 Penguin Random House Audio presents People We Meet On Vacation by Emily Henry, read for you by Julia Whalen. I wrote the last one mostly for me. This one's for you. Prologue. Five summers ago. On vacation, you can be anyone you want. Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself. In your day-to-day life, maybe you can't even bob your head to the radio without being embarrassed. But on the right twinkly light-strung patio with the right steel drum band, you'll find yourself whirling and twirling with the best of them. On vacation, your hair changes. The water is different, maybe the shampoo. Maybe you don't bother to wash your hair at all, or brush it because the salty ocean water curls it up in a way you love. You think, maybe I could do this at home, too. Maybe I could be this person who doesn't brush her hair, who doesn't mind being sweaty or having sand in all her crevices. On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You'll never see them again. You're whoever you want to be. You can do whatever you want. Okay, so maybe not whatever you want. Sometimes the weather forces you into a particular situation, such as the one I'm in now, and you have to find second-rate ways to entertain yourself as you wait out the rain. On my way out of the bathroom, I pause. Partly, this is because I'm still working on my game plan. Mostly, though, it's because the floor is so sticky that I lose my sandal and have to hobble back for it. I love everything about this place in theory, but in practice, I think letting my bare foot touch the anonymous filth on the laminate might be a good way to contract one of those rare diseases kept in the refrigerated vials of a secret CDC facility. I dance-hop back to my shoe, slip my toes through the thin orange straps, and turn to survey the bar. The press of sticky bodies, the lazy whorl of thatched fans overhead, the door propped open so that, occasionally, a burst of rain rips in off the black night to cool the sweating crowd. In the corner, a jukebox, haloed in neon light, plays the flamingos I only have eyes for you. It's a resort town, but a locals' bar, free of printed sun-dresses and Tommy Bahama shirts, though also sadly lacking in cocktails garnished with spears of tropical fruit. If not for the storm, I would have chosen somewhere else for my last night in town.