My brain wants to do battle again and I reluctantly let it win. Whatever I’m feeling, it can’t stay.

By the time we roll into Paekakariki, the sun is low on the horizon, coating the wild Tasman Sea in waves of gold. Most people would pass by this tiny settlement on the way to Wellington, our nation’s capital, and I only know about it because I’d gone to Wellington once with an ex-boyfriend and all the affordable places were booked. We took the train out to this town because we had heard good things about the sole backpacker’s hostel they had. Though the ex moved on, the memories remained.

“This is cute,” Amber says in a hushed voice from the back, her wide green eyes taking in the “town,” which consists, basically, of one street. There’s a dairy, or corner store, with all the basics, a pizza shop, a real estate office, a white clapboard church, a post office, a pub, and an empty storefront with a for lease sign.

On one side, right beside the highway, are giant, imposing green hills dotted with sheep. They loom over the town, begging you to touch them, climb them. On the other side of the town is a long strand of wild beach, roaring waves, and the long, crocodilelike body of Kapiti Island, a nature sanctuary.

“Where’s the hostel?” Josh asks and I tell him to take his next right. There are basically only two blocks between the highway and the beach, but we tempt fate by bringing Mr. Orange up a long, twisting driveway to the top of a small rise. He puts the bus into park, slamming on the hand brake, and peers at the house.

It looks like a quaint residence, not a hostel, but that’s part of the appeal. In fact, you would never know it was a hostel if it weren’t for the discreet sign at the base of the driveway that says PARAKEET BEACH BACKPACKERS.

We carefully climb out of the bus, our sore muscles extra tight from all the sitting, and see a black-and-white cat hanging around the front door, our welcoming committee. Leaving our gear in the bus for now, we walk into the house. It already smells amazing as bursts of basil and sizzling garlic hit my nose. The kitchen to the left is being used by two tall guys who are taking advantage of the stove. They give us a friendly wave then go back to cooking.

“You must be Gemma,” a woman says, coming out of a small den to our right. She’s got a wild mess of hair—even more unruly than Amber’s—and her aging face is pointedly makeup free. She wears a long flowing cape and seems extremely secure in herself, a vision of poise. I wish I could be her someday.

I quickly shake the woman’s hand, her many bracelets jingling as she introduces herself as Kate. When we’re all paid up, we go back to get our bags and lug them through the ramshackle living room, complete with cozy couches and board games, and through the French doors out onto the patio. As I had remembered, the view is still spectacular, overlooking the beach, Kapiti Island, and in the far distance, the tip of the South Island.

“Shit,” Josh says from beside me, sucking in his breath as he takes in the view. “Good choice, Gemma.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but secretly I’m over the moon that this is making an impression on him.

“So where are we staying?” Nick asks, and I realize we’re just standing in the middle of the backyard, between a crop of gardens and a soothing koi pond. I nod at what looks like a little shed poking out around the corner, half hidden by lush banana and yellow-blossom kōwhai trees.

“That’s our room,” I tell him. Then I point to a pair of French doors to the side of us that open to the yard. “And that’s where Amber and Josh are sleeping.”

“Sweet,” Amber says enthusiastically as she makes her way to the doors and goes inside.

“You wanted some privacy, aye babe?” Nick asks, wrapping his arm around my waist. I nod and let him kiss my neck and press up against me. I make sure not to look at Josh, who I can tell is now following Amber over to their room. The truth is, I originally wanted us all to stay in the dorm, but there were only two beds available in the four-bed room, so Nick and I snapped up the private one.

I can’t complain, though. When we step into the tiny one-room cottage and see that it has its own queen-size bed with mosquito net, Nick wastes no time in shutting the door and throwing me to the mattress.

I open my mouth to protest, to say that Amber and Josh will be wondering what happened to us, when I realize they won’t be wondering at all. They’ll know. And even though I don’t really feel like it, perhaps a romp in the hay will fix what’s ailing me. And Nick. It has been a few days without real privacy, and usually sex is the only thing that holds us together.

That’s probably why you’ve been falling apart, I think to myself as he kisses me and starts taking off my shorts.

Nick is a good-looking guy. He’s a hot jock, like most rugby players are. He strips down to nothing and his erection stands stiff and swollen. He has a nice cock, too, considering his weakness for steroids. Any woman worth her salt would want to sleep with Nick—I mean, if they were into the clean-cut, overly muscle-y, athlete look. I know it’s what attracted me to him in the first place.

But even though my shorts and underwear are at my ankles and his fingers are pressing down into my folds, I’m very conscious of how un-wet I am. I need this but my body isn’t so sure.

Nick is persistent as ever and there’s no real time for foreplay with him. Soon he’s flipped me over and taking me from behind as he stands at the foot of the bed. It hurts at first but the position allows me to pretend Nick isn’t there at all.