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masturbating in the shower at the thought of my off-limits professor. But I’d already stuck my foot in it once. I wasn’t sure how Cassie would react to finding out Brett had proposed to me on the night that Trevor had cheated on her.
    Instead I said, “Noted.”
    “Get dressed.” Cassie swatted my ass. “I’m starving and I want a drink.”
    That made two of us.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A pparently Cassie was going to drink away her memories of Trevor. Cassie's dinner consisted of a bit of rice and three margaritas, so it was up to me to find somewhere to purchase necessities while keeping her upright, which was proving to be no easy feat. Deciding to venture out to find a convenience store to stock up on what Cassie called the "essentials," we traipsed down the street, following the directions of the concierge. Basically we were making a booze run, but Cassie was too classy to call it that. The nearby bodega was packed with tourist essentials, and there was wine and a toothbrush. Score.
    "How many nights are we here?" Cassie asked. "Six? So we need what, 20 bottles?"
    "I think your math is a little drunk," I said, taking a bottle out of her hands before she fell on it.
    "One more Moscato?"
    "Fine." I grabbed a bottle off the shelf and placed it in our basket, which already felt like it was going to rip my arm off.
    "Let me pay," I told her. Trevor's credit card had seen enough damage. I shooed her outside before she tried to whip it out anyway.
    A minute later, our necessities were purchased and I ducked out the door as my phone buzzed in my pocket. There were texts from Jillian and Brett. I ignored Brett's, because it stank of desperation and included a short bullet point list of all the reasons why "our break" was totally unfair to him. Scrolling down, I read Jills' text and smiled.
    JILLIAN: You aren't going to believe what Tara told me she got Liam for Christmas. Deets later.
    I could imagine what Tara thought was an appropriate gift for her daughter's boyfriend based on years of Jillian's own Christmas presents. One year she'd given her a self-help book on coping with life-altering illness. Nothing says happy holidays like a reminder that you’re sick. I texted her back to say we'd call her tomorrow and when I looked up, Cassie was nowhere to be seen.
    Shit. Shit. Shit.
    I'd lost track of Cassie. Strike that. I'd lost track of a drunk and angry Cassie. This could spell the end of times.
    Darting around the corner, bags clutched desperately against my hips, I searched the next street for her with no luck. I'd only been distracted for a minute.
    I walked another block, but she was nowhere to be seen. Most of the shops were closed and the only other people out were American tourists.
    " Loca !” The cry was followed by a stream of angry Spanish. Cassie couldn’t be too far.
    I sprinted in the direction of the cry and discovered Cassie ripping apart a copy of what looked to be a Spanish bridal magazine.
    "No," she said, tearing off the cover and stomping on it. "I don't want to plan the wedding of my dreams!"
    "Cassie," I said. "Come on, honey. You don't want to do this."
    "Yes, I do." She spit on the now destroyed magazine for good measure.
    Behind me the operator of the news stand unleashed another torrent of Spanish that I couldn’t begin to keep up with— but I did understand the word policía . I held up my hands and shook my head, struggling to remember any of my high school Spanish. He gestured around the street, and I realized Cassie had gone on a spree. Dozens of magazine pages littered the sidewalk in front of the stand. She might not actually speak Spanish but she’d managed to destroy every magazine that hinted at love or couples or happiness.
    “Cassie, give me your purse,” I said, but she ignored me, so I snatched it off her shoulder.
    “Hey!” She lunged for it, but I held her back.
    I held up a finger. “Do not test me right now.”
    Cassie was going to get her ass thrown in Mexican jail. Hell,