He cuts me off with a hand gently raised in the air. “I know you never let anything come before family; that’s how I raised you. But soon you’ll want to be at every appointment, sitting nearby for every possible second. You’ll be online, reading every detail you can find. You’ll be hovering, offering her food, a sweater, movies, gifts. I’ll be doing the same. And together we will drive your mother crazy.” Crouching down in front of me, he whispers, “Please, Tulip, let yourself be distracted when you can. Have some fun. I envy you.”

OLIVER’S HOUSE IS a tiny, single-story stucco cottage in Pacific Beach, with ocean-breeze-dulled blue paint and faded, chipped red windowsills. The sidewalk out front is cracked and uneven, and the lawn is a mottled calico of yellow, green, and brown. Unlike his glossy new store downtown, this place isn’t much to look at. But I know the area well enough to guess what it cost him and that being able to climb up to his roof at night and see the sunset over the ocean is part of the appeal.

After swimming for a while, I’d gone inside to find Mom and Dad in the living room, cuddled together on the couch and reading their books in easy silence.

I offered to make them lunch. They weren’t hungry. I offered to run some errands. They had nothing for me to do. So I stood, fidgeting at the perimeter of the room until Dad looked up at me and gave me a sad little smile.

Mom will need me, but she doesn’t need me today. She doesn’t need anyone but her guy, and what he needs is to be her entire world right now.

I drove to Oliver’s in a fog, on autopilot, trying not to second-guess what I was going to do. My father was basically telling me to enjoy Finn—though not in those exact words—and why not? It isn’t like Finn and I have misaligned expectations. We’ve spent a combined total of maybe one full day together, and have been naked for most of that. Before this weekend, our most meaningful conversation occurred when I showed up at his house and he told me to help myself to anything in the fridge while he ran out to get condoms.

I smile at the R2-D2 knocker and rap twice at the door with it.

The house inside is silent, and all around me the ocean wind whips past the tall, willowy palms. Finally, I hear footsteps just in front of the door and it swings open.

Finn pulls a dish towel off his shoulder, using it to dry his hands. He’s shirtless, and his jeans hang low on his hips, revealing the black waistband of his boxers.

“Hey, Ginger Barbie.”