Getting Lei'd

by Ann Omasta

  I furrow my brow a little, so she adds, “I borrowed your phone and saw that your connection is in Atlanta. It works out perfectly because we were already practically at the ATL.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” I acquiesce before adding, “But I don’t want to go on my honeymoon by myself.”

  “That’s why we’re coming with you,” Baggy jumps in. “Won’t this be a hoot?” She’s obviously proud of herself.

  Not wanting to dampen their spirits but unable to avoid stating the obvious, I say, “You two don’t have tickets.”

  “Oh fiddle-faddle.” Baggy waves off my valid point as if it has no merit. “It will all work out.” If it were anyone else, I would doubt it being possible, but I have learned from experience that once Baggy sets her mind to something, nothing gets in her way.

  Chapter 5

  Sure enough, even with the more stringent security measures in place, Baggy manages to secure two tickets on the same flight Gary and I were supposed to be on. I can’t imagine how much two last-minute tickets to Hawaii must cost, but Baggy always seems to have an unending supply of crisp hundred-dollar bills in her billfold. I’m sure she whipped a sizable stack of them out and handed them over to the surprised ticket agent.

  We stop to use the assembly-line airport restroom, and I realize that I was too quick to check my suitcase that had been in the trunk of Gary’s car. I have no clothes to wear on the airplane, other than my wedding gown. This is less than ideal.

  If I hadn’t been in such a state of shock, I’m sure I would have thought of this sooner. I’m not overly surprised that Baggy and Ruthie both stood silently by as I checked a bag of casual clothes rather than mentioning that we might want to change out of our formalwear first. I’m sure they consider the trip even more of an adventure in our fancy bridal attire.

  I attempt, unsuccessfully, to tame my wild rat’s nest of hair after we wash our hands in the giant metal trough. Giving up my hair as a lost cause, I point out another seemingly obvious fact that they probably haven’t bothered to consider. “You two don’t have any luggage.”

  “Oh, barnacles,” Baggy sort of curses. “I guess we’ll have to buy some grass skirts when we get there.” Her eyes light up with a new thought. “Do you suppose I can find one of them coconut bras that will show off my bodacious tatas?”

  I can’t help but smile at her as I glance at her flat, droopy chest. Anyone else her age would be joking, but with Baggy, I’m guessing I should prepare myself for the sight that I’ll never be able to unsee of her dancing around in a coconut bra in public.

  One thing this little getaway is sure to be is unforgettable. Adventures with Baggy always are.

  As we sit at the gate waiting to board the aircraft, I have a panic attack. What if Gary and Lizzie are on the flight? If Baggy and Ruthie were able to secure tickets, maybe Lizzie did, too.

  The image of the pre-wedding breakup text from Gary flashes into my head, unwanted. “I can’t do this. Lizzie and I r in love. Sorry.”

  The fact that he deemed it appropriate to relay this information by text is inexplicable. His word choice infuriates me the most, though. First off, when sending a text of this magnitude, is it really too much trouble to spell out the word are?

  The “Sorry” at the end really irks me, too. He couldn’t even be bothered to insert an “I’m” in the half-assed apology? Yes, you are sorry, you ridiculous jerk. Unbelievable. At least it didn't say, “We’re sorry.”

  I know this isn’t how it should be when two people are getting ready to promise to spend the rest of their lives with each other, but the betrayal by my lifelong best friend hurts more than that of my almost husband. I wish the text had said that he is in love with her, not that they are in love. It hurts so much more knowing that my best friend since the first day of kindergarten would do this to me. I guess my feelings about this whole fiasco prove that it is probably a good thing that today did not turn out to be my wedding day. I was evidently about to marry the wrong man.

  Apparently I dodged a bullet. That doesn’t excuse the manner in which Gary chose to dump me, though. Inconceivable. That’s all I have to say about that right now.

  Chapter 6

  When they call for the boarding of first-class passengers on our flight, Baggy and Ruthie hop up and head to the gate. They are halfway there when Baggy realizes I’m still in my seat.

