by Kat Bastion
“That’s it. You don’t have to do it fast. And you don’t have to hit hard. Accurate is what we’re after.”
After forty-five minutes of cutting to fit and hammering into place, three drywall sheets filled the first wall of his bedroom. With that warm-up, it took another hour and a half for us to hang the remainder of the bedroom walls. A breeze filtered in from the open window but didn’t do much to ease the stifling air inside.
I slid my hammer into my five-gallon bucket. “When’s break time?” Deciding now, I unfastened my tool belt.
“You hungry?” He reached his arms over his head, stretching.
“Tired. Hot. And yeah, I could eat.”
“Then, now.” He pulled off his tool belt, draped it over one end of a saw horse, then went into the hall.
I followed him to a kitchen that had wooden frames for cabinetry, square openings where drawers would slide in or doors would cover, and loose plywood sheets where countertop would eventually lay. A brand-new stainless steel refrigerator hummed in one corner.
He opened the fridge door. Bright colored food wrappers sat on shelves. Bottles of cold beer stood in cardboard six-pack cases.
“Niiice.” I nudged him out of the way, stealing all the cold air. Then I grabbed the nearest sandwich and a beer. “You got grindz and didn’t say anything?” I pressed the wrapped sandwich to my nose. Tangy mouthwatering spices made my stomach growl. “What is this? Beef?”
“Korean beef with kimchi slaw…like a sloppy joe—with attitude,” he replied as he followed me outside. Then he sat beside me on the other fraying beach chair we’d confiscated from Makani’s storage room.
A steady cool trade wind flowed through his yard, clearing my head, relaxing my rioting body. Almost.
Because our forearms touched as we ate and admired the killer double-coastline view. And although Mase was right-handed, he ate with his left, maintaining our skin-to-skin contact. And even though I wanted to keep my distance, I didn’t pull away.
Without a word, we both edged into a distinctly gray area—very nonneutral territory.
The following day, preparing for another round of pretending that neutral existed in our construction-Switzerland, I took a fortifying deep breath then stepped through Mase’s front door. But I didn’t find him in any of the areas we’d been working on.
“Mase?”
No answer.
With nowhere else to search inside, I pulled open the back sliding glass door and stepped onto the covered lanai. The tattered beach chairs were empty. Walking onto the grass, I finally spotted him, hunched over a weathered wooden picnic table near the garden. An old jacaranda tree swayed in the wind, dancing shadows over him as it sprinkled down purple flower petals.
“What are you doing?”
“Researching,” he murmured. He didn’t glance up. Just continued to scan a page in a thick book, sliding his finger from left to right. After a nod, he wrote down a quick note on a yellow lined legal pad.
My gaze landed on seedling trays, then lifted to a couple of rows of foot-tall plants covering the roughhewn table. “Sure you’re not starting a reforestation project?”
“Certain.”
I glanced down at a pile of seed packets, began to rifle through them. “Oregano, basil, cilantro…marigolds.” With a snap of my fingers, I spun toward him. “You’re starting a farm.”
“In a way…”
“Such as, Mr. Vague?”
“The chickens.”
Blinking in confusion, I turned toward the decrepit hen house…correction, refurbished hen house; he’d obviously been busy between yesterday and today. Thinking I missed something walking over from the lanai, I spun in a slow three-sixty, scanning the property, then cocked my head at him. “What chickens?”
“The dozen day-olds being shipped to me.”
“Of course. Day-old chicks.” My tone flattened with disbelief.
“Yep.”
“N’kay.” Not certain what to think about the sudden development, I focused on the books. “What about the chickens…chicks,” I corrected. “Don’t you have to put them in a…?”
“Brooder. Got one of them comin’ too. And there’s a healthier way to keep them fed, happy, and laying without chemicals.” He flipped a page, then scrawled another note. “Applies to people too.”
