Something is jabbing into my back, something hard, about the size of a fist. I slip one hand under myself and grab the thing, raising it to my face, my eyes squinting in the sun, which seems to be shining its rays right into my brain. I blink over and over until the object comes into focus. A green-handled screwdriver. What in the hell?

I hear the yelp of a child, and I look over to see Spiros’s daughter, the one who’d been helping her mother today.

“You awake!” she says, crawling over to me, her hair flapping around her face, and it’s then I realize that I’m lying in the back of the pickup, being driven to God-knows-where.

“What are we doing?” I ask, trying to sit up, but the girl pushes me back down and scoots to the front of the cab, pounding on the window that looks onto the driver’s seat. Almost immediately, the truck screeches to a halt on the side of the road, and Spiros’s concerned face appears over the edge of the truck.

“Okay?” he says. “You feel okay? You can see me? You can hear me?”

I almost laugh, but the instinct brings on a raging pain in my temples, and I grab my forehead. “I’m fine.” The fall comes back to me, or at least the beginning of it, and I wonder if maybe I really am hurt and I just can’t appreciate it yet. “Did I fall down the cliff?”

Spiros cocks his head. “You fall off chair onto floor.”

“Oh.” Not as interesting an incident as I thought. I get a wave of embarrassment then, thinking of the soap opera blonde watching me wobble and sprawl across the terrace. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I say, trying to sit again, but the pain elevates, and I lie back.

“Hospital,” Spiros says. “I take you to hospital.”

I start to protest, but the girl puts her hands on my shoulder, and I close my eyes again, letting the rocking of the truck lull me.

Three hours later, after being prodded by a bored physician who looked like he’d seen more than his share of drunks, Spiros drives me back to the Sunset. This time I sit in the front with him and his daughter, whose name is Samantha. The truck jostles along the road, jolting every few seconds, since Spiros doesn’t even attempt to avoid potholes.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him for the tenth time. The bored doc had determined that I’d passed out from the alcohol and heat, not from a head injury as I’d hoped. I’d actually have preferred some kind of real wound that would elicit sympathy, rather than snickers about my poor balance and inability to hold my alcohol.

“No problem,” Spiros says. “I glad you okay.” And in all honesty, he seems pleasant, not at all put out, as if this three-hour detour in his day was just what he’d been looking forward to.

Samantha, sitting between us in yellow shorts and a pink top, starts giggling, lifting her hand to her mouth. She says a few sentences in Greek to Spiros, who chuckles along with her.

“What?” I ask, smiling, too. “What is it?”

“She says you funny when you fall,” Spiros says. “Your legs in the air.” He flails his arms, mimicking my legs, and they both laugh harder.

When we get back to the Sunset, I stumble to our hut. It’s only six o’clock and still sunny. Sin and Kat aren’t even back from the beach yet. I get a wave of fatigue, and I crash like a cut tree on top of my bed.

When I awake, it’s nine o’clock at night. Kat and Lindsey are showering, whispering about something.

“What’s up?” I mumble through the sweaters someone has knitted on my teeth.

Kat hands me a bottle of water. “CeCe told us you got plastered this afternoon and took a tumble. How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit.” I gulp half the bottle and fall back on my cot, clutching my head.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Sin says, sitting next to me.

“I’m fine. The diagnosis at the hospital was too much beer.”

She leans forward and starts patting my head. I close my eyes, loving her mothering touch. “No bumps,” she says, pulling her hands away. “You think you’ll live?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I say. “What are you guys doing?”

“There’s a group going to town,” Kat says, “but we’ll stay with you.”

“No. Go out. I feel stupid enough already. You guys don’t need to baby-sit me.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Kat asks as she goes about trying and retrying two different shirts, both of which look adorable. “You could just drink water, and we can make it an early night.”

“Can’t do it,” I say. Just the thought of being around alcohol triggers my gag reflex.

Kat and Lindsey don’t seem particularly heartbroken that I won’t be joining them, and neither tries to talk me into it as they normally would. But then I suppose that taking a drunken header will do that.

