The Way You Make Me Feel(63)

“Your villa?”

“Yeah, I get my own. Isn’t that cool?”

The judgy pause on the other end made it clear that no, it was not cool. But he replied with, “Yeah! So what have you guys got planned?”

I turned on the ceiling fan when I realized how hot and sticky I was. “Well, I just got here, so not sure. There’s a party tonight or something, so we’re going to that.”

“A party?”

“Pai. Calm down. It’s one of the events for this retreat thing.”

“Oh. So she told you about that?”

My dad’s relief didn’t go unnoticed. “You knew about it?”

I felt his shrug over the phone. “Yeah. Jules told me about it a while back.” Jules. It was moments like this that reminded me that my parents had actually known each other at one point in their lives. Really well.

“Wait,” he said. “Did you know?”

Ugh. When you were a kid with parents who were divorced or separated or whatever it was my parents were, you were stuck in this annoying diplomatic purgatory—always wondering if you were saying something to get the other parent in trouble. “Yeah, I knew,” I lied again.

“I’m surprised you were still hell-bent on going, then.”

I took my time responding because, had I known, maybe I wouldn’t have been so quick to hop on a plane to get here. With my dad’s credit card. In the middle of a fight with my boyfriend. “It’s going to be fun. Once the storm passes, I’m going to work on my tan.”

“Right, that storm. I saw that when I checked the weather report. Did your flight get in all right? When did you land?”

My dad and I talked for a bit longer—I told him the details of my flight, which he actually wanted to hear. Suddenly, I realized the rain had stopped. And that there was live music playing outside.

“I think I should go now,” I said, reluctant to interrupt our conversation. “Party’s in full effect.”

“Okay. Well, enjoy yourself, because you’re grounded forever once you get back.”

I would have laughed except I knew he wasn’t joking. “I will. I’ll buy you a puka-shell necklace.”

He laughed then. “Looking forward to it.” A beat of silence. “I told Hamlet and Rose where you were.”

Another wave of homesickness hit me. “I’m pretty sure I broke up with Hamlet. And Rose is probably mad, too.”

“I don’t think so. They were both worried about you.”

I blinked, my eyes tired. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about them right now?”

“Sure.” He sighed. “Can you do me a solid, though, and call Hamlet? Or text him? Or something?”

The room was growing warmer. I fanned my face with my hand. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“And, I noticed in my lovely airline receipt that you didn’t buy a ticket back home yet. How long are you going to stay there?”

I stood up and moved the phone to my other ear so I could examine the thermostat. “I don’t know.”

“Lot of thought went into this plan of yours.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not forever.”

“Oh good!” I heard Flo mew in the background, and I missed her so much.

“Talk to you later, Pai.”

“Later, Shorty. Also: one week max, got it? You need some downtime before school starts.”

A week. That seemed like forever and not enough at the same time. “Okay.”

A pause. “Love you, little girl.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Love you, too, Pai.”

When we hung up, I stared out the window at the beautiful people who had started to gather in the courtyard. Time to put my game face on.





CHAPTER 29

When I stepped outside, the air was cool and the sky was filled with stars. The storm had left everything drenched and sparkling—palm trees, the woven hammocks in everyone’s villas, and the slick stone paths leading from the rooms to the lit-up courtyard.

Strings of twinkly lights and torches made everything glow. Perfect Instagram lighting, apparently—every single person out there seemed to be snapping Stories or photos on their phones. Beautiful moments never happened unless you uploaded them first.

I’d been to plenty of these kinds of events with my mom, and I’d dressed for the occasion. Knowing that I couldn’t match these people with their outrageous clothing budgets, I went with “teenage minimalist”: black cutoffs, my Docs with black ankle socks peeking out, and a white cotton T with the sleeves rolled up. I hadn’t had time to shower, so I leaned into my dirty hair by adding more product to push it back from my face, the tousled strands tucked behind my ears.

Eyes appraised me as I wove through the crowd—everyone was probably wondering if I was that teen fashion blogger, or a YouTube star.

I found my mom pouring some kind of bubbly drink into a delicate wineglass, surrounded by people. She’d had a wardrobe change, too. Still wearing the fringy robe, she had switched into a long, silky black dress with a leg slit a mile high. She was barefoot and her hair was done up in an artfully messy topknot. What glammed up the entire outfit were her bright pink lips on a glowing, otherwise makeup-free face. When I noticed these things about my mom, I couldn’t tell if it was admiration I felt or irritation.