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“You missed!” I lift both sandals by the straps, jingling them like car keys. Now they’re both mine.

I’m not sorry, nor is there a shred of guilt. I couldn’t spend a month on the island without a vehicle. I’ve got a job to do. My career depends on it, especially after losing my big Hollywood break to my friendly rival, Wolf Savage.

I’m here because I needed to shake things up and make sure the momentum that got me close to winning the lead in the country’s number-one reality show takes me someplace new.

Someplace better.

My phone buzzes, killing my uncharacteristically chipper mood. The text from Casey reads, “You’re late, jackass.”

I groan.

Casey is the highly organized and very talented woman who runs my brand. She’s the badass consultant who keeps me and Matt, my man-child, social-media guru, in line.

“Fun time’s over.” My shoulders slump.

When the oncoming traffic clears, I gain speed and pass Tina’s truck, making sure to blow several air kisses to Sparkles as I go. She repels them like she’s deflecting shots with her gold cuffs in a fight. If I squint, I can almost see the flying sparks.

When the pink rebellion is in my rearview mirror, I honk my horn at the ladies. Tina waves and honks back. She knows I’ll see her soon.

As the truck shrinks in my rearview mirror, I feel a strange ping of sadness in my gut. I’ll never get to spar with Blondie again.

It’s for the best, though, because I can’t let any amount of sparkle—no matter how enticing, violent, or beautiful—blind me and keep me from my goals.

3/

sophia

Palm Tree Power, Activate!

A tropical burst of rain pelts me at the end of my taxi ride, so now I’m drenched from head to shoeless toes. My travel outfit is stained with what smells like the inner sanctum of a farm animal’s back end, and I have at least three instances of goat spittle in my hair. Not surprisingly, I’m a little bit crankier than before.

This un-honeymoon isn’t going as planned.

The only silver lining in this dreary day? I’ll never have to see that Jeepy jerkface again. Although, I admit, I might suck it up for a shot at revenge. Better yet, an arsenal of shots.

Before the bellboy gathers my luggage, I tug out a few clean items to cover my filthy body. With the addition of a wide-brimmed hat, a beach wrap, and a pair of flip-flops, I’m transformed. Now I’m less a hot mess and more a lukewarm mess.

Inside the sanctuary of the hotel lobby, I inhale deeply. With its lava-rock walls, lush tropical gardens, ponds filled with koi fish and lazy flamingos, surely nothing could go wrong within this movie-come-to-life paradise. My mood lifts with every perfect new vista.

Beyond the doorways, I take in the expansive network of pools, and farther away, the ocean. The chaotic waves are an unsettled deep blue with the storm churning on the horizon. Yet the palm trees remain strong in the intensifying winds.

They are surviving, and so will I.

I snap a few selfies. With quick swipes on my phone’s screen, I shoot them off via text to Jeanie, my sister from another mister. Though we are still working through our issues, she encouraged me to take this un-honeymoon with my good friend, Amelia, who arrives tomorrow.

After I fled my wedding disaster in Miami, I made a pit stop in Chicago to lick my wounds and usher in my twenty-ninth birthday alone.

It didn’t take long for me to see my relationship with Roman for what it was, a desperate attempt to fulfill a bridal dream I’ve had since I was three, one nurtured by my own wedding-obsessed, nationally acclaimed, wedding-planner mother. Because of her influence, I’ve spent ninety-nine percent of my life dedicated to the ritual of marriage. It’s a life choice I’m currently reexamining.

Worst of all, I wanted to be in love so badly that I gave my heart away to someone who didn’t deserve it, someone who betrayed me before we tied the knot.

All my reflecting ballooned into a question I need answered.

Was the first guy I dated at eighteen the one who got away? Has every romantic encounter since been doomed? Should I have been with Adam Nice all along? Something in my heart told me I couldn’t move forward without finding out. My entire future love life depends on understanding.

“Oomph. Sorry,” I say when I’m bumped by two women.

“Our fault,” they say automatically, but then they sniff the air as if they caught a whiff of parfum de farm truck.