“Oh, you know. This and that.” She stands up. “We better get going. The tram’s about to leave. See you later.” She throws her cup and the empty acai bowls into the nearest trash, then grabs Abby’s hand, and the two of them run the fifty feet or so to the tram stop. I wave as they get in, but they aren’t watching me. The tram beeps its warning that it’s about to move, and then it whooshes away.

Just like that, I’m alone.

For a few minutes I sit there, clutching my lukewarm coffee, unsure of what to do. The reality of what’s just happened slowly sinks in. I am verifiably alone. Afton has given me a gift, and to make such a generous offer, to take Abby off my hands, she must be over her drama. That’s the best news of all.

I find myself smiling. Not that I don’t love my little sister, but it’s so rare to have time to myself. I still have that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket, crisp and promising. I can do whatever I want. I can go back to the room and sleep some more, although I suddenly don’t feel even a little bit tired. I can explore the resort without having to answer to anybody else.

I examine the brochure again. Then I text Mom (who ironically likes to be kept informed of what we’re doing during the day) that Abby and Afton have gone to a hula class, and I am going to try paddleboarding.

Don’t get burned, she texts back.

I am already picturing myself on the lagoon, not with Abby sitting on the board in front of me, making her little-kid observations and perpetually about to tip us over, always needing something, like a drink or her life jacket adjusted or for me to find the sunglasses that had been on her face two seconds ago, but alone, blessedly, sweetly alone. The water lapping at the board. The sun on my shoulders. The breeze in my hair.

Abruptly I realize that, in the magnificent paddleboarding scenario I’m creating in my head, I’m obviously wearing a swimsuit, and I still don’t have one.

I’m going to have to shop for a swimsuit.

My elation at being free from all of my responsibilities fades as quickly as it came. I dislike shopping. I flat-out hate shopping for a swimsuit. If there are circles in hell, I am sure one of them is made up entirely of an endless row of dressing rooms and three-way mirrors.

Suddenly hula dancing doesn’t seem like that terrible of an option.

“Do you know where I can buy a bathing suit?” I ask the girl working at the café.