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lazily at me. He’s definitely cute.
    “I’m going through a nineties electro dance phase.” I look him straight in the eye and play with my hair in the unaffected-yet-sexy-I-hope way that I always do when I like a guy.
    “The Prodigy okay? Hey! Carlos!” Hal shouts up to the drug-dealing goatee boat boy. “Put The Prodigy on! And can we get a couple more drinks? What is this, island time, mon?”
    Two for two.
    We both light cigarettes, lie back, and look at the view. It’s stunning: the calming blue of the sky and sea meeting in a perfect line far, far into the horizon, and sunshine that floods your brain with feel-good endorphins. I’m glad I came to this party. I pick up my margarita, smiling. Cheers to me.
    “I love being by the ocean,” Hal says. “When I’m away from it too long, I physically crave it. I have no idea how those people in the Midwest survive. Like farmers and cowboys.”
    “Yeah, I bet farmers and cowboys wake up every day and crave the ocean.”
    “The prettiest girl on the yacht is funny, too, huh?”
    “I’m the whole package.”
    Gradually, everyone else from the party, except Stef, comes and sits around us. We’re the center of attention for some reason. Even the girls who ignored me the entire flight are suddenly trying to start conversations. All of their sentences end in exclamation marks. Including the questions.
    “How do you French braid your own hair!” asks one excitedly. “I find it, like, totally hard to see the back of my head!”
    “I just close my eyes and feel my way around it,” I say.
    “That’s totally my motto in life,” says Hal, stretching out one arm behind my neck.
    I turn my head to make eye contact with him, and we smirk at each other for a moment. Boo and ya. It is in the bag, baby. (Isn’t that the most awesomely arrogant thing to say about a dude? Pia and I used to say it a lot as teenagers, and then normally had way too much fun just being with each other to bother with said dude. Damn, she was fun to be around. I miss her.)
    Hal is lightly stroking one finger up and down the top of my arm. I think he’s trying to be sexy, but it’s just making me shiver uncomfortably.… Maybe we could go out for dinner or something, back in New York. Or maybe we’ll make out later. Nothing more than that though, I’ve had enough meaningless-sex remorse for one week. (Urgh, don’t think about it.)
    I love kissing. Actually, no, you know what I really love? I love that moment right before you kiss, when the guy looks into your eyes, you know, and you feel that spark . That funny tingle, all over your body, when you know you’re just seconds away from touching lips. It’s so romantic, so mind-blowingly perfect.…
    It’s the prekiss. The moment when you know you’re really, truly connecting with the guy. And it’s almost always better than the kiss itself.
    “What’s your sign, Angie?” asks one of the girls, a sweet-faced brunette wearing last season’s DVF.
    “Aries,” I say.
    “Fire sign,” says Hal. I find it weird when guys are into horoscopes, don’t you? “And it’s your birthday soon. How old are you turning?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    “You don’t look it!” chorus two of the other girls in unison.
    “Wow, thanks,” I say. “I’m going for the preteen look right now. Like a tween, you know, but stacked.”
    The girls are not sure if I’m joking.
    Ignoring their confused looks, I take a cigarette out and Hal lights it for me. I stare up at him while he does it. Ah, flirting.
    “Another margarita?” asks the goateed bartender a few minutes later. It’s the same one who offered me cocaine. He’s been bringing the drinks out fast, potent as hell. I should probably eat something. Then, as if someone’s reading my mind, great platters of food arrive, and a giant jug of iced water.
    “Conch fritters, a local speciality.” It’s that pain-in-the-ass clean-cut boat boy again. “And snapper sandwiches.”
    “Thank you! I am