I managed to outrun my hangover while Kat and Sin were out chasing theirs. They both rolled in at 5:00 a.m., and now they’re moving a little slowly.

“How was it?” I ask them, as we all climb out of bed at the crack of noon. “What are the bars like?”

“Fucking nuts,” Kat says, yawning and stretching as she gets off her cot.

“Well, tell me,” I say.

“You really have to see it to get it,” Sin says, effectively cutting off a laundry list of questions I had about the bar scene.

Kat nods in agreement. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine,” I say, and surprisingly, besides being famished, this is true. I just hope I don’t run into the soap opera blonde again.

“So,” I say, shifting topics, “did anybody hook up?” This is a fairly common question between the three of us, usually intended to elicit Kat’s crazy stories. This time, though, I’m angling it toward Sin, wanting to know if anything happened with Billy.

They both shake their heads.

“I had this little Austrian man for a while,” Kat says, “but I lost him somewhere.”

“Were you with the Irish boys all night?” I ask.

“Most of the time,” Kat says. “They’re sweeties.”

Sin stays quiet, pulling a new bathing suit out of her bag, and I wonder why she wasn’t able to make a love connection with Billy.

A few minutes later, Sin sees me trying on different bathing suits in a one-piece versus two-piece kind of battle. She’s already packed and ready to go to the beach, of course.

“Coming with us this time?” she says. I pick up a faintly sardonic tone.

“I’ll meet you there.”

But Sin stays and watches me. As I yank up the top of my black one-piece, I feel her eyes on me like glue. It’s not a mothering kind of stare, though, not a relative to the head patting she gave me last night. Instead, it’s more like she’s studying me. It makes me nervous, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of snapping at her.

Luckily, Kat is ready in record-setting time. Once they’re gone, I rush to the mirror on the back of the door and model the bathing suits, turning myself this way and that, sucking in my stomach, sticking my chest out. I decide to go with the bikini, since wearing a one-piece to this beach seems a little like wearing a snowsuit to play golf, yet I keep trying to adjust the bikini in an effort at transformation. I pull the bottoms up high on my hips, making my legs look thinner but pinching my waist. I slide them a little lower. Next, I put my hands in the cups, scooping up my breasts, hoping to make them appear fuller. None of these things does anything to change the Casper’s-ass-whiteness of my skin or the extra flesh, and sadly, I can’t think of anything else that might.

I pull my hair up in a ponytail, noticing that it looks rather brassy blond from the sun I got in Rome and on the ferry. For a minute, I wonder if it makes me look like a tart. Then I remind myself that this would be fitting, since I acted rather tartlike with Francesco. I stick a floppy hat over my head, pulling it low, and I head outside.

I forget my self-consciousness for a moment when I see the beach. Pure heaven. Hundreds of yards of fine white sand that stretches from the base of the Sunset’s jagged steps to where the blue water laps and rolls.

I spot Noel, Johnny Red and Billy spread out on a blanket, their bare chests glistening. Johnny is covered in freckles, but the other two are pretty brown for Irish boys. Must have spent some time in the tanning beds back home.

“Morning,” I say when I reach them.

They wave and ask whether I’m feeling okay, Billy kidding me about getting too “pissed” for my own good.

Finally I manage to reassure them that I’m fine and get them off the subject of my bender. “Have you seen Kat and Lindsey?” I say.

Billy smiles a slow smile. “They’re getting something to drink. Have a seat.” Damn that boy is cute.

I drop my shorts quickly and glance at them. No one flinches at the sight of my flesh, and I take this as a good sign. I walk to the water, moving around the sunbathers, holding my body as firm as possible with the hope that nothing is jiggling out of control.

The water is cool despite the heat of the day, sending tingles through me. It’s so clear that even when I wade to chest level, I can still see the “Not in Kansas Anymore Red” polish I’ve painted on my toes for the first time in over a year. I wiggle them as I look down, and just seeing my scarlet toes through the watery blue makes me feel glamorous.

Our days in Ios stretch into a pattern of sorts. An idyllic pattern, if it weren’t for the weird tension that still hovers between Lindsey and me. Aside from her concern about my fall, she’s been aloof with me, and Kat, while perfectly nice, seems to be joined at Sin’s hip.

