me and the fingers of my other hand working my clit or my nipples. I didn't have a fantasy to recall or an image of a man I'd rather have on top of me. I focus on the feel of my hand taking control of my pleasure. Their cocks are only there as a reminder that I still have the power to choose who enters my body.

Nothing more.

Men like him are the only ones I can handle. And maybe all I really deserve. If I can’t give more than my body, then I shouldn’t have anything more in return. Besides, there’s no danger in being hurt, becoming attached. I can get back to my life when it’s over. Not like Harry. I know he’d want more. He’d demand things.

I look back at Mr. Mediocre and realize I'd almost forgotten he was even there. "So, you trying to get laid?" I ask, and his eyes widen and his mouth drops open in a shocked but pleased laugh. What an idiot.

"Hell yeah. I mean, I was gonna buy you a drink or something and then see if you were down, but fuck it. I like a girl who gets right down to business."

I can smell the tequila on his breath from here, and I have a feeling he won't even be able to get it up. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I throw back the rest of my drink. I don't fuck sober.

Mediocre leans in toward me, his eyes hooded, his hand coming up as if to grab the back of my neck.

"Uh, yeah. No kissing, bud."

He harrumphs, but retreats.

“Do you want to know my name?” he asks sullenly.

“No,” I say, knowing he won’t protest. He doesn’t. He just shrugs.

"Well, I want to know yours,” he says with a smile I’m sure he thinks is charming. It’s dumb.

"Mary." I wince a little at using my mother's name, but I doubt he'll remember long enough to call it out when he comes.

"Well, Mary, you want to go to my room?"

“Why not?” I shrug my indifference. I slide off my stool to head toward the lobby. I don't bother to look behind me to see if he's following me. They always follow. I'm a sure thing. Most men pretend they like a chase, but they’re lying. At least if it’s just sex they’re after.

I'm already planning what I'll do when he’s done and gone, and I remember the book that my sister's best friend, Cara, sent me. She's a rabid romance reader and is trying to convert the rest of us. I only like the novels where someone dies. It's the only time I can cry and have a reason that's not my own.

I chuckle to myself as I'm stepping into the cool, air-conditioned lobby when every single one of the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And it's not the cold that's done it. He's behind us. I don't stop walking, but I close my eyes to make sure they're full of indifference when I look over my shoulder.

"Hey, which floor is your room--" I start to say to Mr. Mediocre. Only, he's nowhere to be seen. And in his place stands Harry. His handsome face is a mask of rage, and the dimly lit lobby makes him seem diabolical.

"Your friend is gone," he says as I turn to fully to face him. I look around him, and indeed, Mr. M is gone.

I return his glare with a confidence I don't feel. I'm less angry than afraid and confused.

"I told you to stay away from me. Are you stalking me?" I hate how the quaver in my voice betrays my weakness.

"No, I'm not stalking you, Emma. And you can tell me whatever you want, I don't have to do it. It's a small resort. I was coming in from the beach, and I saw you and your companion," he puts an ugly emphasis on the word that makes me feel something I haven't felt in a long time - shame, "walking into the building. He looked like he was about to fall over, so I helped him to a seat and let him know he should not, under any circumstances, get up. He didn't protest much, and in fact, I'd be shocked if he wasn't already asleep. And since you didn't seem to notice that he wasn't behind you any longer, I doubt you mind too much either."

He shakes his head and looks at me with an undisguised disappointment he has no right to feel.

"What?" I ask, my fear now tinged with a defensiveness that I don't understand. I don't owe this man a thing.

"Nothing. I misjudged you," he says, his tone distant and cold. His eyes are on the floor of the lobby, studying his sneaker clad feet.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, and then he looks up at me, raising his head slowly, like he'd rather not but has no choice. When I see the sadness in his eyes, I feel a small tinge of fear.

"Harry?" I prod when he doesn't say anything.

He takes a step toward me, his hand out, and time slows. His hand comes up to my face, and a swarm of butterflies takes flight inside of me. Their wings beat my ribcage so hard that I'm surprised that I can't hear the reverberations. His hand hovers over my cheek, his eyes searching mine, for what I don’t know. His hand cups my face, my eyes close, and all of the breath leaves my lungs. His touch feels like…relief. And I am rocked with a feeling of happiness, so surprising and acute that it stings.

No one has touched me like this in such a long time. The tenderness loosens the knot I keep tied around my heart. It’s so sweet and feels so good that I close my eyes and savor it. A tear runs down my cheek before I realize I’m crying. don't understand what's happening - my mind is completely blank - but I never want it to stop. He cups my cheek, and I choke back a sob at how right it feels to have his hands on me.

"Harry?" I whisper, my eyes still closed as emotions, memories, and feelings I haven't allowed myself to feel start to seep through cracks that I thought were tightly sealed.

"Why were you going with him?” he asks me. The softness is gone. He’s angry. My eyes fly open, and my tears stop flowing.

"What do you mean?”

"Were you going to sleep with him?" He's watching me so intently, that I can almost see myself reflected in his eyes. I can see the desperation for answers, the hope that maybe he’s wrong.

"Yes,” I whisper.

His hands drop from my face like it's a scalding hot stone, and he takes a step back. His normally expressive eyes are veiled with the shadow of disappointment.

He looks past me, as if I'm not even there anymore. "Have a good rest of your vacation, Emma."

He says “Emma” as if it's an obscenity. And then, like I don’t matter, he steps around me and walks away.