She shakes her head quickly. “She got a haircut, you guys. That’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” Pop says, tilting his head one way and then the other to check out my hair. “That’s nice, Ada.”

“I also got a manicure, a pedicure, and a facial,” I mumble. I leave out the waxing for obvious reasons.

“Wow. Well, you look great,” Pop says.

I do not look great. I have dark circles under my eyes, and some leftover puffiness from the previous night’s cry fest, and a secret burning me from the inside out.

“Thanks,” I croak. “What are you really doing here?”

“I’m fighting,” he whispers back.

I take a second to dash away some quick tears. He heard me. He listened.

The details of the surprise come out after we all take our seats. Mom called Pop yesterday, and he said he wanted to join us. They moved around some flights. Pop took the red-eye to Hawaii, to surprise us. We’re going to stay tomorrow, as previously scheduled, but then we’re going to go to Kauai.

“So we’ll get another whole week in paradise,” Pop says. “Together. As a family.”

“Hooray!” Abby yells. “And it will be so much better with you, Poppy!”

“Hooray,” I say weakly. It’s good news. I know this. But it still feels bad.

“And that reminds me,” Mom says. “Happy Father’s Day.”

The table erupts in a chorus of “Happy Father’s Day,” aimed at Max, Jerry, Billy, and Pop. Yep. It’s June twenty-first. Which means, this year anyway, we’re supposed to be celebrating our fathers.

Just five minutes ago, I was fine. I wouldn’t call myself happy, maybe, but the pleasant aftereffects of last night’s decompressing dancing and soul-spilling with Nick still lingered in my system. I was calm, relatively speaking. I was ready to go home and figure all of this out.

But now everything’s been turned on its head.

Pop’s here. He’s sitting on one side of Mom, and Billy Wong is sitting on the other side of her. From my angle the three of them are in a perfect triangle.

The waitress comes and takes our orders, but I don’t order anything but fruit. Watching Mom has made me lose my appetite. She’s being uncharacteristically affectionate toward Pop, even holding his hand, leaning in to whisper things in his ear, smiling, smiling so hard, with all of her teeth, her eyes squinty.

She’s putting on a fine performance, and it makes me want to throw up. Or throw something at her. Or I could throw a fit. Whatever I do, I decide, should definitely involve throwing.

My phone buzzes. Nick. I glance down the table at him. His face is the quintessential expression of sympathy. He feels bad for me. He knows.

I feel bad for me, too.