It’s not that I don’t spend time with them. Most days we sleep until at least eleven o’clock, then make our way to the terrace, where CeCe and the kids serve made-to-order eggs and toast. I always ask for egg whites only, as I’ve been trying, with some success, to knock off a bit more of my girth. After the food fills our bellies and clears some of the cobwebs from our heads, we stake out a spot at the beach, usually next to the Irish boys. Inevitably, Lindsey hurries to place her towel near Billy.

“Hello, boys,” she’ll say (as she had that first day I was on the beach with her) and as she speaks, she’ll reach behind, unceremoniously unclasping her top, her breasts bouncing loose.

Kat does the same, asking Noel something benign like, “What time did you guys get in last night?”

The first time I saw this, I’d glanced at the faces of the Irish guys. Their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but none of them appeared particularly flustered. Either they had fabulous poker faces, or they were simply used to topless women. I chalked it up to a European thing, since well over fifty percent of the beach’s female population is sans tops. There’s even a core contingent of naked people, both men and women, who have nearly every inch of exposed skin tanned to perfection.

One guy we meet, a Frenchman named Richard, wears nothing at all except a thick coat of white zinc oxide on his nose and penis.

“So that was Richard, huh?” Kat says as he walks away, his white pecker bobbing against his leg. “I guess we can officially call him Dick.”

We all laugh, the Irish guys hooting. Still, it amazes me that without batting an eye or clapping a hand over their browning breasts, Sin and Kat will engage in the most casual conversations as if they weren’t half-nude. Sin, especially, shocks me. I’d expect her to go bungee jumping over Niagara Falls before I’d expect toplessness.

“Come on!” Kat cajoled me that first day on the beach. “Just take it off, Casey. It’s no big deal.”

“I have a fair complexion. I don’t want to get third-degree burns,” I said, using my light hair and peachy skin as an excuse. Actually, I can tan pretty well if I go about it slowly. I was just hoping that the lack of time I’d spent with Kat and Sin lately would play into my hands and neither would remember this. I’m disappointed when that wish actually comes true.

In reality, I’m simply mortified at the thought of going topless. Not for any moral reasons, just physical ones. Flashing my overly white orbs wouldn’t have thrown me for a loop a few years ago, but now, the thought of being available for public viewing by the hundreds of people on the beach makes me cringe. Francesco had made me remember how my body used to feel, but it seems I’ve forgotten again.

One day, I corner Kat while Sin is in the sea with the Irish guys, splashing water and generally trying to look as if she’s frolicking, when the fact is she doesn’t do frolic well.

“Hey,” I say, plopping myself down on a towel next to Kat.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says back in a lazy voice. She’s on her stomach, her head on her arm, her hair splayed over most of her face like a hood. She opens one eye and gives me an equally lazy smile.

“How’s it going?” I ask, feeling odd to be exchanging pleasantries with one of my best friends as if she were someone I’d run into at the dry cleaners.

“Too much ouzo last night, but I’m good. You?”

“Great.” Well there you have it. Another illuminating heart-to-heart between friends.

When she closes the one eye, I move in with my real question. “You think Sin will ever give me a break?”

Kat sighs. “You know how she is. She doesn’t shift gears very well.”

“No kidding.”

“Just give her some time,” she says. “It’ll get better.”

“You think?” I hear a plaintive note in my voice.

“Sure,” Kat says. It’s not exactly the flag-waving reassurance I was hoping for, but it’s better than nothing.

Another silence follows, so I decide to ask her something else that’s been on my mind. “How are you feeling about the Hatter thing?” She’s been wearing the diamond earrings almost every night.

Both of her eyes shoot open now, and Kat raises herself onto her elbows. As she does so, she bares her breasts, and I can hear a groan of longing from one of the British teenagers behind us.

“Case, I told you. I don’t want to talk about that,” she says.

“I know, but don’t you think you should? I mean, it’s just going to sit in your brain, corrupting your thoughts. You have to get it out.” I’m thinking of the way I haven’t talked about my parents for so long, how the issue is camping out in my own mind.

