"You're such a fucking liar," I whisper to the face staring back at me from the mirrored glass of the bar. I force myself to hold my own gaze as I speak the only words that hold any truth for me.

I scan my reflection. Lit by the elegant chandeliers that litter the ceiling of the restaurant, I know the people looking at me see a beautiful woman. It’s not vanity. I hear it all the time. “Oh, your skin, your eyes, all that hair.” But I know it’s a façade. What lies beneath my appearance is ugly and ruined. When I look at myself, all I see is the fatigue, the fear, the loathing, etched into every single angle of my face.

Pretending is exhausting. Years of doing it has bankrupted me in every way that matters. I'm ready to move past it. I need to move past it, I want my life back. I've been running for five years. Running toward nothing. Running from everything.

I want to try and reconnect with myself again. I couldn’t do it in Miami, there were too many painful memories. And I couldn’t go home to my parents because I needed to do some of these things alone and I knew that once I told them everything, they wouldn’t give me the space I was going to need. I have some family here and they know me well enough to take me in, but not well enough to interfere in my personal life.

I almost ruined the trip before it started. I groan as I remember my drunken stupidity on the plane. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe he turned me down. I was mortified in a way that even my inebriation couldn’t dull. When we landed, I pretended to be asleep when everyone began to deplane and I waited as long as I could before I got off. I didn’t see him in customs or baggage claim and when I walked out of the arrivals section, I was swept away by the driver my aunt had sent for me before I could even think to look around.

It’s not that I haven’t had random hook ups. In fact, they’re the only kind I engage in - Random, anonymous, easy.

I’m usually much better at reading the men I pick up. All of those vodka sodas clouded my judgment. The conflict on his face when he stopped my hand…I groan at the memory.

This trip is meant to be a new beginning. No more of that kind of shit. I’ve already sworn off alcohol for the remainder of the trip.

Ghana, is where my mother was born and raised. But, I haven't been here since I was a teenager. And before that, our trips to Ghana were sporadic at best. But my cousin, Porsha and I have really hit it off. She’s a few years younger than me, but a lot of fun.

"If you're finished staring at yourself, madam, they told me on my way back from the loo that our table's finally ready," Porsha drawls sarcastically as she comes to stand behind me at the bar. I glance up at the mirror and when I see her beautiful, frowning reflection I can’t help but smile. She’s very impatient, and she’s been complaining about our wait since we arrived. “You keep smiling, I’m going to sit down,” she snaps over her shoulder as she walks in the direction of the main dining room.

I glance around the bar. Its white stucco walls are punctuated by large half-moon shaped holes that showcase the beautiful view the resort is famous for.

When I decided to spend a few weeks at the beach to escape Accra, Ghana’s bustling capital city, Porsha insisted that we stay in the house that had been in our family for years. The entire area has been experiencing long stretches of power outages for the last two days. So today, instead of sitting in the sweltering house, we came to the resort where the backup generators promised comfort. We spent the day enjoying the decadence of air conditioning and glasses of water full of ice.

After a leisurely afternoon swim, we’d run home to change and now we’re back for dinner. Porsha’s determined to hook up with one of the “rich” expatriates that make up most of the guest population at the hotel. I’m just looking forward to having a delicious meal and maybe a walk on the beach.

I look around the restaurant. It’s lushly furnished but otherwise very sparsely decorated. Large, dark stained wooden beams form a criss-cross pattern on the ceiling, and dozens of clear blown glass chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, lighting up the space, leaving just enough shadow to create a romantic ambience.

I look around the bar and out into the restaurant. The place is vibrating with the conversations of the patrons. Unlike most restaurants in the United States, no one here is bothered about whispering their conversations. Well, except for the couples that dot the room. They are all sitting close, heads together, fingers skimming faces, touching, tangling. Their hushed whispers and seductive chuckles, all painting the tableau of what lovers in paradise should look like. The people who are in larger groups are laughing raucously, hands animated as they trade stories and boasts.

My spirits lift, glad that I decided to come. The change of scenery will do me good. And having Porsha here will force me out of my room when all I want to do is be alone.

I pick up my unfinished lemonade, drop some currency notes on the bar as a tip and turn to leave. I look back at the bar to make sure I haven't left anything when a large, heavy body crashes into me, sending me flying backward. I land hard on my backside. My drink, clutched tightly in my hand, splashes up and soaks my hair and face.

My black maxi dress is covered in something wet and icy. I sit on the floor, momentarily frozen in disbelief as the cold liquid trails down my chest, my stomach, then my thighs and down my calves. It settles into the soles of my very expensive, leather ballet flats.

Without any warning, a huge, damp hand closes over my elbow and pulls me to my feet in one fast and effortless motion.

The glass that’s already dangling from my hand, slips and lands with a loud crack on the terra-cotta tiled floor, splintering into a thousand tiny shards. And spilling whatever remaining drink was in it, down the front of my skirt.

I’m horrified as I survey the mess and then my head whips to the left to look at the offending appendage still holding my arm and then up at the body it's attached to.

