by Piper Lennox
“You know what I mean.”
He looks at the contract again. “If I’d known so many people would be opposed to Paradise Port coming in here, I wouldn’t have signed with them.”
Now it’s my turn to mirror his stupid-but-hilarious look: Kai and I were blatantly opposed to the franchise, and that didn’t stop him from signing. I doubt our neighbors and fellow business owners would have made any difference, either.
“Help me. Please. You know the Kalanis better than I do—there’s got to be some way to get them on board. If I can’t fix this deal, I’m going to get my ass handed to me tomorrow.” Just imagining Trixie and Garner waiting at the other end of that conference table for me, ready to report every move back to Paradise headquarters, makes my blood pressure spike.
My stomach cramps again; instead of the warm, dull ache I’ve had ever since I saw Tanya, it’s now a molten screwdriver, right below my ribcage. I wince and press my hand against the spot.
“You okay?” Another Dad look: he tilts his head and looks at me from beneath his brow, like he’s saying, I know you’re not, so don’t lie to me.
“Fine.” I take a breath and stretch against the chair until my back cracks. It makes it worse. “Just acid reflux, or something. Do we have any Tums?”
His chair screeches back on the linoleum. I watch him mix baking soda into hot tap water, no measurements.
“Drink this, it’ll help.” He watches me sip. The baking soda isn’t fully dissolved yet, sticking to the bottom and fizzing at the top. “I think you’ve got an ulcer.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“And? You think I expected to have a stroke at fifty-two?” While I drain the last of the concoction, he closes the textbooks in front of me. “You’re working way too hard, and it’s going to catch up to you. It already is.”
I flip the books back open. The salted burn of the baking soda sticks to my teeth. “Not any harder than I always have. And that’s a common misconception, by the way: stress doesn’t cause ulcers, just worsens them.”
Down the hall, their alarm clock squawks. We listen to Mom rise and shut it off, quickly replacing it with Tom Jones, like she does every morning.
“Maybe you should step back from the situation for a while.”
“What?” I’d laugh at him, if I had the energy. “This deal’s been seesawing for over a year, and you want me to back down?”
“Just for a few weeks. It’ll take some stress off you. And show them you’re not trying to pressure them into anything.”
It must be the exhaustion, but his idea makes sense. “Yeah...yeah, I guess I could focus on the river again.” The lazy river is an ongoing headache and pet project of mine, formerly Dad’s, dating back to the very same month we signed with Paradise Port. Trixie, essentially a human nannycam from corporate, approved the idea instantly. The river will wind around the entire resort, snaking alongside the deck and over the beach in elevated Plexiglas, before ducking under a reinforced tunnel at the hotel entrance. It’ll end—and begin again—in a concrete-and-plaster loading area near the back of the property.
But, so far, it’s just a ditch behind the building. When we have funds, we don’t have the time; when we have time, there’s no money to spare.
“No,” Dad says. “I think you should step back from all of it. No projects, no wheeling and dealing. Focus on keeping things running, not improving or expanding.”
“So, what, you want me to do the bare minimum?” I’m honestly shocked. Dad’s never been one to advocate half-assed efforts.
“The bare minimum at a job like yours is still a full-time commitment.” He stands and pours the last of the coffee into Mom’s favorite mug, then starts down the hall to their bedroom. “Take some time to surf, hang out with people. Just a trial basis.”
“Okay,” I exhale, pushing back my hair. “Why not.”
As their door clicks shut, though, I feel something clicking in my head. Trial basis.
Maybe Dad’s onto something.
Tanya
When I get back to the suite, Oscar’s snores are loud enough to shake the double doors leading to the bedroom. I sit on the couch and stare at them in a trance.
It’s late, but I’m not surprised to see I’ve gotten four texts from Mollie. She’s a grad student now, working straight through the summer for her design degree, so late nights are her norm.
“Hey! Sunburned yet?”
Next: a string of beach emojis.
Third: the poop emoji, an hour after the second text.
And, finally: “You okay?”
Kai is proposing tomorrow. She has no idea, but Luka and I were privy to the announcement from Kai via group text back in February. We helped him narrow down his ring choices to a beautiful princess-cut diamond on a silver band. It suits her perfectly, unassumingly stunning.
I look at my ring. I still haven’t told her about Oscar proposing.
Actually, I haven’t told her much about Oscar at all. As far as she or anyone else knows, he joined the lengthy roster of men I had fun with a few times, then either discarded, or added to my casual-sex lineup.
“Hey,” I text back. “No sunburn yet. Class kicking your ass?”
“Always.” There’s a pause while she types. “Tell Luka we said hey.”
We. Two years ago, Mollie was crushing hopelessly on a friend of ours. To be blunt, it was pathetic. I spent more than a few nights letting her cry into my lap while I braided her hair and urged her to forget the guy, dispensing dating advice like candy.
Now, she’s a “we.” And, as much as it kills me to direct bluntness at myself, she could probably give far better advice.
The skin under my eyes is raw from crying. Instead of wiping the new tears away, I press the back of my hand against each one as it skates down my cheek. I use the same pressure Luka used with his lips. I pretend.
