I know he means it. I know he won’t be mad if I decide I don’t want to. Unlike Sean, who booked the Ritz-Carlton with the expectation—the silent agreement—that sex was a part of the package. Probably why I broke it off a week later, citing long distance.

“I’m sure.” I tear the condom wrapper open with shaky hands, hoping I haven’t damaged the actual product.

I reach between us and roll it over him clumsily. He is bracing himself on top of me, his sculpted arms two columns bracketing my shoulders. We both watch my unsure fingers with fascination. It takes me four attempts, and even though we are both frustrated, neither of us says anything about it.

“Is it rolled all the way?” I ask.

“Feels good to me. Are you ready?” He catches my gaze. His eyes, dark blue with silvery dots, are his best feature.

“Yes.” I’m already quivering. “I’m ready.”

He presses home. For the first few seconds, we just hold each other, staring at one another. I think we’re both stunned.

“Is it always like that?” I whisper.

He knows exactly what I’m asking, because he shakes his head and says, “No, Ever. It’s never like that. This . . .” He dips his head, kissing the shell of my ear. “This is heaven. This is worthy of death.”

Our bodies get in sync. We move to the same soundless song. I’m tingling everywhere. Joe’s skin is a blanket of goose bumps. We’re lost in each other in what feels like forever. A gust of wind sweeps my hair across my face, and he blows it away, kissing me again and again and again.

“I think I’m coming,” I say. That’s a first. With a guy, anyway. But the friction feels so good, and he is hitting just the right spot inside me.

“Oh, thank fuck.” He drops his head to the crook of my neck, picking up speed. “So am I.”

We collapse in each other’s arms just as the sun peeks from the flat blue line of the Atlantic Ocean. Everything is pink, orange, and quiet.

That’s when we realize that there are no more thumps of music and chatter coming from the distance.

The party is over.

And so is my time with Joe.

“Sixteen-hour flight, huh?” Joe buttons his Levi’s. “That’s rough.”

I hate this. The small talk. This is my first dose of reality since I’ve met him again. And the reality is that I just had sex with a total stranger who saved me from drowning. Someone who is about to become a stranger yet again, in five minutes, after we’ve said our goodbyes.

“No big deal. I have my Kindle and my earbuds.” I shrug.

This is the part where I should suggest we exchange emails, or numbers, or Instagram handles. Anything. Have I learned nothing from the past two weeks? I’ve felt homesick toward this guy like he was a place, and now I’m going to let him walk away, just like that?