“Shots! Shots! Shots!”
We yell it together, slamming our hands on the sticky wooden table. The dreadlocked waiter pours a row of something lurid, neon blue. It’s our first night on the island, and the music is almost too loud for me to think; some European dance-pop thing that shakes the crowded beach club, making the glasses quiver and the blood vibrate in my chest.
“Aruba, bitches!” Elise raises her shot in a toast, lights splintering off the glass, golden in her hair.