“You should call Pop today,” I add. “He misses you.”

“I will,” she says.

Malia, the lady at the counter, moves off to straighten some of the items that are for sale around the front desk: fluffy white robes and smelly lotions and jars of face masks. Because she can tell we’re about to be in the middle of a serious conversation.

“Good,” I say. “This thing where you’re missing family nights, and you’re not talking to each other as much, and he’s not here, it’s bullshit,” I gather up the guts to say. Her telling me that she’d call him makes me feel hope. That maybe it isn’t over.

Maybe I can fix this.

“It’s complicated,” Mom says stiffly.

“No.” I refuse to let her get away with that. “It’s not that complicated. Pop is the center of our world, you know. More than just Abby. Afton and me, too.”

“I know.”

“You said we’d always come first.”

She sucks in a breath. “I know.”

“So deal with it,” I say. “Soon. I’ll see you later.”

Mom looks like she’s ready to argue. But maybe she’s had enough of her daughters reaming her out for one day. She nods once, quickly, and then hurries toward the stairs, not because she has anywhere to be, but because Mom only has one speed: fast. Always the Whirlwind.

I take a few deep breaths. That was close. I almost cracked. I almost mentioned Billy.

When Mom’s out of sight, I turn quickly to Malia, ready to shift my focus to something else. Something that’s not so serious, but at the same time is pretty freaking serious. “Actually, can I switch the massage to waxing?”

“Of course. Which areas would you like to be waxed?”

“All of them. It’s kind of an emergency.”

She gives me a knowing smile. “No problem. I think we’ll be able to fit you in.”

I can sum up the next hour in one word: ouch.

The result, though, is very smooth legs, and underarms, and bikini line. I am even willing to brave waxing that spot that no man has ever gone before, but the torture expert—aka the wax specialist—asks me, “So you have big plans tonight?”

And I tell her. I tell a total stranger that in less than twelve hours, I am planning to have sex for the very first time.

“That is big plans,” she says, and I say, “I know, right?” and we laugh awkwardly and then she rips another swath of hair from my thigh.

“Do you think I should wax . . . all of it?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t want to look like a cavewoman down there, but I also don’t want to look like a little girl.”