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The rooftop lights. Emiliano laughing.

Then Paul’s hand on my shoulder in the cab, steady as we bumped and shifted and turned too fast. Paul unlocking the gate. Paul saying, “Careful,” in a voice that didn’t sound annoyed.

That’s the part I can’t shake. Paul was gentle with me.

I stand under the shower, smelling his soap, and let that land somewhere I’ll visit exactly never.

The hallway’s empty when I open the bathroom door.

Good. Disappointing. Still good.

I make it back to the living room with a towel around my waist and the careful steps of a man trying not to upset several internal organs. The couch is exactly where I left it, but now there’s a blanket folded over the arm.

The kitchen is too bright. Everything in this house is too bright after tequila. White walls. Blue tile. Sunlight bouncing off every clean surface like it means to punish me.

My stomach makes a sound.

“Agreed,” I tell it.

There’s a note on the counter in neat handwriting.

Hangover drink in fridge.

(Don’t smell it.)

I open the fridge, and there at the center as if on display is a blender full of dark green sludge. Of course I smell it and immediately regret every choice that brought me to this kitchen.

It smells like microwaved baby food and lawn clippings. Thanks, dude, but no.

I put the lid back on and step away. My stomach makes another sound, this one less judgmental and more desperate.

The fridge offers one remaining apple, eggs, and a leftover container that looks like it has entered its death spiral. If two people are going to live here, somebody needs to step up the grocery situation.

I take the blender out again, shake it like violence might kill the stench, and pour some into a glass. It comes out in thick glops.

“Sexy.”

I hold my breath and take a sip.

The texture is a crime, but the taste is… not terrible.

Citrus. Ginger. Something green and bossy. Could use salt. Maybe pineapple. Maybe prayers.

I take another sip.

My stomach considers an uprising, then backs down.

Fine. Paul Benton makes a hangover drink that looks like pond scum and works.

Annoying.

I carry the sludge back to the couch and sit carefully, like my bones might object if I surprise them.

The photos are still there.

Some of Renny alone. More of Renny and Paul together. All of them Puerto Vallarta in one way or another. Sun, water, bright shirts, patios, beach chairs, smiles that look easy because they’re photos.

I take another sip of the drink and hold it in my mouth for one second too long, then set the glass down and pick up a beach photo.