"What in the world is the matter with you?" I hiss. My glare travels up a very tanned, very well-muscled forearm, up a very defined bicep. It strains against the black cotton of his polo shirt and my eyes travel the rest of the way up his shoulders and then land on his face.

My stomach sinks and I flush hot all over as mortification and shock flood my senses.

“You,” I whisper, as I stare into the face of the man I’d just been thinking about. I look down at my wet dress and the empty glass in his hand.

“You did that on purpose.” I accuse.

“Lovely to see you, too. And, it was an accident," he clips out. Maybe it’s his British accent, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. And the look in his eyes resembles something closer to disdain than contrition.

I yank my elbow out of his grasp and twist around to grab a napkin from the bar.

"An accident. Right.” I say snidely and start to dab the front of my dress.

"Do you think I fell into you on purpose?" he scoffs as he grabs a handful of napkins, puts his beer mug down and starts to wipe his hands and arms.

“Oh, yeah all of this is just some sort of horrible coincidence. We’ve run into each other again and you just happen to spill your drink all over me?”

“It was an accident,” he repeats, his face darkening, “and I was going to be gracious and not mention our previous encounter. You can be gracious and acknowledge that you weren’t looking where you were going.”

He drops the wet, balled up napkins on the counter and steps back. He's taller than average, more than a few inches past six feet. In my flats, I have to crane my neck to look up to see him.

“So, it’s my fault?” I ask, incredulously.

"I didn't say it was your fault. I apologized when really, it’s no one's fault. I stumbled; you were in the way," he says in a matter of fact tone. He looks me up and down again and has the nerve to grimace as he takes me in. “You obviously can’t hold your liquor, maybe you should refrain from drinking.”

I gawk at him. Who is this guy? "Are you serious?" I sputter.

"Yes. I don’t know if you remember all the…” he clears his throat and averts his eyes, “Details of our flight, you were pretty wasted.” His eyes slide to the drink in my hand, “Maybe you should stop it altogether.” He shakes his head derisively at me.

I don’t know whether to laugh or be angry. But his next action decides it for me.

"Good thing that dress is black,” he says as reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. He plucks a few notes out and puts them on the bar counter.

“Here, that should cover the cost of replacing the dress. It's ruined." He looks me up and down again, and this time his disdainful eyes linger on my face, making a study of me.

"Oh well,” he says with a wry quirk of his lips before he turns and walks away.

I watch him, my eyes wide and glued to his broad shoulders as he moves through the restaurant at a leisurely pace. He pauses just before he steps into the hotel and his head starts to swivel. In anticipation of him looking back at me, I let the full force of my annoyance show.

But he doesn't turn around. Instead, he brushes an invisible speck of lint off his shoulder and then he disappears into the dark lobby.

I look back at the bar and see the insulting pile of cash sitting there, taunting me in his absence. I grab it, my fist turning the crisp pile of notes into a jumbled wad, and rush after him. Each step I take in my sodden shoes is fuel for my indignation. Each uncomfortable tug at my ruined dress feeds my determination to have the final word.

When I step out into the lobby, my eyes take a moment to adjust. The cavernous space is only lit by the moon that shines in from the windowless balcony that surrounds us and the flaming torches that line its walls. I scan the room, seeing people in full vacation thrall lounging on the dozens of cushioned rattan chairs that dot the space. Not finding him there, I look toward the elevator and only see a cluster of women giggling as they wait for their ride up to their rooms. My head whips to the reception desk, and I notice that, besides the two bored looking employees loitering behind, it's deserted.

With a frustrated harrumph, I make my way back into the dining room and to the table where Porsha's sitting, the menu covering her face. I pull my seat out, and at the scrape of the chairs legs on the floor, Porsha says, "For someone who's starving, you walk very slowly."

"I wasn't walking slowly, I was assaulted," I grumble as I sit down.

She lowers her menu and stares at me, her beautiful dark brown eyes wide with shock as she takes in the damp spots on the front of my dress.

"By who? What happened?" she asks, thoroughly scandalized and gallingly excited.

"Some jerk ran into me, spilled his beer all over me, insulted me and then walked away." I omit the part about the plane. I’m too mortified to tell anyone.

"Where is he? We'll have him sacked. I swear, these servers don't know anything about customer service," she says peevishly, her head whipping around the room in search of the culprit.

"He doesn't work here, Porsha. I think he's a guest. He went into the lobby when he was done with me." I dab my dress with the cloth napkin on the table, grateful for the warm evening breeze that's helping me dry off faster than I would be otherwise.

Her eyes narrow on me. "Where was he from? Is he married?" she asks, her excitement returning.

"What? How would I know? And why would I care?" I scoff at her in disbelief. "Did you not hear me say he poured a drink on me?"

"Intentionally?" she asks, dubiously.

"No, it was an accident. But he was so rude afterwards," I say.

"Well, if you gave him the same look you're giving me, I'm not surprised." She clearly has no sympathy for my plight.

I glare at her. “For real? What? Should I have smiled? Thanked him?”

"Well, that depends,” she says, closing her menu and picking up her drink, her eyes alight with mischief.

