A few years ago, on a complete whim, I booked a solo vacation to Puerto Rico in an effort to let go of my ex, Scott (remember him?). I wanted a mix of relaxation, sunshine, adventure, and hopefully, some light-hearted flirting to take my mind off of my heartache. I had purposefully (and yes, spitefully) booked the trip over my ex’s birthday, knowing that if I wasn’t facing a huge fee on my phone bill, I wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out to him (or giving in to birthday sex with him).
Instead, I stood in the middle of the ocean at 3 a.m. with a guy I just met, watching a meteor shower and wondering if I had died and woken up in some cheesy romantic comedy—or if I was actually losing my mind.
“Should we go back to your hotel, Lindsay?” André asked me. André was the 30-something guy who was studying to become a cardiologist and was currently whisking me off of my feet. I was introduced to him a few hours before by some new friends I’d made at the resort. They had invited me to come sit with them when they saw me sipping a mojito and reading Conde Nast Traveler on my own (a walking cliché, I know). After some small talk and way too many tequila shots, one of the girls pulled up my blog and began reading it out loud to me in Spanish. And then in English, she suddenly explained: “Oh! You’re here because you’re sad! You’re here because you lost love! You must meet André! Let’s call André now!”
This post was originally published on Women’s Health. To read the rest, click here.