But to my shock, he says, “The Mai Tais just about took me down last night.”

Umm . . .

What?

Dad reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Donny.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Donny?

**EYES POP OUT**

DONNY?

Uh . . . never in my ENTIRE twenty-nine years has my dad EVER referred to himself as Donny. He’s always been Donald, and nothing else.

Donald Garcia with the pressed pants.

Donald Garcia with the sensible Volkswagen, which wasn’t allowed to be eaten in.

Donald Garcia who would polish his shoes at night as a relaxation technique.

Never once was he ever called Donny. My mom never called him Donny. She wouldn’t dare. Maybe that’s why they fell out of love—the inability to call each other nicknames.

No. I know why they divorced.

They never really loved each other. Thrown together by their parents, they married, had kids, raised them, and when we were all out of the house, they called it quits. They’re friendly with each other, but not friendly enough to call each other nicknames like Donny.

“Coraline, but everyone calls me Cora.” She shakes my dad’s hand. “Wow, what a surprise, finding your daughter in Hawaii, at the same resort. What are the odds?”

Yeah, what are the odds?

I’ll tell you. They’re slim, but that seems to be the kind of luck I have.

Perplexed and still trying to figure out if this is a side effect of the Mai Tais, I ask, “Dad, what, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

He rocks on his heels. “Oh, you know, just living the good life.”

Okay. This is definitely the Mai Tais. There’s no way in hell my dad would ever say something like living the good life. And here I thought I’d have a long-lasting relationship with the rum concoction.

Oh hell no. Not if it’s making me have strange conversations with my dad where he says things like living the good life.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I thought you said ‘living the good life.’ These Mai Tais must be hitting me really hard.”

“No, that’s what he said,” Cora says. “And I couldn’t agree more. Life is too short. We have to enjoy it when we can. By the way, love the board shorts. Men are so scared to wear the short ones, but, dare I say, great legs, Mr. Donny.”

“Why, thank you. Your friend is smart.” Dad looks at me and smiles before opening up his arms. “Where’s my hug, Stelly?”

Before I can even consider what it would be like to be pressed against my dad’s naked chest, he envelops me against him, and I’m caught up in the smell of sunscreen and beer as he snuggles me against his furry chest.

Curly hairs rub against my nose.

His pecs encase my cheek.

And I can honestly say, I’ve never been this intimate with my father.

“It’s good to see you. You’re always so busy, I never get to see you anymore.” When he pulls away, I try not to flinch as I feel the imprint of my dad’s gray chest hair against my cheek. Not sure I’ve ever seen him shirtless, let alone hugged the man when he’s running around topless.

This shop must be another dimension. Alternate reality. A threshold for what-the-fuck situations. I hate to say it, but I don’t think the Pop-Tarts are worth the trouble. And that’s saying a lot, coming from drunk me.

“Why aren’t you visiting with your dad?” Cora chastises me.

“What?” I blink, still trying to comprehend what’s going on. “Uh, I teach a lot.”

“Not during the summer.”

“I teach workout classes during the summer,” I say, dazed.

“What kind of workout classes?” a female voice asks to my right.

Now who the hell is that?

I turn to see who spoke up when my jaw nearly hits the ground.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“Stella Garcia, as I live and breathe.” Turning to my dad, she asks, “Donny, did you plan this?”

Dad rests his hand on his stomach and in a jolly tone says, “I had no idea she was here.”

Please excuse me while I brace myself against a clothing rack.

The cool fabric of the souvenir shirts, which have been hanging in the air-conditioned space, are a contrast to my heated skin.

What in the fresh hell is happening?

Ashley Broome, my high school nemesis, is standing in front of me. The girl who made my freshman and sophomore years on the volleyball team a living hell is standing . . . right . . . there . . . looking at me with those perfect blue eyes, long blonde hair and—oh, wow.

And she’s calling my dad Donny.

Swallowing back the bile that has risen in my throat, I say, “Ashley. Wow, what are you doing here?”

She laughs and pushes at my shoulder as if we’ve been friends for years. “Oh, always the joker.”

She steps toward my dad and, in absolute horror, I watch as she slips her hand into my dad’s.

My eyes zero in on the connection. My vision begins to tunnel.

She’s holding on to him.

But not just like “oh no, I tripped on my ho-y sandals and I need to brace myself.”

No, she’s holding him as if—as if . . . she belongs to him.

As if they’re—I swallow bile—together.

What in the devil is happening?

“We’re here celebrating,” Ashley says.

Mouth dry, my heart pounding, ready to escape my chest, I say, “Celebrating what?”

She chuckles, and I watch as she takes her other hand and presses it against my dad’s naked chest, just where my cheek uncomfortably rested a few moments ago. She smiles up at him as if he’s her entire world, and that’s when my eyes see it.

The glint of a diamond.

The sparkle of promise.

The eternal commitment between two lovers.

No.

No fucking way.

There’s no fucking—

“We’re celebrating our engagement, of course.”

“Oh . . . shit,” Cora whispers next to me as I blink rapidly, attempting to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of me.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Ashley reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “I’m going to be your new mom.”

I . . .

There’s . . .

WHAT?

That’s it.

No more Mai Tais. Here I thought it was Fireball that was going to wreck us, that was going to swoop in with its wild ways and make us regret our decisions. We didn’t give Mai Tais credit where credit is due.

Can we cue up a slow clap for the rum concoction? Because, well done on the mindfuckery.

Well fucking done.

Boss-level mindfuckery.

Bringing a parent to an island in the middle of the ocean, changing his personality completely, and then attaching him to the girl—two years my senior—who used to torture me all throughout volleyball practice. Not just attaching, but marrying him.

Ha.

Oh, good one.

This is really freaking good.

“Why are you slow clapping?” Cora asks me.

I look down at my hands—they’re moving without my knowledge. I shake my head. “Can’t tell you, but I do think I’m having some sort of weird episode.” I clear my throat. “I think there was something in the Mai Tais that’s making me delusional.” I swallow, my saliva feeling like a boulder trying to squeeze down my throat. Clutching the back of my neck, I say, “You see, I thought I saw my dad in Hawaii and engaged to a girl two years older than me.”

“She’s two years older than you?” Surprised, Cora looks past me and asks, “What’s your skincare routine? Your skin is flawless.”

“Aw, thank you,” Ashley says, making me nearly jump out of my flip-flops. “But this is just me, nothing special. I just seem to be lucky.” She pushes my shoulder again. “But I do recall someone having a tremendous amount of acne in high school. Looks as though you’re all cleared up now, Stella. Good for you.”

Still uneasy, I face the sight in front of me, my dad looking jolly—yes, freaking jolly—holding Ashley Broome’s hand, her bosom high and large and in your face, a pink sarong wrapped around her stomach making her look like Hawaii Barbie.

This is real.