“Where’d you get this book?” When he abandoned the larger book, reaching far to the side to grab a slim hardcover, I lifted the heavy reference book with two hands. “Healing with Whole Foods. Looks very…doctorly.”
He let out a soft snort, finally looking up at me. “Back in Philly. While I studied pre-med, I researched alternative medicine on the side.”
“Chickens,” I repeated, floored. Couldn’t wrap my mind around someone spending so much time on…fowl.
“Yep. Check this out…” He flipped halfway through the slim book, then nodded. “Centipedes. Chickens love centipedes. Need to order me a few guinea hens.”
“Because…”
“They love ticks. And spiders. So do the chickens.”
“We don’t have ticks here. I don’t think.”
“Hmmm…” He went silent again, reading.
I stared at the nearly finished coop. Roofing shingles were stacked on a new plywood roof. Rolls of chicken wire stood beside it.
“Any snakes on the island?” he asked.
I scowled, shaking my head. “No. Better not ever be.”
“Why?”
“We don’t need another non-natural predator.”
“Damn,” he breathed out.
“Now what?” Thrown by his sudden intellectual side, and wanting a closer look, I sat beside him on the bench. What I didn’t mean to do was brush my leg against his. Too late, the heat of his skin and the soft hairs on his calf had an electrifying effect on me. And yet, I couldn’t bear to pull my leg away. Swallowing hard, I leaned into his side, making an attempt to take control. Deliberate seemed to calm me more than accidental.
“Not a damn thing likes millipedes,” he grumbled.
“Smart chickens and hens. I hate millipedes.” My whole body shuddered.
“Me too. Found one little fucker curled under my arm in bed the other morning.”
The detailed image revolted me seconds before it excited me. Because the heat-seeking insect vanished from my mind. Instead, I fantasized about the warm, protective space beneath his arm…with me curled under it.
No! Switzerland, I reminded myself as I struggled to find a balancing neutral.
Think about the bug, Leilani. Visualize a nasty skittering bug under his smelly armpit. “Yuck,” I vocalized for emphasis—for him and me.
But then I inhaled. And Mase smelled incredible, earthy.
Distract yourself!
I searched for something—anything—to take my mind off how much I enjoyed being so close to him. How about why you came, genius. “I booked a flight for you.”
“For us.”
“Us?” I blinked again in confusion, then stared at a knot on the surface of the table, rethinking our conversation from a few afternoons ago when we’d strategized a plan of action: him storm-chasing both surfing and windsurfing for the rest of the season unless we could nab a wildcard entry. “We’re talking about the same thing, right? You flying to the Mentawai Islands next week?”
“Yep. You’re my assistant. You’re my liaison. My PR girl. You are most definitely coming.”
“Oh,” I whispered.
All I could manage, still adjusting to facets of him I hadn’t anticipated. He’d gone from adventuring surfer boy to academic and…farm boy. Which neutralized my ability to hold up a worthy debate.
Because part of me wanted to argue against traveling with him. But the other part, the adventurer in me, began to vibrate with excitement.
Mase…
Our feet hit solid ground—on a different part of the planet.
Literal neutral ground.
No baggage…metaphorically.
After twenty-four hours, four plane
s, then a bone-jarring speedboat ride across the Mentawai Strait, Leilani and I stood shoulder to shoulder, wordless. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back under my T-shirt. Three black canvas board bags towered over us as they leaned against a wall.
“Why am I here again?” She crossed her arms, raising one slender dark brow at me.
“On a speck of land in Sumatra?”
“Yeah.”
“To surf.” I grabbed the lightest board bag from the wall, then laid it at her feet.
She toed the bag, as if she suspected it might sprout legs. “I don’t need to surf. You do.”
“You’re my assistant.”
She shot me an exhausted look. “Assisting can be done remotely.”
“Can it? Did you get us a car?”
“You a car. And there are no car rentals here. Gotta barter with the locals.”
“Exactly.”
Brows drawing together, she propped her hands on her hips. “You expect me to barter?”
