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The first thing my grandfather—an uber-famous private detective, according to my mom—did after my mom drove away was stick his fingers in his ears and stare at me. Then he pulled his fingers out, raised his eyebrows, and mouthed something that looked like, Let’s make out. I guess making out was on my mind. At fifteen I’d never had the chance yet to perfect my skills in that department. But it wouldn’t be long. McKenna, the lifeguard at the pool back home in California, had been checking me out. No doubt. For sure marveling at my impressive diving skills. I’d