The problem is it’s not really that easy. I detest the morbid, niggling sense I have after talking to Finn at lunch on Tuesday that my mother is going to die. I can’t talk about it with anyone, and even if I could, giving voice to it would only make me feel like I was validating the possibility or—worse—turning it into reality, somehow. I have too much free time to think; my part-time job isn’t nearly absorbing enough, I can only run or spend so many hours at the beach, and my friends have packed schedules from morning to night. All of them, that is, except Finn.

Once Bellamy has driven away, I stand on my parents’ driveway and forcibly pull myself together. It feels literal: Pick up the pieces and put them where they belong. Pull the spine straight. Tie my still-wet hair back in a messy bun. Smooth my hands down the rumpled front of my T-shirt and jeans. Slap on a smile.

I’m making everyone join me at Fred’s, and I won’t take no for an answer.

“NO,” LOLA SAYS, and then I hear a loud clang in the background. “I can’t tonight. I need to finish these panels. And Mia said she and Ansel are staying in, since he’s leaving tomorrow and won’t be back for a few weeks.”

“I’m barely keeping my shit together, Lorelei Louise Castle.”

“You’re going to bust out my full name?”

“I didn’t brush my hair after I showered, I’m wearing one of Bellamy’s Hello Kitty titty shirts because I forgot all my clothes at home, and the Latin Love Machine”—Lola and Mia have a bit of a thing for my dad—“kicked me out of the house until further notice. Get your ass to the Regal Beagle.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

Fred Furley opened Fred’s Bar in 1969, when he was only twenty-seven. Now he’s seventy-two, has been married (and divorced) six times, and loves my mother maybe only a fraction less than my father does. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday here, and Mr. Furley only let me have two shots. Perhaps relatedly, I went home sober and alone. He’s loosened up somewhat, but he still likes to play the role of father figure, which is probably why I’m so comfortable being here. Besides, it’s a way better regular hangout than a coffee shop because, hello, booze.

It took him about seven years to understand why my dad called the bar the Regal Beagle, but the name stuck even if Mr. Furley is nothing like the guy from Three’s Company. He’s calm, tanned, and fit and gives me almost anything I want.

Like Thursday Ladies Nights.