“Why not?” Trying not to crack a smile, I grabbed the handles of the other two bags, one of which held the masts and rigging, as I waited for her to agree.
“What’s in this bag?” She again toed the first bag I’d pulled down.
“Our surfboards. You grabbin’ ’em?”
“Our surfboards?”
“You catch on quick. Remember that job description we didn’t nail down?”
“Stupid endless job description,” she grumbled as she grabbed the handle and swiveled the long bag on its wheels.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re coming with me—everywhere. I go? You go. You wanted to travel? Here’s the world, right at our feet. Life is right in front of us. All we have to do is step out and grab it.”
After I got to the curb, she didn’t appear beside me.
When I heard no sound, I glanced back.
She stood a few feet behind, staring at me. The bag she’d wheeled over soundlessly fell from her grip. Her expression changed, eyes widening. The corners of her mouth twitched, then relaxed. Amazed? Impressed? Shocked? I couldn’t tell. Maybe a mixture of all.
“You made me come…for me?”
“Watch it, Girl Friday. That smacks of sexual innuendo.”
She glared at me, then huffed a breath out as she squared her shoulders. “That was platonic.”
Uh-huh. Says the blush pinking your cheeks. “Not a damn platonic thing about that.”
I dropped my two bags, stepped closer, and got up in her space, calling her bluff. Our clothes touched: my shirt and shorts pressed against her flimsy dress.
Brave girl didn’t move an inch.
Hands at our sides, chests rising and falling together, a little faster with every inhalation, we stared at each other. She swallowed, took a deeper breath.
The wind suddenly swirled around us, blowing her hair across her face. Unthinking, I reached up and tucked the silken black strands behind her ear.
I kept my fingers there, cupping her jaw. “When I make you come, it will be for you…and for me.”
Her eyes glittered. The pulse at the base of her throat thumped.
She wanted me. No doubt about it.
But we weren’t there yet. The rules separating us were too fresh. The reasons too important. However, the checks and balances we honored would only remain a short time longer. Enough to let both of us know it was okay to break them—that we’d be safe to cross over.
Because we didn’t need to have the conversation to know we’d blown way past the possibility of being just physical, and it had begun to happen almost from the beginning. Which scared the fuck out of her. And me, if I was being totally honest.
Want something for myself? Begin to value it? It becomes something to lose.
We remained standing there for a long while. My sensual promise hung in the air between us. She didn’t dispute it, didn’t argue, simply continued to stare at me with a look of wonder and bewilderment.
Good. Her being both impressed and confused gave me the advantage in the game we played. And kept her on her toes.
With every passing breath, the gravity of the moment settled down into us.
And slowly, the outside world crept in.
The growl of another boat engine grew louder as it approached the dock. Untamed jungle crowded in from both sides of a narrow dirt road. The humidity vanished as cool winds from the ocean swept in from the strait.
I stepped back, giving us both space to breathe. “Car?”
She didn’t respond at first. Then she blinked and scanned our immediate surroundings.
Five vehicles were parked in view: three rust-bucket sedans, all with their windows rolled down, a dilapidated truck with two crisscrossed bungee cords where a tailgate used to be, a newer dark-blue Jeep with beads of water from a fresh rain sparkling over its perfect paint.
Abandoning me and our bags, she passed the Jeep without even a glance at it, then began to examine the truck. From an area across the road in the shade of a tree, where half a dozen young men sat on battered lawn chairs drinking out of bottles and playing some kind of board game, a gangly teenager popped up and lightly jogged toward her.
I lagged behind to give her plenty of room. But not far: within earshot. And close enough to protect her if needed.
Not that the place felt threatening. I’d gotten a friendly vibe from the beach locales I’d traveled to on my own so far. Everywhere I went, the local people were welcoming. Smiles were common. Generosity, even more so. Like their fortunate lives were a tapestry woven with experiences and newcomers were a brightly colored thread they’d been gifted.
