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I hate it. And I love it. He’ll take whatever I give him? My eyes sink shut. There are so, so many things I’d like to give him.

With herky-jerky movements, I roll to my side, whipping, snapping, and tugging at the covers until I wear myself out.

Don’t fall for his tricks! Fight it!

I stare out the windows, hoping the beautiful palm-tree view will wipe away scandalous images. But when the sun slips below the water’s horizon and twilight takes over, I’m still too antsy to sleep. This pent-up frustration is painful.

I reach for my phone, looking for another diversion. For once, I am happy to find several missed calls and messages. I go through each voice mail, one at a time.

Beep.

My mother’s heartbroken voice breaks through. “Sophia, how could you? The entire world has seen your wedding mess. They talked about you on Chicago’s Morning Show. The Morning Show!”

My mother continues at a rapid pace, recounting all the ways I ruined her life. When I’ve had enough Sophia-bashing, I play the next message.

Beep.

“Sophia. Call me. If you don’t, I’ll—” Roman’s clipped Chicago accent bleeds through the line. I delete this message mid-sentence and release a tightly coiled breath.

Though I play it strong around Gio, I worry because Roman isn’t afraid of intimidating me. He’s a bully. I used to sweet-talk him to extinguish his fire. But now? I don’t think I could handle another face-to-face, especially with his new bride at his side. Just because he turned out to be a terrible person doesn’t mean he didn’t hurt me. It doesn’t mean I’m not heartbroken.

Why won’t he just go away!?

After another beep, the third message plays.

“Hello, this message is for Sophia Sinclair. This is Alana from Kipu Kai Car Rentals. Good news! We have a car for you. Call me to secure your rental for the duration of your trip.” The woman leaves a phone number.

I sit up in bed abruptly, and as her message replays, I think carefully about what this means. A full-time car would give me complete independence from Gio. Technically, I wouldn’t physically need him anymore. Technically, Gio could give me his insider info and send me on my merry way to search for Adam.

But can’t he do that already?

Yes. Yes, he can. I can’t be sure, but doesn’t that mean he’s choosing to spend the day with me? On purpose? Why didn’t I realize it before?

The problem is, I’m thinking dangerous things tonight. I’m thinking I want to spend time with Gio on purpose too. My lips press tight.

My brain screams to keep Gio in the almost-an-enemy column, while another scream comes from down south. It says, Wrestling for cookies is fun! Angry kisses are my favorite!

Because I’ve lost my mind, I do something unthinkable, something utterly absurd. I delete the car-rental message and pledge to pretend I can’t do this quest without him.

Okay, this is happening.

I’m not thinking with my brain. My vagina is in control and wearing the sequined pants. Okay, maybe I just want to ogle him a little longer. I can look at handsome Gio while I search for Adam, right? This line of thinking feels right. It feels doable.

With this settled, I curl into a ball to stare guiltlessly at my phone. I’m simply admiring Gio. That’s all.

My lips twitch because Gio’s loaded a new post. It’s the pineapple-eating contest. The song overlayed describes all the ways a man wants to taste a woman. Onscreen, Gio chows down on a pineapple like it’s his last meal. I sigh.

As I watch it on replay, oh, I don’t know, twenty times, I wet my lips and grip the phone tighter. This morning, I’d never heard of the contest. Now I’m ready to purchase lifetime tickets.

After the thirtieth replay, I come up for air and browse the comments. They are what you’d expect—raunchy and suggestive, and everyone wants to transform into a pineapple.

Then I notice something I didn’t before. It’s the caption posted with the video.

I read it. Then I read it again. I suck in a breath when a new understanding strikes. This flirtatiously suggestive caption is directed at me. Me!

My brain isn’t in the conversation anymore, my sparkly pants have taken control. Then, because sparkly vagina pants are going to sparkle, I do something I absolutely should not.

I type out a scandalous comment of my own and press respond.