“I need a drink.” Tanya loops her arm through mine as we climb out of the taxi. Carrie and Macy rode with us; Damian, his roommate James, and the twins, Ian and Ted, rode in the taxi just ahead. They’re already hefting their luggage to the curb, intercepted by eager bellhops in suits, when we pull up.

Tanya gets her wish, because no sooner have we stepped into the lobby than we’re greeted by a woman with leis and a guy with tacky coconut cups. I don’t know what’s in them, but it smells strong. Mine’s finished before we’re upstairs.

“Whoa, look at this place!” Carrie starts flitting around the suite, pressing her nose to every window like a child. She does that—acts like a kid, but hates that people don’t respect her. It’s probably why she’s pre-med, but I can’t imagine people taking a 4’11” doctor who wears actual glitter on her face and carries a kawaii donut purse seriously.

Meanwhile, Macy’s reading the menu for the restaurant downstairs, and Tanya’s stealing whatever’s left of Carrie’s drink. Which leaves just me and the bellhop. I give him a five, then shut the door behind him.

“So,” Carrie squeaks, falling onto the plush sofa with her makeup bag—covered in sequins, no less—to touch up her lip gloss, “how was everyone’s flight experience?”

The way she drawls “flight experience” makes it clear she’s really asking me if I had the spine to flirt with Damian or not. I ignore all six eyes on me and rummage through my bags for some ibuprofen.

“You know,” she adds, “there’s a big luau tonight, all-inclusive. Maybe you and Damian could get a little alone time down by the waves.”

Macy grabs Carrie’s gloss and swabs it on her mouth. I get that, as roommates, they’re used to sharing everything and crossing boundaries, but stuff like that always grosses me out. I have to look away, lest the thought of them sharing saliva and bacteria makes me vomit.

Tanya and I don’t do that stuff. We share clothes, but that’s about it. I don’t think she has a problem sharing things like makeup or drinks—made evident by the fact she’s now stealing Macy’s, as well—but thankfully, she understands my quirks. Like never sharing saliva unless you’re dating the person, or keeping the television at the lowest audible volume when your roommate’s studying.

Or the fact I’ve had the dumbest, most pathetic crush on Damian since the day we all met, and as much hell as she gives me about it in private, she respects the fact I hate talking about it in front of other people. Even Macy and Carrie.

So when she instantly changes the subject to where we should grab lunch, I give her a look of gratitude. It’s not anything noticeable, but I can tell she gets the message.

“The luau’s tonight. Or did you forget?”

I stop in my tracks, hand still on the fridge. “No,” I tell the magnets, polymer clay and tacky as hell, sent from relatives and friends on the mainland. The Space Needle is broken right down the middle, jagged as a knife. “Couldn’t forget if I tried.”

Dad sighs and shakes his head. He’s got about a thousand papers spread out on the kitchen table. Typical: ever since he signed the franchise contract, he’s been forced to work right through his lunch break, even when he comes home to eat with Mom.

The pop of my soda can blasts through the house like a bone breaking. The place is too quiet nowadays, even with so much more going on.

“Kai?” Mom’s voice floats to me through the door leading to our garden. “Is that you?”

I step out and wave. She’s kneeling in the dirt, seed packets scattered by her feet.

“Cucumbers,” she explains, motioning up and down the row. “I’m thinking of doing some radishes, too. What do you think?”

“Radishes are good,” I say, feigning interest for her sake. Gardening is Mom’s newest thing, and it seems to be helping those stress dreams she started getting around Christmas. She refuses to tell us what they’re actually about, but I have a feeling it’s an endless compilation of all the ways Dad’s working himself into an early grave. “Hope you’re going to pickle those cucumbers, or else I won’t be eating them.”

This makes her smile, which makes me smile.

“Hand me that watering can, would you?” We watch the rain she scatters on the new mounds, the soil fresh and aromatic. It reminds me of when our garden was just dirt, back when I was a kid, and every new blade got turned up by our Tonka trucks and bike tires as soon as they sprouted.

“Where’s Luka?” She stands and brushes her hands off on her jeans. I notice they’re an old pair of Dad’s, held up by a belt on its innermost notch. I wonder if she consciously does these cute, couple-y things to get his attention—stealing his clothes, cutting his sandwiches into hearts—or if by now, it’s just force of habit.

“Some meeting for the luau tonight. I don’t know.”

“He worked sixteen hours yesterday,” she says. “Can you believe it?”

“Turning into Dad,” I mutter. The truth is, I’m stunned. Luka’s always been the slacker type.

Mom gives me a scolding look. “Kai.”

“What?”

She sighs and shakes her head, just like Dad did in the kitchen a few moments ago. But the way she does it is different: she knows I’m right. She just doesn’t want to say so.