I turn and see it through his eyes: my small kitchen with two stools pulled up to the counter; sofa and armchair in the living room; two big bookshelves against one wall.

“Were you expecting some kind of ice castle?”

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

I’m not sure what to do now. After the night we’ve had—deep conversation, holding hands, dancing, listening to vigorous sex? I ought to be shoving him out the door.

“Want some tea?” I say instead.

“Sure.”

I’m turning to grab the mugs when something vibrates on my counter.

“My phone!” I gasp. I must have left it here when I came home this afternoon to get the dishes for the dinner. It’s a clear sign of how distracted I’ve been that I hadn’t even realized.

MOM is flashing across the screen. I send her to voicemail—and notice that my screen is filled with messages from Georgia. Her most recent text:

We’re about to take off. I’ll call you when I land. Hope you’re OK??

My sister is on a plane? What’s going on? I immediately call her. No answer.

Confused, I scroll back to the first message she sent—nearly six hours ago.

I just heard from Mom. Darrell left and she’s alone in Puerto Vallarta. Give me a call as soon as you can.

Twenty minutes after that: I talked to Mom again. Call me?

Then a series of texts:

Maybe your phone is dead. I’ll try the store.

No answer there either. Where are you?

Jojo, please call me. Mom’s upset and I don’t know what to do.

Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.

Where are you??

A few minutes after that:

I’m looking at flights to PV. Mom’s freaking out.

“Shit,” I whisper. This is why I can never truly relax—no matter how much time passes, at any moment, my mom could self-destruct.

And I’ll be damned if I allow my innocent sister to suffer the consequences.

“Everything okay?” Ryan asks, but I’m reading the next message from Georgia, sent four hours ago.

I’ve found a flight tonight. Call me when you can, ok?

“I—I need to call my mom.” I glance up at Ryan, who’s watching me with concern. “I’ll just…One second.”

I step into my bedroom and call; Mom answers—and she’s crying. All the ease and comfort I’ve felt this evening vanishes. I’m a ball of tight muscles, gripping the phone and bracing for impact.

“Mom? Mom, are you okay?”

“He’s gone,” she says through sobs. “I woke up and Darrell was gone; he took all his things, and no one knows where he is.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

“We were having a wonderful time, Jojo. I don’t know what happened.”