He’s right: I’m not happy with Oscar.
But Oscar is a good man. Annoying at times, not entirely my type—but sweet, and thoughtful. He loves to pamper me.
When he gives a gift, it isn’t tangled up in strings. I don’t have to work to see a glint in his eyes. I don’t have to work to make him stay.
If I’m not happy with Oscar, it’s got to be because of something broken inside me. Not because of him.
My phone buzzes again: Mollie, texting me goodnight, probably while Kai tickles her so the text arrives with crazy autocorrections and nonsensical emojis. They’re cute like that.
Me? I’ve never even stayed with a guy long enough to get to that stage. To find out if I can.
As weak as my mom was, letting just about anyone into her heart, at least it could never be said the woman didn’t try. Maybe my greatest fear is totally unfounded, and I’m not like her at all. The revelation would fill me with joy, if it weren’t for the nausea when I realize I am like one of my parents.
Tanya King: vanishing act of the century. Gone just when you want her to stay the most.
I press my hand to my face again and feel the diamond mark my skin, trying to decipher the prongs of its setting like learning Braille.
Six months.
I can make this work.
I have to.
Eight
Luka
“A trial basis?”
While the waitress refills our waters, I motion for her to add another round of the Kalanis’ favorite beer to my tab. “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” I tell Wendy, when it’s just the three of us again. “You sign as an affiliate for seven days, starting today. If you guys are unhappy for any reason by the end of it, I’ll sign a contract. One guaranteeing Paradise Port will never contact you about it again.”
“Can you do that?”
“I’m the owner. I can do whatever I want.” I flash a humble kind of smile: the Kalanis aren’t impressed by the big business sizzle. Which is why, instead of wining and dining them at the resort bar, I went against Trixie’s wishes and picked the burger joint they used to double-date at w
ith my parents. It’s also why I’m in khakis and a short-sleeved button-up, probably the first time in two years I’ve worn something other than a suit to a meeting.
Gregory thanks the waitress when she brings the next round, then nods his thanks to me for buying it. He’s been silent for most of lunch. Wendy, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped waffling since we sat down.
“I don’t know,” she says again. I’ve heard it so many times in the last few months, I can imitate it to a T.
“I think we should do it.”
Both of us snap our eyes to Gregory. He just goes on chewing his burger and watching a baseball game on the television over my head.
“You do?” Wendy whispers. “Because last time we signed, you said you weren’t feeling great about the idea.”
“I wasn’t.” He sets down his burger, takes the slowest drink of his beer any human has ever taken, and looks at her. “I’m still not. But now we get what we wanted—a chance to see how things would go, without the commitment. Let’s do that.” We wait for him to say more, but he chomps into his food again and curses at the game.
Gradually, Wendy and I turn our stunned expressions on each other.
“Okay,” she sputters, laughing.
I grin. “Really?”
“You convinced us.” She shakes her head, still smiling, as shocked by this turn of events as I am.
“We know you’ll look out for us,” Gregory adds, and even though he’s not looking at me and his mouth is full of beef, I could jump across this booth and hug him, I’m so happy.
“So,” Wendy says, as we step outside after our round of top-shelf tequila to celebrate, “when do we start?”
“We start right now. I’ll send a van out to get...I don’t know, let’s say five Segways, and I’ll do some test runs tonight before we take guests out tomorrow, maybe the next day. Just need the lawyer to draft some liability waivers.”
“Wow. That’s…fast.”
“I told you guys, Port has wanted this deal for a long time. Watch: by this time tomorrow, I’ll have every guest in the resort knowing the name Kona Seg.”
They give fuzzy smiles in response. I don’t know if they believe me. But at least they’re finally willing to try.
Tanya
“The beach? Again?”
I look up from underneath my sunhat at Oscar, who’s still in his bathing suit from this morning. Literally dragging him out of bed to watch the sunrise with me wasn’t fun, but he obliged. Now, red-faced and sleepy, he’s stretched across the couch in the suite, wielding the television remote.
“That’s kind of the whole point of taking a tropical vacation,” I remind him.
“I just don’t know how you’re not exhausted.” He yawns into his elbow. “Are you going to be upset if I skip this one?”
My hands pause inside my beach bag, each clutching a different brand of tanning oil. I study my ring.
All morning, I focused on one thing: acting like a newly engaged woman should. I held Oscar’s hand as we strolled down and back up the beach. When he nudged me playfully into the first foam of the tide, I laughed and pulled him in with me. We shared a drink at the cantina up the dunes and talked wedding plans.
Then, like a tree limb breaking as soon as you trust it to hold, everything fell.
“Should we invite your mom?”
The pomegranate juice in our shared cocktail slid down my windpipe. I coughed into the hem of my sarong and gasped no.
“But...she’s your mom. I’d like to at least meet her.”
“I haven’t talked to my mother in over a year.” My teeth gritted. He knew this. He didn’t know the full story—any story, really, except that we weren’t close, and that she called me every year on my birthday, ever since I was eighteen and dared make my social media profiles public.
She never apologized. Never asked to meet. Just saw how I was doing, filled the line with silence, and promised to call again soon, which she never did, until another birthday rolled around. It pissed me off, but purely on principle. It wasn’t like I wanted to meet with her or talk more, but I deserved the opportunity to tell her so.
