The words catch me off guard, enough that I almost forget to answer. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”
She shrugs easily. “Just the truth.” She gestures toward a display at the front of the store. “Come on. Help me decide if that bag is actually cute or if I’m just bored,” Amelia says, and I follow her towards the window, smiling despite myself.
“Oh my god,” Elle exclaims, turning as she clutches a piece of glossy paper to her chest. I pause mid-browse through a stack of watercolor mini prints, all etched with the familiar views from around the resort. “Ladies.”
Her grin is contagious, even if I have no idea what she’s scheming. There’s the signature gleam in her eye, the one she gets when she’s suddenlyobsessedwith something, most likely fueled by a wild idea. “Look at this.”
She lifts the flyer in the air and giggles, shaking it like she just won the lottery. From where I stand, I can barely make out the words—it’s for a nightclub in town, it seems. The paper promises “Retro Night: all ’80s hits, all evening.” It gives offlocals onlyvibes.
“Please tell me you’re in,” Elle says, eyes sparkling.
Amelia snatches it from her. “God, yes. Who doesn’t want to dance to Madonna with actual Europeans?”
Nicole tilts her head, scanning the flyer. “We already have dinner plans.”
“Early dinner,” Elle corrects as she tucks her phone in her tiny crossbody purse. She’s grinning, her smile so big her eyescrinkle at the corners. She looks much more amused than at the chocolate factory earlier today, that’s for sure. “Then this.” She grabs another flyer from the counter and waves it again like a flag. “Come on, when are we going to get another chance like this?”
My heart gives a little leap. A night of dancing sounds like exactly the kind of reckless thing I came here for. And, if I’m being honest, the thought of Connor in a dim, crowded club—close, hidden, maybe touching me the way he did on the terrace—sends a flush straight through me.
Hannah gives a noncommittal shrug, though I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Nicole takes longer but finally says, “Fine. But I’m not dancing. I hope they have good drinks.”
“Liar,” Amelia sing-songs, looping her arm through Nicole’s as we head for the door.
Elle leans close to me, voice pitched low so only I hear. “Tell me you’re ready to blow the roof off a Swiss nightclub.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t even imagine what that looks like.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” she says, slipping the flyer into her purse.
The dance halldoesn’t look like much from the outside. It’s a squat concrete building with a hand-painted sign that has seen better days, and all the flowers on the boxes hanging from the window are on the verge of death. Inside, though, it’s a different story.
Colored lights spin lazily from the ceiling. A disco ball glitters halfheartedly, and the first beats of a very eighties song thumpthrough the speakers. Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, sneaking into my older sister’s parties over the summer back home in our small town.
She used to throw them in our backyard—music blasting from borrowed speakers, fairy lights strung haphazardly between the lemon trees, and half the town’s older boys showing up just to orbit her. Agustina was loud and dazzling, always at the center of everything, and I wanted so badly to be part of it. I’d slip in unnoticed with Martina, weaving through her group of effortlessly cool twenty-somethings, trying to keep up with their jokes and pretending I wasn’t giddy just to be allowed near them.
Those nights convinced me that life could be bigger than whatever small box I was living in. That I could be bold too—that if I just pushed past the fear, I might find my way into rooms that glittered like that backyard once did. I think that’s what’s kept me moving all these years, from Buenos Aires to New York: the hope that somewhere out there is another night like that, waiting for me.
The place is half-empty when we arrive. Older folks cluster near the bar, leaning on stools, nursing beers. The dance floor yawns wide open, polished wood that looks extremely clean and shiny under the rotating lights.
Elle and Jack are the first ones out there, of course. Amelia drags Nicole with her, laughing when Nicole protests, and Cash heads for the bar, muttering something about “liquid courage.”
I hover near the edge, looking around and adjusting the strap of my dress. It’s nothing fancy, just a black loose-enough-for-comfort mini, but Connor’s eyes catch mine from across the room. A slow, deliberate pass, like he’s checking me out without any apology.
Heat blocks in my chest, and I pretend to study the drink options behind the bar a few feet away from me.
“Do you dance?” His voice comes low behind me.
I turn and find Connor close to me, the warmth of his body stretching in my direction. No one is watching us, I think. His brown eyes are darker in the neon light, and his delicious forearms are on full display.
“Not well,” I say, shrugging.
“Perfect.” His mouth tilts, and before I can argue, his hand slides down my arm to catch my fingers. “Come on.”
For the first twenty minutes, the dance floor feels ridiculous. Couples move in clumsy circles, and the women in our group are the loudest ones, their laughter rising above the music unapologetically.
But when Connor pulls me closer, one hand at my waist, the ridiculousness fades into background noise.
“I thought you hated this kind of thing,” I tease, leaning in to be heard. “Being like this at the center of things.”
