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my last one and I didn’t want to ruin it. “I’m sorry, I have a rash.”
    “Huh?” he responded, as expected.
    “I don’t know. I went to the beach today and I came back with a rash. I don’t know what it is and it’s really gross and I’m sorry—if you want to leave it’s totally fine.”
    “A rash? It’s Mexico. Of course you got a rash. Can I see it?”
    “No!” I yelled, and slapped his hand away.
    “Just let me see it. I’m not going anywhere.” Fat Friend slowly pulled up my dress as I covered my eyes in shame.
    “Those are bites. Maybe sand fleas, or what my mom used to call ‘no-see-’ems,’ because . . . because, you know, you can’t see ’em.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I’ve had them. I come here all the time. Trust me, they’re no big deal.”
    “Well, Jackie didn’t get them and we were at the same place all day.”
    “Her skin probably doesn’t smell as sweet as yours . . .”
    Fat Friend had game. I quickly forgot about my “no-see-’em” bites and let Fat Friend finger me as planned. I didn’t even touch his penis, so it was a perfect night . . . for me.
    T he next morning, Jackie and I ordered an uncomfortable amount of room service and immediately began drinking again. Cute Guy and Fat Friend were long since headed to theairport to go home, wherever that was—in addition to never having learned their names, we also never learned where they lived or what they did for a living.
    “Pool time?” Jackie asked as she poured us both a Bloody Mary.
    “Yes!”
    I changed into my bikini, noting that the bumps had not gotten any better.
    “Fuck!” I complained.
    “They haven’t gotten any worse either,” Jackie said encouragingly. “Glass half full!”
    “My glass actually is half-full. Can you fill it before we head down to the pool?”
    We spent the next couple of days doing exactly what we’d planned to do: drinking, tanning, reading, drinking, and posting pictures on Instagram to make our friends jealous. Something also attacked Jackie, but it appeared to be mosquitoes and they were only interested in her hands. So in every photo we had to make sure nobody could see my rash or her swollen knuckles. We were a real mess.
    Time flew by and before we knew it, we were having our last night of dinner at The Office, a local restaurant with pretty good food and really great people-watching. A guy in a sombrero approached our table, shot glasses in hand and a whistle around his neck.
    “We’re good, we’re in our thirties,” I told him.
    “Ignore her,” Jackie interrupted. “Spring break, woooo!”
    I giggled and we both did like four tequila shots, the waiter blowing a whistle and clapping after each one.
    “Oh, Fat Friend just texted me,” I called out to Jackie as I checked my phone. “I didn’t even realize I gave him my phone number.”
    “What did he say?”
    “That he had a great time and to stay in touch.”
    “Are you going to stay in touch?”
    “No.”
    “Why not? You guys seemed to get along,” she countered.
    “We got along fine, sure. But that was mostly because I wanted to get fingered and he had a finger.”
    “Well, why not just see him again?”
    “He was really nice, and it was a fun night, but it’s not like there were real sparks or anything. Plus, he lives far away.”
    “Where?”
    “I have no idea.”
    Jackie laughed. “Have you ever thought that maybe you stop relationships before they can start?”
    “Are you trying to ruin my buzz?”
    “I’m serious! You say you want to date someone, but then when you meet—”
    “You’re a buzzkill every time you come around, those beers might as well have been poured out . .  . ” I drunkenly sang my favorite Luke Bryan—who else?—song to her.
    “Okay, fine. We don’t have to talk about it . . . tonight.By the way, I really like that song and I think Brandon might break up with me over it.”
    “Fat Friend didn’t know the words, and that’s how I know we