“On what?” I ask. I cross my arms in front of my chest while I wait for her to answer.

"Well, let’s go down the list,” she says in a deadpan, formal voice.

I blink slowly, several times. “You’re serious. There’s a list of reasons why we forgive strangers’ transgressions?” I sputter, surprised but also thoroughly amused. My cousin is something else.

She steeples her hands in front of her and tilts her head as she considers me, as if deciding whether or not I deserve to know.

I’m apparently found worthy because she holds up her index finger and says, “First, was he foreign or local?”

“Foreign. English if I placed his accent correctly,” I answer automatically.

Her eyes light up and she smiles, but she continues with her list.

"Oh, that’s good. Secondly, was he good looking or just average?”

“He was very good looking," I say begrudgingly but truthfully. I don’t add that he’s probably the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time.

“Oooh, very good. How old?” She holds up three fingers now.

“Maybe late twenties, early thirties,” I respond, sounding noncommittal but recalling his face clearly now. He was really very attractive. Too bad about the asshole thing.

She drops her menu and stares at me, her eyes narrow with disapproval and disappointment. "I don’t know if wealthy, good looking foreigners grow on trees where you come from. Cha-lay!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together for emphasis at the local word used to express everything from annoyance to joy. Her iteration is coated in incredulity. “If he'd spilled a drink on me, I would have smiled, thanked him and let him buy me dinner. There’s a lobster tail on this menu calling my name," she chides.

"You can't be serious.”

"I’m very serious. I'm a poor medical student. All my friends are poor medical students. Did you forget that the reason we're staying at that old house instead of this resort is because I can't afford it?"

"I told you I would pay for us both, Porsha," I remind her.

"No. It's one thing for rich strangers to buy me a meal, but I won't take charity from my family. The shame." She shivers in horror.

"Yes, much more shameful than getting some strange man, with the manners of jackal, to buy you a meal,” I quip dryly.

"How do you know what his manners are like?" she asks, her dark and dainty eye brows lifting in avid curiosity.

And since I won’t be telling her that he was less than gracious when I tried to turn him into a pleasure doll on the plane, I have to force my mind to fast forward to my list of grievances from this evening.

"Um, well, let’s see. For starters, he barely apologized, and then he blamed me for the accident," I say dryly, but I also hear the whine in my voice. It annoys me.

She rolls her eyes and picks up her menu. "Listen, you said you came to relax and have fun. To escape, to quote, your email.” Her eyes come back to mine, and they’re serious now.

“You’re so beautiful, Lillian. But, you look so sad.” I break our eye contact, not wanting her to see anymore. I thought it was well hidden. No one else seemed to notice.

Porsha’s hand covers mine, and when she gives it a squeeze, I look back at her. She smiles, her eyes kind, and I try to return the gesture. She lets go and picks up her menu again.

“Try to loosen up. Do things you wouldn't ordinarily do. Smile when you want to frown. That's what vacations are for. I only get two a year, and I make sure to enjoy them. I’ve even chosen my holiday name." Her eyes dance with excitement.

"Holiday name? What in the world is that?” I ask, completely baffled.

"An alias. You know, so I don’t have to worry that reports will reach my mother that Porsha Tagoe was drinking with a strange man in the bar. While we’re here, I’m Bambi,” she says with a completely straight face.

"Bambi? Like the deer from the movie?" I ask skeptically as I pop one of the grapes from the bowl of fruit on our table into my mouth.

"Not like a deer.” She kisses her teeth in disgust and brushes one of her long braids off her shoulder indignantly. “Like a sexy woman. It's a sexy name.”

I almost choke on the grape that’s halfway down my throat as I throw my head back and laugh.

“Laugh, but tomorrow you'll be jealous when all of the men are falling at my feet sighing my name because it sounds so good on their lips." She picks up her phone and smiles brightly at it.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, amused and happy that some of my anger from earlier is easing.

“I’m taking a selfie, the lighting in here is great,” she says, barely moving her lips and without her smile faltering. She’s got incredible teeth, and her bow shaped lips are painted a dark plum that makes them look startlingly white and perfectly straight. She’s a stunning woman. Her skin flawless and smooth. Her dark eyes are large, with enough lashes for two people. Besides her lipstick, she doesn’t have another drop of make up on, and she doesn’t need it.

I smile fondly as she puts her phone away and focuses on her menu again. "Oh, Porsha. I completely believe that all the men will fall at your feet, even before they hear your sexy name. We’re going to have so much fun.” I pick up my own menu and scan the room, looking for our waiter, eager to get some food in my stomach.

"Pick a name and stop looking around. You're in Ghana. Your waiter will take his time, and if you're lucky, he'll place your order correctly."

And I laugh again for the second time that night, and some of the throb of anger eases a little. And the name I’ll use pops into my head.

"Okay, Bambi. Nice to meet you. I'm Emma."

"Eiii, Emma. Sexy, sexy!” She snaps her fingers and smiles broadly at me. “Nice to meet you, too." We clink our empty water glasses together and laugh.