  She turns, perplexed, in my direction. I can see the moment realization dawns on her. I try to get up and close the gap between us because as I watch Baggy’s facial expression evolve from confusion to understanding to anger, I know that she is about ready to unleash a flurry of annoyance. At least if I am in closer proximity to her, less of the crowd will hear her rant.

  The long, white dress slows me, so I make it only two steps in Baggy’s direction before she starts. “You mean to tell me”—she is shaking her bent pointer finger at me. I stop in my tracks because everyone within hearing distance is already looking at us anyway. Baggy continues, completely undaunted by the attention drawn by our spectacle—“that cheap-assed bastard didn’t even spring for first-class tickets for your honeymoon?” She emphasizes the last word with righteous indignation. “He has shitloads of money. What is he saving it for, a special occasion??”

  After a few quiet chuckles, the crowd turns toward me in unison, awaiting my response. The innocent bystanders look like they are watching some ridiculous train wreck of a tennis match that they can’t tear their eyes away from.

  I feel like an absolutely ridiculous mess, standing here with my unruly hair, wearing my now-rumpled wedding gown. People have even looked up from their cell phones to see how this will unfold. If there’s one thing I am uncomfortable with, it’s being the center of attention.

  Ruthie can’t stand it when all eyes are on me, either, so she quickly jumps in. “My sister would appreciate some privacy in this time of great embarrassment and shame,” she says to the crowd at large.

  I feel like kicking her in the shin. I know there isn’t any malicious intention behind her words, but she has somehow managed to make this mortifying situation a thousand times worse. At least everyone is now looking at her. That is the way she and I both prefer things to be.

  I close the gap between us so Baggy, Ruthie, and I can talk to one another without including the entire room. People are still staring at us, but normal hushed conversations and cell phone usage begin to resume. “You two are causing a scene,” I hiss.

  Both of them look surprised and taken aback by my reproach, so I soften my tone. “Go ahead and get on the plane.” They seem uncertain, so I fib, “I like sitting in coach. It’s a great opportunity to people watch.”

  “I could trade tickets with you,” Ruthie offers. I appreciate the gesture, but also know she would be devastated if I took her up on it.

  I refuse, as she had likely known I would, but the relief is still evident on her face. “If you’re sure.” Ruthie smiles, already grabbing Baggy’s hand and dragging her toward the burly female ticket agent.

  Nodding in answer, I grin as I listen to them giggling and skipping toward the airplane door. Looking down at my pearly white dress, I vow to be more like them on this adventure. I will have fun and enjoy the moment. That is my new mantra—easy, breezy Roxy. That’s me. Well, the Hawaiian me, anyway.

  Chapter 7

  Thankfully, Gary and Lizzie are not on the airplane, so I decide to use the quiet time to meditate on my new carefree attitude. Despite my best efforts to stay positive, the flight is interminably long, and my seat is very cramped. My height is definitely not an advantage when it comes to airline seating accommodations. My knees are already touching the seat in front of me, so when the shortish lady in front of me leans her seat back, I nearly come unglued. Instead, I take a deep breath and attempt to refocus my mind. When that doesn’t work, I purchase a rum and Coke from the flight attendant and start a slapstick comedy movie on my seat’s personal TV.

  I only make it a few minutes into the silly movie
before the reality of the day's events sets in and overwhelms me. Yanking out my earphones and turning to the grandmotherly lady sitting in the window seat next to me, I splutter, "Today was supposed to be my wedding day." She nods, giving me a sad look that is a mixture of pity and understanding.

  I feel like curling up in a ball and hiding for a while, but that isn't an option on the plane. The best I can do is swivel my legs onto the empty aisle seat beside me. Looking at the vacant seat, which should have been Gary's, serves as another reminder of my fiasco of a wedding.

  When my seatmate gently pats my arm, I erupt into an odd hiccupping-sobbing combination and lean my head on her shoulder. I spend the rest of the flight alternating between crying and sleeping on this kind stranger.

  After landing, I give a goodbye hug to the caring woman who had comforted me during most of the flight. If she thinks I'm a crazy person, she hides it well as she promises me that it will all work out for the best.

