We haven’t talked about that yet, Pop not coming and what it could mean. Because we haven’t been talking.

“And even if it is for the stupid conference,” I add.

“Excuse me,” comes our mother’s voice from the seat in front of us, making us both jump. “This conference is going to be amazing.” She shifts to a higher-pitched voice to represent us: “Thank you, Mom, for taking us on this wonderful adventure.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Afton and I drone in unison.

“That’s better.” Mom obviously thinks the conference is super exciting. For the rest of us, the conference largely consists of waiting for Mom to become available after the meetings and social mingling she’s expecting to do, punctuated by a few touristy trips they book in advance for the families—like the time we took a boat ride through the bayou when the conference was in New Orleans. Or the Vatican in Rome. Or the Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil. But the food is usually good, and we always stay in the best hotels. This time the conference is at a Hilton that has like twenty swimming pools and its own lagoon and a myriad of gift shops and restaurants. I looked it up online earlier, and it seems like a literal paradise, swaying palm trees and gleaming blue water.

I want to play with watercolors. And I want to go paddleboarding, to find that “spiritual experience” Pop was talking about. And I want to try to forget that Leo ever existed.

“Maybe you could find some cute boy to have sex with,” Afton says then. “I’ve heard rebound sex is awesome.”

I peer around the seat to see if Mom is still listening, but she has her noise-canceling headphones on again. She’s working—still, perpetually working—hunched over her laptop with the presentation for the conference open on the screen. It’s weird how she can do that: pop in for a tiny part of a conversation, to prove that she’s participating, I guess, and then disappear into her own world again. Next to her, Abby is also wearing headphones, watching a movie on her tablet with the subtitles on. When I asked her why earlier, she said that she was teaching herself to read.

“I don’t want to have rebound sex,” I whisper to Afton stiffly.

Afton twists a long strand of her hair around her finger and releases it. “What? You said you were ready. Maybe in Hawaii there will be a boy you’ll want to get busy with. You never know.”

I’m about to argue that yes, in fact, I do know, but that’s when I realize that Afton doesn’t mean it. She’s perfectly aware that I’m not considering having sex anymore. She’s just trying to mess with me, because she thinks we’re still fighting. Because she’s still mad.

Why is she still mad?