For the third night in a row, I awake in a tangled mess of sweat and sheets, my sea-blue bedding clutching me like Saran wrap. Flashes of the farm, which my grandparents once owned on the outskirts of San Antonio, return like lightning bolts, but I know its rolling hills are now home to mcmansions and other superfluous, man-made things
It’s not that buddymoons aren’t fun, but there’s only so much sharing you can do with a friend. That couples massage was a step too far. As soothing music tinkled and candles flickered, I tried to maintain a serene expression, but my head was filled with questions: How loud is my breathing? Whose hand is that? How do I explain to the masseuse, in Spanish, that this unclad woman beside me is just a friend?