I’m walking to the pool when I realize I didn’t check my e-mail or Facebook for messages from Nathan. The cowboy completely discombobulated me. The cowboy’s effect should piss me off, but I’m actually kind of glad he texted me this morning. He distracted me. He spared me from my daily ritual of tossing salt onto my wounded heart. To keep expecting Nathan to write to me is akin to self-flagellation. It’s just sad and gross. I pass the divorcees on my way through the lobby/great hall. They’ve poured themselves into tight fitting halter dresses. Two distinguished elderly gentlemen are close on their shiny heels. Candace raises her arm to wave to me, her leopard print Lucite bangles slide to her elbow. “Bonjour, Vivia!” She says, waggling her fingers. “We’re headed to a winery for a tasting. Wanna come?” “Thanks, but I’m going for a swim.” I hoist my Kate Spade beach bag up to my chest.
