“No. I read it on the hotel website. It’s a quote by Alexandre Dumas.”

“Who?” Lainey asks.

“French novelist. He wrote The Count of Monte Cristo.”

Lainey shakes her head. “Never heard of it.”

“How about The Three Musketeers?”

“The candy bar?” Lainey grins.

As their banter continues, I covertly check my messages. Since yesterday afternoon, Olivia and I have been texting back and forth. On the surface, and given the circumstances of our meeting, I know our communication is a bit odd. I also know Lainey would kill me if she knew we were talking at all, let alone so often. But I rationalize that other than a brief sidebar about Lainey’s acting career, most of our conversation has had nothing to do with her.

Instead, we chat about random things, like travel and music and tennis. I tentatively ask about her career, hoping she doesn’t think I’m a complete weirdo. She doesn’t seem to, though, freely sharing details about the pro circuit. She tells me that the Williams sisters are as amazing as people as they are as athletes—warm and funny and kind. I wish I could tell Grady that.

Bottom line, our rapport feels so easy and natural—and is a complete departure from my insular world back home. Our interaction actually reminds me of those early days in college with Lainey, Tyson, and Summer.

I smile down at my phone now, reading Olivia’s latest text, which is a response to a selfie I sent her when we got off the funicular.

Beautiful shot, she replies.

“Okay. That’s it. Who the fuck are you texting?”

I look up and see Lainey staring right at me. I panic, flipping my phone over, which I’m sure looks even more suspicious.

“My mom,” I say.

“I thought she was giving you the silent treatment?”

“She is,” I say. “I just wanted to let her know we got here safe and sound.”

“You’re so full of shit!” she says with a laugh. “You better not be texting Grady!”

“I swear I’m not.”

“Then let me see your phone,” she says, grabbing for it.

I hold it out of her reach, then tuck it under my thigh, laughing.

“Do you swear that you’re not texting Grady?”

“I swear,” I say, raising my right hand, my thumb holding down my pinky.

“Wow. The Girl Scout salute,” Lainey says with a laugh, then looks at Tyson. “She’s gotta be telling the truth!”

I smile.

“Okay, if it’s not Grady, who is it?”

I take a deep breath, then a long drink through my straw, buying myself a few extra seconds.

“Olivia,” I finally say.

“Olivia who?” she says.

“Your sister Olivia,” I say.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” Lainey says.

“Please just hear me out,” I say.

She slams her glass down on the table. “No! I don’t want to hear anything about her! Haven’t I made that clear?”

“Pretty clear,” Tyson says, giving me a look.

“But she’s nothing like Ashley. They don’t even speak—”

“I don’t care what she’s like or who she speaks to!” Lainey says. “I don’t want anything to do with her. Or my father. Or anyone he’s related to by blood or by marriage. Why don’t you get that, Hannah? Didn’t you do enough damage in Dallas? You thought another round of rejection would be fun for me?”

“But that’s the thing…. She’s not rejecting you.”

“I don’t care!”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart racing.

She stares at me a beat, then says, “I’m not like you, Hannah. I’m not obsessed with this fairy-tale notion of marriage and family. You see where that got you with Grady?”

I know she’s not trying to be mean, but her words are a gut punch.

“And your own mother. Jesus. The shit you put up with simply because you’re related to her…. It’s unfathomable to me.”

“C’mon, Lainey,” Tyson says in a low voice. “You have the right to be upset, but don’t be mean. She said she was sorry.”

I nervously nod.

“Okay, but I’m serious,” Lainey says. “This is the last straw. I just want to have a fun trip, and if you guys aren’t capable of that, tell me now. Please.”

“I am capable of that,” I say. “I promise.”

I look down, feeling ashamed. She’s right. Who am I to say that she should try to have a relationship with her sister? What do I even know about relationships? My mother isn’t speaking to me, and as much as I love my father, I’m not close to him, either.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s okay,” Lainey says with a sigh, her voice and expression returning to normal. Her outbursts remind me of summer thunderstorms; they are intense but usually pass as quickly as they come. “I’m sorry if I overreacted.”

“You didn’t overreact,” I say, shaking my head. “I understand.”

“Well…maybe she overreacted a little,” Tyson says. He holds his thumb and index finger a centimeter apart.