Page 60 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Sav,” Amelie says, jiggling the phone as she points to Mr. G-string, “this is Pablo.”

Pablo, owner of the incredibly hairy buttocks.

At hearing his name over the laptop speaker, my own Pablo looks up from his place on the floor, his head cocked. His glance screamswhat now, peasants?while I’m sure mine begssave me.

Clearly, we’re all just living in a Pablo-dominated world.

I push a weak smile to my lips. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Amelie’s friend grins. “Your sister, she is fabulous! She has been—how do you call it?” He makes a ripping motion with his hands, his bushy, black brows arching high like we’re playing a game of charades and I’m failing us both by not figuring it out quickly enough.

“Waxing,” my sister chirps. “We’re going to a nude beach! Pablo wants to wear a Speedo.”

Unceremoniously, my mouth falls open.

That is . . . that is honestly more information than I’ve ever needed to know about a stranger.

I clear my throat and try to summon words that aren’tplease, stop now before I’m scarred forever.In the end, Amelie saves me from myself by patting Pablo on the shoulder. “Give us a few minutes, would you? I forgot it’s Thursday.”

Pablo pops a kiss on my sister’s cheek, then—oh, God, please no—stands, showing off a pair of as-promised blue shorts. “Talk soon, Savannah!”

Silence reigns for a solid ten seconds before Amelie breaks it. Leaning forward, she rearranges herself wherever she’s sitting before propping her phone on the top of her knee. “So, what do you think?” she prompts, her warm brown eyes shining happily.

“I think . . . I think”—that I will never be able to look at my cat again without seeing that G-string—“he seems nice.”

“Sonice. And he’s from Spain! Did you hear that accent?”

“Spain? Is that where you are right now?”

Amelie shakes her head. “No, I actually got into Dubrovnik the other day. I needed a change of scenery. And let me tell you, Sav, it isgorgeous. Otherworldly. I wouldn’t leave if you paid me. Here! Let me show you the view out back.”

The video freezes on my sister’s face before cutting to a modestly sized living room. The rental is cute, if not simply designed, and is mostly decorated in beachy whites. Big French doors open directly to a balcony that overlooks the glistening sapphire water of what I’m assuming is the Adriatic Sea.

“Isn’t it stunning?” she asks, panning the video from side to side, giving me views of a rocky beach down below and, in the far distance, the façade of limestone buildings sprouting up from the sea. “Ditch N’Orleans and come hang out with me. Croatia and I would love to have you!”

My smile wanes.

Eight,I try to remind myself,that’s how many years separate the two of us.Looking out at that water through my laptop screen, I feel just a little old, just a little weighted down by life. Eight years ago, I was doing something just as thrilling as living in Europe, wasn’t I? I want to believe that’s the case, but as I wrack my brain, sifting through the memories, I come up blank.

Pretty sure that eight years ago, I was doing exactly what I am right now: sitting in this same office, overlooking the same bookcase that I inherited from ERRG’s former general manager.

My life could seriously use an overhaul.

Picking up a pen, I click it open, then shut, just to occupy my hands. “I really wish that I could.”

I hear her massive sigh as she flips the camera back around. “You need a vacation.”

“Pretty sure I just came off a seven-month vacation.” Kind of. Sort of. Not really.

“Pops is going to work you to the bone, and when you can’t deliver anymore, he’s going to step right over your limp body and move on to one of our cousins.”

It’s not supposed to be funny, but I can’t stop the snort of laughter that escapes me. Dad is ambitious, but not so ambitious as that. My cousins, Uncle Bernard’s children, escaped the chains of the family business at the tender age of eighteen. Daniel works in tech, in Silicon Valley, and Gerard does something with stocks up in New York City. The last time I saw either of them, we were celebrating Daniel’s wedding a few years back.

A wry smile tips the corner of Amelie’s mouth. “All right, fine. He’s not going to go to them. Wouldn’t that be something, though?”

Before I boarded the flight from Athens to New Orleans, Amelie sat me down and asked that I not bring up Dad. I understand why—she’s spentmonthsthinking of nothing else but the matter of her birth—but since she mentioned him first . . .

Gently, I ask, “Has he called?”

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