Neil had pulled that crap dozens of times. I was practically an insomniac for the better part of a year. After Neil, I promised myself never again, yet there I was lying on my back staring at the beautifully ornate crown moulding, wanting to poke James in the shoulder and say, “What the hell, James?”

Instead, I ended up replaying the whole evening in my head, over and over. How lovely it was before Portia arrived—would her name ever not sound made-up and pretentious? Then “the encounter” as I would think of it forever more. Then the aftermath, which included that worrying goodnight kiss.

James had clearly been blindsided by her appearance, which did sort of make sense. I mean, if I ran into Neil and his wife while I was somewhere across the world, I’d be a little freaked out too. But then again, there was a fragment of me that wanted to run into plain, boring, dickhead Neil when I was with James, just so I could see the look on his face when he realised how much of an upgrade I’d made.

By 2:00am, I had turned into a hideous version of myself.

I finally fell asleep somewhere around three, as fitful and unfulfilling as it was. James, as I’d predicted, was refreshed, sweet-smelling, and handsome when he kissed my forehead, waking me. My eyelids fluttered open and I frowned. There was no way in hell it could be time to get up. I felt like I had jet lag. Maybe we need a name for that feeling. Manlag.

“Good morning, beautiful. I hate to be the bearer of bad news”—you mean worse than running into the love of your life?—“but we need to get going soon, if we’re going to make the boat.” Oh, that.

“Yep, I’m up,” I said, even though it was plainly obvious I was still prone.

“I’ll make you some coffee.”

“Uh, tea. Please.”

“Oh yes, sorry. Tea.”

How could he forget that I drank tea? We had enjoyed whole pots of the stuff together! I wondered if Portia drank coffee, a snarky thought I held on to all through my shower. When I dried off, I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Can you have suitcases under your eyes? Steamer trunks? I was certain the word “bags” was inadequate, but then, isn’t that what concealer is for? I repaired the damage of a sleepless night, thankful (at least) for my prowess with a makeup brush. Then I dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple top and left the bathroom.

James was zipping up his suitcase. He flashed a smile at me and I returned it with my own facsimile.

“I left your tea on your bedside table.”

“Thanks.” I walked over and took a sip. Sugar. I didn’t take sugar in my tea, but quite frankly, too-sweet tea was the least of our problems. Is it completely bizarre that we’re pretending everything’s fine? Was James also in turmoil and just a phenomenally good actor, or was I cornering the turmoil market with this peculiar mix of panic and fury?