But I understood the people whose paths I crossed in remote locations didn’t have it easy. Theirs might be simpler lives, free of cutting-edge electronics and expensive brand names, but they still had to provide for themselves, for their families.
As I watched Leilani speak to the Indonesian boy, I grew more impressed with how she communicated—and the details she asked. He spoke broken English. She explained what she wanted to know in her regular easy cadence, no slower. When his brows had drawn in confusion to something she’d asked, she’d repeat it, adding hand gestures when she pointed to the tires or gave a lifting motion in front of the hood.
When she finally glanced back at me, I walked over.
“He said the truck’s sound. Good tires. Engine is rusty, but runs well. Spare gas tank in the back is full.”
“How long can we have it?”
“All weekend. Two hundred dollars.” She pulled her backpack from her shoulder.
Not a bad deal. And not like we had a lot of choices. “No, I got it.” Safe-feeling or not, no need to have her exposing herself as a target as she pulled out her wallet. I reached into my pocket, peeled off ten twenties, and handed them over. The kid took the money, then pointed at the keys dangling in the ignition.
We climbed in, drove back to the board bags, and while she sat inside, I loaded them in back. Then we were off. To parts unknown. Were there more popular surf resorts on other islands along the Mentawai Strait? Sure. But I wanted roads and more remote places to explore.
Her legs began bouncing before we’d clocked in a mile. “Where we goin’?”
“To the beach.”
“Point it in any direction till we hit sand?”
“Not exactly.” I’d done some online reconnaissance. Called a few New Jersey surf buddies who’d been down before. Got the lay of the land.
“A plan, then?”
“Kinda.”
Really, it didn’t matter where we went first. Most islands had a few good rippers if you looked long enough. But knowing where to search before hitting the road saved time. And although I hadn’t consciously thought about the benefit when I’d called them, I realized it now.
Being on autopilot more, meant I got to appreciate the company along the way. But appreciation became a benefit with a cost; it turned into a challenging heightened awareness. Of her�
��so close to me. She hadn’t settled into the seat near the door. No, she’d sidled right up next to me, her thigh pressed against mine.
No matter how hard I stared at the road, my attention stayed riveted elsewhere: the gentle swells of her breasts as the low neckline of her thin dress clung to them; the smooth bare skin of her toned thigh and how when a pothole rocked her, separating us by even an inch, she’d readjust, pressing her side back against mine; the intoxicating floral scent of her hair and how it tickled when a crossbreeze blew strands over my face then swirled them away again.
Seconds dragged into the best torturous minutes as we drove down a winding one-lane road. Thick jungle pressed in on either side, giving way every now and then to bright stretches of sand and endless blue ocean.
A tug at my shorts had me look down. She’d wound one of the white canvas ties of the cargo pocket above my knee around her finger. I glanced up and met her gaze; it sparkled with humor. “What’s your ‘kinda’ plan?” A teasing tone edged her voice.
Excellent question. On a hairpin turn, I glanced back at the road. “No idea.” The quiet reply slipped out before I could stop it—and had nothing to do with our road trip destination.
“Wherever we end up?” Her words softened, as if maybe the hidden meaning hit her too.
“Yeah.”
Without thought. No fear. A new adventure possible at every turn. Even though there were no guarantees we wouldn’t hit a dead-end, or worse.
Even with all the unpredictable risks, I couldn’t imagine living our journey any other way.
Leilani…
At a T in the road, when a clear path went right, toward the ocean, Mase hooked a hard left.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on me.
How he wanted me, but waited. Out of some sense of correctness.
Heading mauka on a bumpier dirt road, we passed by a group of local women and kids. Many carried baskets on their heads. All wore cotton dresses in bright colors. When a few glanced our way as we passed, they flashed us wide smiles.
“Still ‘kinda’?” I asked. He spoke in riddles. Like so many of the aunties and uncles on Maui who loved to talk story.
“Yep.”
