“Michael’s not her boyfriend, Abby,” I try to clarify. “He only got here, like, yesterday.”

“No, he was here earlier than yesterday,” Abby says primly.

“How would you know? Anyway, he’s not her boyfriend.”

“I saw them kissing,” Abby adds. “Last night on the beach. It was yucky.”

So they’re already kissing. Wow. But why am I not surprised? Afton saw something she wanted, she went after it, and—shocker—she got it. Or should I say, she got him.

“How old is Michael?” Pop asks, his eyebrows dropping into a scowl. “I thought he was much old—”

“He’s twenty-two,” I say. “He just graduated from college.”

Pop makes a face like he’s bitten into a piece of bad fruit. “Now I’m starting to see why you two might be fighting. I assume that you told her no good can come from jumping right into a relationship with Michael Wong?”

I wouldn’t say they’re in a relationship. But I shrug. “You know how well Afton listens.”

Pop’s assuming that I did the Normal-Ada move here. The square thing. But I didn’t tell Afton to stay away from Michael. In fact, I told her to go hook up with him. I didn’t really mean it, but still. Here we all are.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Pop says again. “Sometimes you just have to let people make mistakes, and love them anyway.”

“Yeah, because sisters are forever,” Abby intones.

“Yes.” He smiles the molar smile again, then looks at me. “Don’t worry about Afton. She’s tough. She’ll pull through. You focus on yourself right now, okay?”

God, if only I could. “Okay,” I say faintly. I’m grateful, actually, that this conversation has been largely about Afton and Michael.

“Ada has a new boyfriend, too,” pipes up Abby.

“I take it back,” I say between clenched teeth. “No life jacket for you.”

Pop’s eyebrows are really getting a workout this afternoon. “Oh? And who is this fortunate and hopefully more age-appropriate young man?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time Abby shouts, “It’s Nick!”

“Who?”

“Nick Kelly.”

“Nick Kelly.” Pop’s lips purse thoughtfully. He doesn’t know Nick by name. He’s never had a reason to talk about him, except—“Wait, is that the kid who got lost in Rio?”

“That was six years ago,” I say in Nick’s defense. “And he is most definitely not my boyfriend. We’re just hanging out . . . occasionally. Okay?”

“Hmm,” Pop muses. “Okay, well, I trust your judgment, Ada. I’ve never seen a kid with more common sense than you.”

“We’re just hanging out,” I insist again. I wisely omit the part about us planning to lose our virginities together at the end of the week. “I see him once a year, remember? He lives in . . . Chicago? Baltimore?”