“It would be good if you can find one where you look a little tan,” my dad says.

“Why?”

“You need to look a tad Latino,” my dad says, again as if he’s making sense.

“But…I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I’m not Latina,” I say.

“There’s a little Argentinian on my side,” my dad says, and holds up his forearms, which are perfectly tanned. From weekly golf under the California sun. Not genetics.

“Ignore Dad. It’s not a thing,” my mom says. She grabs my phone, flashes it in my face so she can bypass the passcode, and then pulls up my photos. “Ooh, this one is cute of Levi.”

“Hands off, Joy. He’s too young for you.” My dad pinches her butt and she squeals.

“Here. One from the beach in Maui. You look stunning,” my mom says, and messages the image to herself. “Done.”

“The one with me in a bikini? Oh my God, do not send that to Dr. Wilson.”

“Relax. He just needs your face and neck,” my dad repeats.

“What are you even talking about?” I ask.

“Shush,” my mom says, though I don’t know if she’s talking to my dad or to me. She glances at my phone again. “Ooh, time’s up. Need to take off this mask. It’s all tingly.”

“I know how to make you tingly,” my dad says, and I groan, because boundaries.

“Can I go back to sleep?” I ask, though I have no plans to go back to sleep at all. I plan to lie here and listen to Isla through the wall, and memorize the sound of that lawn mower. I plan to luxuriate in my waning life.

“Fourteen-forty on your SATs. Got your essay in. I think you earned it, love,” my mom says, handing me a silk eye mask from the side dresser.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” my dad says. And then they both blow kisses from the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Now

This time, the meeting is held in the playroom, my family sitting on the wraparound couch, while a man I’ve never met before and who despite his suit and tie doesn’t seem like a lawyer, stands in front of us, fiddling with the television. A tattoo peeks out from his sleeve, and it occurs to me you can tell a lot about a man from how he decorates his wrists.

“Do I need to call Kenny?” I ask, because this is how we live now. Before spending time with my parents, I need to consult my lawyer.

“Not for this,” my dad says. “This is Mr. Forster.”

“Call me Michael.”

“Michael, who are you?” Isla asks, and somehow manages to adopt a tone that is authoritative without being rude. She immediately gives the impression that she, not my parents, is the one in charge here. Instead of going to college, I should take life lessons from my sister.