“What happened between you two?” Maybe I imagined how angry he looked. I must have, because Oscar never looked angry. It wasn’t an emotion he was capable of. “I can’t imagine not seeing my parents for years on end.”
Of course he couldn’t. Oscar’s mother and father were the embodiment of suburban bliss. His childhood was nothing but picket fences and after-church cookouts.
“I just don’t want her there. And you were pushing for elopement, remember? Nobody comes to an elopement.”
“What about Mollie?”
“Well, of course I’d have Mollie.”
“You can’t invite Mollie and not invite your own mother. That’s just...wrong.”
I finished the drink, not noticing or caring that the split was now closer to seventy-thirty than fifty-fifty. “You don’t get to decide if it’s ‘wrong’ or not, and you don’t get to tell me who I invite or don’t invite.” I lifted the straw between my fingers and stabbed it back into the ice. “Invite your parents if you want to. I’m not inviting mine. My mom and dad were shitty parents, and I’m not going to pretend they weren’t. I know them: if they get an invitation, they’ll think all’s forgiven, oh thank God, Tanya’s finally come to her senses. No admission of guilt whatsoever.”
Oscar wilted against the bar top and sighed.
Then, he straightened.
“You told me you didn’t know who your dad was.”
The drink tipped from my hand. Ice scattered and I cursed, rushing to clean it, but the bartender simply swept the mess into the sink with a dishtowel.
“Why did you lie to me?”
Oscar’s whisper almost broke my heart. He was so much better than I was.
“It’s just...painful,” I said, finally, because I owed him at least some truth. “I don’t like talking about them. Especially my dad.”
He took my hand and led me down the dunes, to some rocks the resort had arranged for too-perfect-to-be-real photo sessions. We sat.
“You know you can tell me anything,” he said. “I want you to, and you should. We’re going to be married. Husbands and wives don’t keep things like that from each other.”
That was the exact moment it hit me. Like lightning slapping the shore, crystallizing sand into a petrified stalk.
Marrying someone could work with or without love. People did it all the time. As long as you could stand the person, you could make cohabitation and occasional sex a streamlined process. Sure, it wouldn’t be some crazy, impassioned life—but it would be steady. Safe.
I couldn’t marry Oscar because, with or without love, marriage did require sharing yourself. If not all, then most. Your dreams, your fears, the wounds and inner ugliness that kept you up at night. Every event you could point to and say, “This changed me.”
So now, while he drifts to sleep in front of a Matlock rerun and squirms underneath fresh sunburn, I swing my beach bag onto my shoulder and smile. It’s a fake one, streaked and loose, like the glass of a basement window, because I know I’m going to break his heart.
Just not yet.
“That’s fine.” I kiss his warm forehead before I leave. He winces, but lets me.
In the lobby, I pause my beeline for the doors to the deck. People are everywhere, and I find myself sitting just to watch them, hypnotized, as though they’re exotic fish in an aquarium.
Most are couples. Paradise Port locations discourage bringing kids by way of boredom: no waterslides snake into the pool, no cartoon-themed cereals are served at breakfast, and there’s no game room or fun center in sight.
Still, there are kids here. I watch one girl, about twelve, shake her hair out of a braid while her parents check in.
That was one thing my mom always got right. She could braid hair into any style I showed her, folding back the covers of teen magazines I borrowed from friends and pleading for hair just like tha
t.
Even brushing out tangles was an elite skill of hers; it never hurt. I loved the tingle on my scalp as she worked each snarl with her fingernails, then the brush. When she finished, she’d hold up the tiny antique mirror she inherited from my grandmother, its gilded edge catching the light as I angled my own mirror, translucent pink plastic, to see the reflection.
I need a drink.
The pool deck is crowded as people mill and wait for seating at the restaurant. My stomach tightens, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since brunch, but I grab a Long Island from the bar instead of food. The emptier my stomach is, the faster I’ll get drunk.
“Hey.”
I turn, immediately jumping back and nearly stabbing myself through the lip with my straw. Luka is just inches in front of me.
“Sorry,” he laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Like I believe that. Luka might not be the slacker he was in his pre-owner days, but the prankster Kai and Mollie always tell me about is definitely alive and well. He’s jumped out at me from behind more doors than I can count and dropped enough ice cubes down my back to fill a cooler.
“What are those?” I point to the helmets he’s holding, dangling from his fingers by the straps.
He looks at them, starting to answer, but then looks back at me.
“Are you busy?”
Nine
Luka
“You’re not doing it right!”
Tanya squeals as the Segway kicks forward; she plants her feet on either side of the column and bursts out laughing. “This is impossible. I told you, I can’t do this on the grass.”
“Look, I’ll show you again.” I step off mine and put my hands on her waist. “When you want to move forward, don’t lean into the handlebar—just shift your weight a little.”
Under my fingers, her hipbones tilt. The Segway begins a slow glide down the hill. I follow, taking baby steps behind the tires.
“You got it?” I ask. When she looks at me over her shoulder, her smile muted, I let go.
