“I tried to tell you!” she cries, her hands clenching into fists. “But you were so mad, and you kept talking and talking, and I couldn’t get a word in, and then Mom came in, and then the stuff with Michael happened . . . I was going to tell you. Just as soon as I could get a moment to think about what I’d say.”

I sink into my chair. “You should have told me.”

“But wait,” interjects Marjorie. She finishes the last of her glass of orange juice. “Didn’t you tell us, Billy, that Michael has a serious girlfriend?”

All eyes go back to Michael. He doesn’t say anything. He just puts his hands into the pockets of his shorts and sighs. “I don’t have a good excuse. I messed up. In my defense, though, your sister—”

“My sister is not crazy,” I spit out.

“Your sister is . . . kind of irresistible,” he says.

I can see his point. If Afton decided that Michael was going to be her rebound—the first cute guy she saw—and went after him with her typical Afton-like tenacity, Michael didn’t stand much of a chance. My sister is a force to be reckoned with.

Still, though. Douchebag.

The waitress arrives with various plates of food. She already looks stressed out, what with half the group moving to a different table, inside, and now the kids are gone, but their food’s here. Then Billy says, “Look, we’d like to move, too, if that’s okay. We have some things we’d like to discuss with our son.”

“Sure,” the waitress says, in a voice that conveys how very weary she is with all these freaking tourists. “Just pick a clean table, and I’ll bring your food there.”

Billy and Jenny thank the waitress, nod at Mom and Pop, and walk out, Billy pulling Michael behind them by the arm. “Do you know how old that girl is?” I hear him mutter.

“She’s eighteen,” Michael says. “I know, but Dad—”

Then the door swings closed behind them, and they’re gone.

Marjorie heaves a sigh. “This has been very entertaining,” she announces. “But I should go, too.”

She picks up her plate and sees herself out.

So it’s finally down to Mom, Pop, Afton, and me.

Which is a good thing, because something else has just occurred to me.

“Wait,” I say. “When I said I knew about the affair, you acted like you knew what I was talking about. But you didn’t know about Afton and Michael, did you?”

“No,” Mom says grimly. “I didn’t know they had sex in my bed. I wish I’d never found out about that, honestly. But everything makes so much sense now—how you were acting out all week, why you were so angry.”

“So what affair did you think I meant?” I ask.

Silence.

Then Pop sighs. “We thought you meant our affair.”