I’m not going to cry into my piña colada. I am absolutely not going to do that. 

Fine. Maybe I am. Only a little, though. One single, salty tear, and then I am cutting myself off. Because who cries over a little thing like finding out your fiancé has been in the closet all along and getting threatened with peasanthood and having the worst person possible show up on the plane heading to what’s probably going to be your last vacation ever unless a miracle happens?

Could there be a person worse than Charles Cash to share a plane with? No, there’s not, because Charles Cash hates me.

We locked eyes for one single moment, and it was long enough for me to see his lip curl in disgust before he regained control. He gave me one curt nod, because of course he recognized me right away. “Josephine.”

I gripped my mimosa glass so tightly that it nearly cracked and fought to find my voice. “Charles.” I tried to say it as frigidly as he said my name, but a bit of the orange juice stuck in my throat so my voice cracked on the word. Fucking excellent.

Then he was moving past me, the scent of him lingering in the air. It pains me to admit this, but Charles Cash smelled damn delicious. Freshly showered, clean like a mountain lake with a hint of expensive cologne, like he’s pure class.

Pure class who can’t stand the sight of me.

He headed directly to the back of the plane, where he stationed himself in a leather seat facing a desk. He then buried himself in a laptop for the duration of the flight. He even continued typing once the wheels were on the ground, completely absorbed in his work. I could admire his work ethic and drive if he wasn’t such a prick.

Not that he did anything to me on the flight. Other than saying that single word—my name—he never spoke to me again.

Now I’m posted up at the bar in the middle of the Emerald Shores Resort, a borrowed pad of paper and pen from the bartender next to my piña colada, and my bag down by the feet of my stool. It was too emotionally taxing to be chipper to the attendant at the registration desk, so I headed straight to the first bar I saw, which happened to be this one right next to the pool. There’s one in the center of the pool, too, a swim-up with several couples sucking face all around it.

Salt, meet wounds. 

No. I am not going to let this get the best of me. That’s what the notepad is for. I’m making a list of all my best qualities and abilities, and by the time I finish the list, I’ll know what I’m going to do next.

Because my parents can screw off. Metaphorically, anyway. Not literally. I still very much need my monthly allowance because there’s no way I can launch a brand-new career in the next three months that will replace the stability I had with Rolly.

The stability I thought I had with Rolly.

I don’t know why it seemed so real. Nothing lasts forever. In fact, the best things in life don’t last long enough. Like having a sister.

I can’t even bring myself to whisper her name inside my mind. Not sitting at this bar, with this fucking piña colada and my list.

The list. Get back to the list. Focus on the list, because the list is going to be my salvation. I’m sure of it. 

So far, I’ve written skills and experience across the top of the page.

Underneath it I have jotted down degree in communications, and resilient. 

Right now, I only feel like one of those is true. Maybe a half, because honestly, I’m not sure how much my degree counts toward anything. I mainly focused on finding a man and going to parties. Well, I found myself a man. And then he found another man.

“Stop thinking about him,” I hiss under my breath, and that’s when my phone rings, vibrating against the bar top. I’ve clearly let this piña colada go to my head because it registers with me too slowly that it’s Rolly’s name appearing on the screen. For some reason, I still answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe,” he says, his voice dripping with sympathy. My stomach curdles at the sound of it. Yesterday, I woke up thinking that this man was the love of my life. Yesterday, he woke up next to me, called me babe, and kissed me on the forehead before he got up to take a shower. “How are you doing?”

“What do you want, Rolly?” Even to me, my voice sounds flat and dead. How the fuck could he possibly think this is an appropriate question to ask? Jesus.

“Well, I’m checking in,” he says, evenly and calmly, like I didn’t walk in on him with his boyfriend last night. “You weren’t here this morning, and I got worried.”

My jaw drops open. “You—you expected me to be at our apartment this morning?”

There’s a pause, and during the time that passes in that pause, I can practically feel him shrugging through the phone, a little movement that I always found so endearing. Now the thought of it makes me want to strangle him. “I thought we could talk things out.”

“Talk things out?” I shout the last word so loudly that it echoes off the posts holding up the roof of the bar, and at least one of the couples in the pool turns to stare at me. “There’s nothing to talk about, Rolly. I’m in the process of canceling everything for the wedding, and now I have to tell my parents that—” An ache rears up in my throat, constricting like there are hands wrapped around it. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, Rolly, but I’m not speaking with you. Not now, and not ever. Goodbye.”

I toss the phone onto the bar top and take a swig of my drink. I have time to swallow before another call comes in. Rolly. Again. What could he possibly have to say to me? I don’t care to find out. He’s obviously lost his mind. 

I silence the call, only to have a third come in, and this time I pick up the phone and smash my finger down on the power button until it turns off.

The bartender, a dark and handsome man, though not tall, sidles over with a glass in his hand. “You need something stronger than that?” He glances meaningfully at my half-empty piña colada. 

I lock eyes with him. This man is correct. I’m at a luxury resort for a last-ditch vacation. It’s time to party.

I slap both hands down on the bar top. “Yes. Yes, I do. Bring it on.”