He makes a quick, scared face, like perhaps sanity isn’t the right word, since I’d so clearly gone insane. I laugh and fake-punch him.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Now give me a hug, so I can get out of paradise.”

I throw my arms around him. My breasts press tightly into his skinny chest. My chin drops to rest on his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger,” I murmur close to his ear.

“I was about to say the exact same thing.” He pulls away. “Uh, don’t look down,” he mutters, his cheeks going red. “I’ve got a situation.”

Oh. He has a boner.

I don’t laugh, because I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him. So I just give him a friendly pat on the back.

“Maybe next year,” I say cheerfully.

He grins his crooked smile. “Maybe next year.”

Chapter 45

45

After that it’s just the main squad—Mom and Pop, Afton, Ada, and Abby—although now there’s a sense that we’ve been through something and survived it (if only barely), and we shouldn’t take our family for granted again. We do a lot of talking that week, about what transpired and what we can learn from it—i.e., what we should never do again. And Mom and Pop go off together, to discuss how things really are between them, and how they can make them better. Starting with Mom working less. And Pop maybe moving to the day shift so they’ll have more time to be together.

Then there is Kauai, which is as relaxing and low-key as the Big Island had been fiery and upscale. There’s our hotel right on the beach where roosters crow us awake every morning and huge snails slowly cross the grass. There are golden sand beaches, and Abby chasing sand crabs as the tide goes out.

We ride in a helicopter over the island, and we ride bicycles along the coast with the wind whipping us. We fill our stomachs with acai bowls and seafood and shaved ice that tastes of coconuts and cream. We buy a chopping board made of koa wood for Pop, a crap ton of Kona coffee for Mom, a bright yellow sarong for Afton, and a ukulele for Abby and me to share. And through all of that, we talk. We stitch ourselves back together, so that by the time the week is over, we feel like a solid unit again.

We don’t fix everything. But we make a start at it.

The last day in Hawaii, a baby seal appears on the beach a few steps from our hotel room door. A man in a uniform shows up and puts caution tape and warning signs around the area, to keep tourists from “helping” the baby seal by pouring water on it or covering it with towels, trying to feed it, or dragging it back into the water.