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HAVANA NIGHTS STYLE

Brooks and Brody are waiting in front of the giant water wall. Our ride share is already pulled up next to them, waiting. Lauren is wearing a dress so tight if she told me she painted it on I'd believe her. This one too is up her ass, but unlike the one from earlier, it is 100% hoochy-mama.

Thank the lord I decided on the tube top and not my frilly dress. I know I'm not 23 but I'm also not dead, so there's that.

"Em," Brooks says when I stop next to him. His forehead is still creased, but he seems to have calmed down in the last ten minutes. He looks almost disapproving.

"What? Don't like my top?" I ask, smirking. I roll my arms down my torso like I'm showing myself off as some cheap prize on a game show. I mean, if the price is right...

"Top?" Brooks says, eyeing me.

"Yes, top." I laugh.

"It's a napkin," Brooks says, rolling his eyes.

"Ok, like my napkin?" I roll my eyes back.

"Don't listen to him," Lauren says, looping her arm through mine. "Your napkin is hot."

"Thanks," I say.

I take her hand a little too much like some girl I just met in a bar bathroom. You know, like we're best friends all the sudden. We've shared a lip-gloss.

We get out of the car at the entrance to Miami Beach's downtown district. Palm trees line both sides of the road. There are shops and restaurants with people sitting out front, drinking wine. The music gets louder as we get closer. The nightclub is next level. Not NYE drunken–unicorn–rave next level, but in a league of its own.

We enter the nightclub. The door spits us out onto a platform above the dance floor.

Groups are huddled in corners of the club, each one doing a different style dance. Mambo and salsa and cha-cha-cha. All of them. People are moving in ways I've never seen before. I look down at my napkin. I overdressed. Brooks shifts us over to a small high-top next to the bar. It's against the railing overlooking the dance floor. Lauren flips through the cocktail menu in the center of the table.

"These look delish. Oh my god," she says.

"They do. I want them all," I agree. "Let's get one of each?"

"Let's not get carried away, ladies," Brody says, snatching the menu from our hands.

"Hey!" I fake punch him on the shoulder. "Since when do you police our drink count?"

"Yea!" Lauren laughs.

"Someone needs to make sure we all get back alive and I have a feeling that I drew that straw tonight," Brody says. My eyes follow his to Brooks, who currently has his back to us and is ordering the first round of drinks at the bar.

Approximately three tequila shots and all the mint mojitos later...

Sweating bodies all writhing and heaving together, glistening with sweat. I'm reminded of the weird rave party at the nightclub in Vail. I'm reminded of being a unicorn. Brooks eyes glitter in the light when he laughs. It's stupid beautiful. His hands on my hips bring me life. I'm almost certain someone wrote a song about it.

I want nothing more in this moment than to jump him. To start my night with him –the night we know is coming. It's a lust driven fire between us and it never seems to burn out.

He feels so good against me. His sweat dripping onto my chest as he leans his head against my shoulder. The back of my neck is sticky and hot. When he lifts my hair from my neck a cool breeze gives me goose bumps.

He gives me goose bumps.

We dance to Señorita. Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello sure know how to drop a duet. Brody and Lauren dance beside us, losing themselves to the beat of the music. I watch them now. And the pang of jealousy I felt at dinner has completely vanished. I don't envy their clearly defined relationship and structured behavior toward each other. As I look at Brooks, at the hungriness in his eyes, I realize I don't care about titles.

I don't need a label or a ring or any type of promise from him. He's given me himself. His love. His words come back to me –the words he spoke on Valentine's Day, sitting on my bed after devouring shitty food truck tacos.

His motherfuckin' LOVE. Fuck you Emmy, if that's not enough.

I lick my lips and taste our sweat. A mixture of his and mine. I want to reach up and kiss him or pull his head down to mine and just lose myself in his lips.

But the way he's looking at me –head hung low and eyes heavy with a euphoric stupor –it's too much. I can't do much more than look at him, take him in.