“No, I don’t. I really feel fine. I got a pair of great earrings out of the whole thing, and now I just want to forget about it.”

I mull this over for a second. I could certainly understand the need to forget. Wasn’t that what I was doing on this vacation?

“You’re sure?” I ask, thinking that while I might need to pretend certain things in my life didn’t exist right now, Kat seems like she needs to remember this one thing.

“I’m sure,” she says, her voice bordering on exasperation.

I give up, slumping back on the towel and throwing an arm over my head.

Most days, I drift away in the afternoons to a spot I found under a large overhanging rock. There, in the shade, I escape the crowd and the heat and write aimlessly in my journal.

One day, I find myself making lists of John’s attributes versus Francesco’s, in sort of a battle between them. Under John’s name I write, “Sweet. Stable. Smart. Loves me. Great parents. Good cook. Good kisser.” Below Francesco’s I scribble, “Kind. Wavy hair. White teeth. Wants me. Sexy. Exciting. Hot. Amazing kisser.” The lists don’t help. I alternately crave Francesco’s hands on my hips, his mouth on my breasts, and then squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drown out John’s sweet smile, which keeps lingering, unaware I’ve betrayed him.

As I sit staring at my journal, Sin actually comes to me.

“Hi,” she says, ducking under the rock and sinking down next to me, wrapping her tiny arms around her knees. With her deep tan and no makeup on, wearing only her bikini bottoms, she looks like a small Peruvian child.

“Hey there,” I say.

“Whatcha doing?” She leans over, peering at the scribblings in my journal.

I fight the desire to slam it shut, an odd inclination, since I used to tell Sin nearly everything. “Just writing about the trip.”

“Franco?”

“Francesco,” I say, knowing she massacred his name on purpose.

“And John,” she says, glancing down at my page again.

“Yep.”

“Who’s winning?”

I laugh, an odd, coarse laugh that seems to scratch my throat on the way out. “It’s not a contest.”

“No, of course not.” She puts her chin on her knees. “You can’t have Francesco, can you? You don’t live in Rome. Which means it’s John by default.”

I debate whether I should smack her with the journal or maybe just pull a handful of Peruvian hair out of her head. “Is that what you came over here to say?”

She laughs then. “Sorry,” she says. “That was shitty.”

“Yes.” I close the journal, setting it on my thighs.

“So,” she says, turning her head and resting it on her knees, her eyes on me.

“So,” I say, all topics for easy banter escaping me. “Are you having fun?” The question rings lame, like the opening question on a blind date.

“Of course,” she says. “How can you not have fun? We’ve got the sunshine, the beach. What more do you need?”

Good question, I think. A fucking great question. But the answer keeps eluding me.

“All is good with John then?” she says. “I mean, excluding Franco, Francesco, whatever?”

“Uh…well…” Here’s my opportunity, the time I can dump out how much I miss the way John and I used to be even though we’re together all the time, how I don’t feel as connected to him as I once had. But that’s the problem. I really don’t feel connected to anybody lately, certainly not Sin, and the thought of bad-mouthing John to her seems a grave betrayal.

“Yes?” Sin blinks in a way that makes it seem like she’s batting her eyes. “You were saying?”

“Everything’s fine with John.”

“Hmm.” She stops the blinking and looks at me with eyes that seem sharp now, that seem to dig. “I don’t think you know what makes you happy anymore.”

She stands up, stretching her arms, then letting them fall to her sides. “See you later?”

“Sure,” I say.

When she’s gone, I open my journal and write the heading, “Things that Make Me Happy.” I underline it and poise my pen beneath it, readying myself to write the millions of things that give me pleasure, but I can’t think of any. Think, think, think, I command myself, determined not to let Sin be right. Finally I jot, “Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Repainting my walls. Buying a comfortable pair of shoes that still look hot. A brick of good Brie. Great music. Flourless chocolate cake.” I put my pen aside, relatively pleased with myself. The list had come quite easily once I started. But I read it over, and it hits me. Fifty percent of my happy list is food.