Then, because I can’t seem to help myself, I add a figure. Then two figures. Too distant to identify. Who are they?

Afton and Michael?

Mom and the mystery dark-haired man?

I stare at the drawing. I’m a little bit out of control, but I can’t tell if this is helping or hurting me. I mean, I know it’s hurting. But is it also helping?

Art can convey everything. I can pour myself in with the paint. I can bleed stuff out through the strokes of my pencil, my pens, my brush.

But at the same time, it’s also static.

Art can’t actually fix your life.

The man I’ve drawn looks like Billy Wong, I think then.

My heart starts to beat fast. I put my sketchbook down and scroll through my phone like there could be some kind of proof there, past a hundred different images: Abby in the hammock, the tight rings of her drying curls against her head. Her smile is for Poppy. For Pop.

Afton feeding a bunch of little birds at our outdoor breakfast table the first morning. Before the hula class.

The Grand Staircase, that first night.

Mom and Billy sitting at a table, leaning toward each other.

Mom smiling with her eyes.

The realization that it’s Billy doesn’t even really surprise me. I didn’t want to consider that it could be Billy before. But suddenly it seems so obvious. He’s the only man on this island who’s feasible. Mom doesn’t have time to mess around with someone new. But she and Billy have known each other for years. Decades, even. She’s comfortable with him. They spend all their time together.

It has to be Billy.

Poor Pop, I think then, the reality of the situation crashing over me, not just Mom and some guy in Hawaii but Mom and Billy, all this time, both here and back home. All the nights she was “working late.” All the excuses. Poor, poor Pop. I pick up my phone again and read the texts between Pop and me.

I miss you a million.

I wish I were there.

You should be here, I text now. It’s not okay, you not being here.

I’m startled when the phone buzzes in my hand. Pop calling.

I know I shouldn’t, but I click accept and lift the phone to my ear. I want to hear his voice.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi. Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk to you some more.”

“Okay.”

“Is Abby with you?”

“No, she’s with Afton today.”

Pop makes a surprised noise. “All right,” he says. “Good. So you seemed a little off yesterday, and I just wanted to check up on you. Is everything okay?”

I consider his question.

“No. No, it’s not okay.”

“Why not?”