  It doesn't take long to realize that the mai tais must have been free-flowing in first class because when I deplane and rejoin Baggy and Ruthie, they are both pretty snockered. They valiantly attempt to hide their tipsiness, but they are even more silly and giggly than normal. Baggy wavers unsteadily as we walk to claim my checked bag.

  Once we get my suitcase, we turn in unison for the door. Suddenly, I realize the fatal flaw in Baggy and Ruthie’s plan: Gary made all of the arrangements for our trip. I don’t even know where we have reservations. I gaze at the plethora of chauffeurs holding name signs, along with the taxis and hotel shuttles outside, and realize we have no idea which hotel is ours.

  By the wide-eyed looks Baggy and Ruthie give me, I can tell they have figured out our predicament. Baggy is the first to come up with the obvious solution. “We could . . .”

  “I’m NOT calling Gary,” I interrupt her, speaking with vehemence.

  “Well, I’m sure there are some hotels that aren’t fully booked.” Ruthie tries to take the edge off our situation, even as we all look around the packed baggage claim area and wonder how we’ll find a decent hotel with vacancy.

  “That hot hunk of beefcake might be the answer to our prayers.” Baggy lifts her gnarled pointer finger.

  I want to chastise her that it’s no time to be on the prowl for a man, but I look in the direction she indicated and realize why she is hopeful. The large Hawaiian man, whom Baggy has accurately described, is holding a sign that reads Knox.

  Inwardly, I cringe a little at the sight of it. Had I really been willing to change my name to Roxy Knox? It sounds like a children’s cartoon character. I should have never considered giving up a fab name like Roxy Rose to become Roxy Knox. What in the world had I been thinking?

  The three of us head in the direction of the sign-bearing, handsome Hawaiian. He looks even bigger and sexier up close. His jet-black hair, soft chocolate eyes, and dark mocha skin make for an intriguing combination. He has thick dark lashes, but his large, straight nose gives his face some character and keeps him from being too pretty.

  Baggy and Ruthie openly stare at him in silence, so I attempt to speak. “We’re the Knoxes . . . I mean, our name isn’t Knox . . . Our name is Rose . . . well, mine is . . . and hers.” I indicate Ruthie. “I think we are the people you are looking for,” I stammer.

  He gazes down at me and says, “I was expecting honeymooners.” He is more than a head taller than me, which forces me to crane my neck upward to make eye contact with him. Having been well above average height my entire life, I am not used to having to look so far up to see anyone. I don’t think I like it. This must be how my diminutive sister and grandma feel all the time.

  “Oh, we’re on our honeymoon,” tipsy Baggy responds. At his perplexed look, she clarifies, “Well, her honeymoon.” She angles her head in my direction.

  I don’t want to get into the drawn-out explanation of today’s embarrassing fiasco, so I inform him a little more brusquely than I intend, “We’re the people you’re looking for, and we are ready to go to our hotel. Can you please take us?”

  “Certainly,” he responds before placing brightly colored hibiscus leis around Baggy’s and Ruthie’s necks, who titter in response to his attention. “I was only expecting two people,” he explains before turning to me, lowering his lids and adding, “I’ll make it up to you later.” He tweaks the end of my nose before picking up my suitcase and heading toward the automatic doors.

  My nose still tingles from his touch. Baggy and Ruthie sniff their beautiful flower necklaces, and we all watch his tight, perfectly grabbable backside as he saunters out of the airport. Somehow, he has managed to dazzle us all in a matter of moments.

  Suddenly, we realize that we are being left behind, so we scurry after him. The heat of the intense Hawaiian sunshine hits us the moment we step outside, but we barely even notice as we watch our gorgeous driver open the door to a dated limousine and give us a grand welcoming gesture by clicking his heels together and holding a hand out to help us. To our credit, we stand there mesmerized for only a moment before practically knocking one another down in an attempt to be the first to accept his outstretched hand.

