It’s sad how much I still don’t know about Nick. After all these years of basically going on vacation with him, I’ve never bothered to find out where he lives. Something I’ll have to remedy this week.

“Okay,” Pop says. “But promise me you’ll try to relax and enjoy your time in paradise, all right? You seem tense.”

“Spoken like a true hypocrite.”

He laughs. “Believe me, if I were there, I’d be loving every minute of it.” A loud voice blares in the background: someone calling a code over the hospital intercom. “I have to run. We’ll talk more about this later, okay? Bye, sweeties.”

“Bye, Poppy!” Abby yells, waving. “I loves you!”

“I loves you, too, Abby-cakes. Have fun!”

“I love you,” I murmur. But he’s already hung up.

Chapter 25

25

My little blow-up at Mom this morning must have had an effect, because she doesn’t insist that I come to dinner with her and the group. In fact, she offers to take Abby herself for the night.

I end up having dinner alone. I pick the little outdoor restaurant right next to the Ocean Tower. It’s nice, some would even say romantic, all under a canopy with white lights strung throughout. There’s a guy with a guitar in the corner playing love songs: old ones, new ones, ones he wrote. He’s got a decent voice. The food’s good: Mexican, addictive freshly made chips and salsa that could have been my entire meal. Sizzling fajitas to die for. I eat them glumly. It’s kind of worse that they’re so good.

I’m lonely, I realize.

But this is better than sitting around a table with my mother.

I think about texting Nick. He’d probably come have dinner with me in a heartbeat. But that would feel cheap somehow, like I’m using him. Maybe I am using him, I realize, but he seems okay if I’m using him for sex. There’s no real romance between us. And it should probably stay that way.

My thoughts revolve back around to Pop. He seemed okay today. Maybe he doesn’t know his marriage is completely on the rocks.

Dear god, I think, and then stop myself. What am I doing? I go to mass once a week during the school year, because it’s mandatory at my school, but God’s not someone I have regular conversations with. And even if I did—believe, I mean—I’m sure God wouldn’t appreciate the fact that the only times I attempt to communicate with him are those moments I want something impossible.

I’m only interested in God when there’s a crisis.

But it would be nice to truly believe in God, I think. Because then I might have someone to talk to.