Bocas

I thought I’d finally escaped Shawna, by picking up this easy bartending gig in Bocas del Toro, Panama. With an extra $400/month to edit an online love column keeping me afloat, I spend my days swimming and sinking beers with my roommate PJ.

Does the occasional female tourist ever sleep over? Sure. But that’s nothing compared to PJ’s scorecard. He should be registered with the Center for Disease Control.

Warm water, cold beers and no Shawna—life couldn’t be better on the island. Until we take a little road trip to Colombia. Raúl, my boss at the bar, offered me a free ride. I always knew Raúl moved a little bit of cocaine, but who doesn’t? It’s fucking Bocas.

But guns? 

So...I absolutely should not write Shawna. That clever soul-crushing beauty destroyed me. Maybe it would be OK if she came for just a week? Just one week... 

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