  Proving that she’s as spry and full-of-life as ever, even when she has overindulged on alcohol, Baggy gets to our handsome limo driver first and accepts his helping hand. Ruthie shows us that she is wilier than she looks by lunging around us to grab the front passenger-side door. She grins at me slyly, saying, “I think I’ll sit up front with the driver. We don’t want my motion sickness to kick in.” She pats her tummy for added emphasis.

  I roll my eyes because I know that, unlike me, she has never suffered from any kind of movement-related nausea, but I refrain from pointing it out. Besides, my attention is diverted when our studly driver takes my hand to help me climb into the backseat of the limo beside Baggy.

  I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but it seems like he gives my hand a tender squeeze and allows his hand to linger on mine longer than necessary, or even socially acceptable. When I make eye contact with him, wondering why he hasn’t let go of my hand, I think he winks at me. It happens so fast I can’t be certain, though.

  In any case, my palm is still tingling from his touch, my heart is racing, and I feel more alive than I have in years. I don’t think this is the appropriate reaction to a handsome stranger for a woman who was meant marry someone else only a few short hours ago.

  Maybe I should send Gary a text to thank him for stopping me from making a colossal mistake—likely the biggest of my life. Nah, I’m not ready to let him off the hook just yet.

  Speaking of texts, my phone and Baggy’s both buzz at the same time with an incoming text. The message is from Ruthie in the front seat of the car and it reads, “He looks like Jason Momoa!!” Our phones buzz again. “Without the scary eyebrows, of course.”

  I have figured out that she is talking about our driver, since she feels she can’t share her thoughts aloud, but I have no idea who Jason Momoa is. “Who?” is my simple response.

  Ruthie shakes her head in disbelief as if I am the most sheltered person on the planet before responding. “Google him.”

  Before I can get the Internet browser pulled up on my phone, Ruthie sends us several pictures of our driver’s gorgeous, apparently famous doppelganger.

  “Ooh-we, he is a handsome devil,” Baggy blurts out upon receiving the text with the photos.

  Baggy’s words are the first that have been spoken aloud since we left the airport. I make eye contact in the rearview mirror with our chauffeur, and I can feel my cheeks blushing pink. He has to know from the buzzing of our phones that we are talking about him. Why else wouldn’t we just speak like normal people? His bemused expression hints that he’s not offended, but I still feel ashamed to have been caught in the act of admiring him (and his lookalike) by text.

  Rather than calling us out on it, he takes the high road and begins pointing out various attractions and little-known, tucked-away gems along our drive to the hotel.

  As we pu
ll into the parking lot of our resort, I realize that it is not at all what I had expected. It is so much more me than Gary. Gary probably would have been sorely disappointed and referred to it as a shabby dump, but I am completely enchanted from the moment I set foot on the property.

  Our rustic thatch-roofed hutlike villa is romantic and has an island feel that a standard hotel room couldn’t accomplish, no matter how much Hawaiian-themed artwork is displayed. The hut is warm, but a breeze blows in the open windows from the ocean. The scent of bougainvillea or hibiscus or some other beautiful, exotic flower fills the air in our room as the rhythmic sound of waves crashing into shore lulls me into relaxation.

  This place is truly paradise. It is the Hawaii of a childhood dream, so perfect that it can’t possibly be real, yet here I am.

  Baggy and Ruthie head down to the gift shop to see about getting some clothes. I unpack, change into a sundress, and scoot the small desk over by the sliding glass door before inspecting and setting out my art supplies. They all seem to have survived the trip unscathed.

  As I inhale a deep breath of salty, fragrant air, I look out at the unfathomable beauty surrounding me. If I can’t create a terrific piece of art in this stunning location, then my mother is right, and I really should stay a responsible (if slightly boring) accountant.

  Before long Baggy and Ruthie return to the room wearing brightly colored, slightly skimpy island attire. They are carrying several bags, so I can only hope that some of their purchases provide a little more skin coverage.

  Even though our bodies tell us it is late at night, the bright sunshine indicates otherwise, so we decide to head outside and check out the pool, beach, and (perhaps most importantly) the bar. It’s time for me to relax a little and release some of the stress of this incredibly long, unexpectedly horrible day.

  Chapter 8