So here we are, having a non-conversation while, around us, kids splash and play, and couples pass by in kayaks, and the world goes about its business as usual.

I want to say, You said you need to talk. So talk. But I can’t be the one, this time, to break the silence.

Her jaw shifts. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, a habit I hate. Her breath, in and out, in and out. Until she finally says: “I’m sorry, Ada.”

“Apology not accepted. I can’t believe you let me think that it was Mom.” I swallow back tears. “Do you know what that was like for me? I felt like my life—our life—was over.”

“I made a mistake,” she murmurs.

I scoff. “Obviously. But guess what? You don’t just get to say you’re sorry and have it be fine.”

“I know!” she cries, and then, to my total horror, my tough big sister starts to cry, not just movie star tears, but red-faced bawling her eyes out that shakes the paddleboard.

“It’s just, I felt so broken,” she says between sobs. “I didn’t think I was fragile like that. I didn’t think I would feel so . . . empty after.”

My teeth grind together. I want nothing more than to kick that boy in the balls right then, no matter how mad I am at my sister.

“He’s an ass,” I say. “Which is a letdown, honestly, because I always thought Michael was okay.”

She blinks at me, her eyebrows drawing low over her wounded blue eyes. “Michael? I meant Logan.” Her face contracts into a grimace again. “This was always about Logan. The thing is, I loved him. I still love him. I wish I could stop, but every time I check, it’s still there. But he’s right that it wouldn’t be feasible for us to keep seeing each other from across the country. We’re moving on to a new part of our lives. I get that.” She wipes at her nose with the back of her arm—the most un-Afton-like gesture I’ve ever witnessed.

Now I am chewing on the inside of my cheek.

Afton shudders. “I was so embarrassed that I was such a mess,” she says, not looking at me but out to the horizon, fat tears still rolling down her face. “And then you were so ready to have sex with Leo, and we started talking about my first time, and . . .” She pauses. “That first time, in the garage, with that guy. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Then why did it?”

“I was angry at Dad.”

“Dad? As in . . . Aaron?”

“Yeah.” She sniffles again. “Up until then, he always came to my ballet recitals.”

“I thought you hated that.”