by Piper Lennox
That flight back home was the hardest one I’ve ever taken.
“So...so what are you saying? You’re in love with me?”
“I don’t know.” He sets the bottle down and cracks his thumbs inside his fists. “I’m...I mean, I’m in something.”
“Something.” The vodka swims through my head. “Luka….”
“I know. We had an ‘arrangement.’ So did Kai and Mollie, remember?”
Once again, I laugh without meaning to. “We are so not Kai and Mollie.”
“Maybe we should be, though.” His body looms close to mine again. I have no idea how he does it—this ability to cross a room, to approach me so smoothly I can’t register any movement, until suddenly my hips are cradled in his hands and he’s pulling me against him. “You didn’t think it was crazy or stupid when they got together. You practically set it up.”
“I did think it was crazy.” I slide his hands off me. “And stupid. But I knew it’d be good for Mollie to at least try.”
“So why can’t you give this a shot, huh? We said don’t get jealous, accept whatever happens, but...when I saw you with him, and that ring on your finger—” He cuts himself off, breath rattling as he inhales. It scares the hell out of me.
“I got jealous. I knew I had no right to be, but I was. I was furious at you, like you’d cheated on me or something.”
“But we aren’t together. We both had other people in the mix, all along.”
“Not me. I haven’t slept with anyone since I met you.”
I stare at him. This has to be one of his jokes I don’t understand. “Anyone?”
The click of his breath as it resets itself is as good as any answer.
An ache spreads from the back of my head to behind my eyes. I knead the bridge of my nose. “I think you should go, for a while. We’ve both had a really long day, my head is killing me—”
“How do you feel about me?”
I’ve been waiting for this question ever since he brought up South Point. It’s a conversational pattern I’ve learned all too well: the guy confesses deeper feelings, launches into why our old rules and arrangements no longer matter, then, inevitably, asks how I feel. As if it isn’t already clear by the way I don’t proclaim love right back, or how rigidly I walk away, like I’m doing now.
“I liked things the way they were,” I tell the television. In the dark screen, I see his reflection stare at my back.
“So did I. But that was two years ago, when we started all this. We’re not the people we were back then.”
“I am.”
“Like hell you are.”
“You don’t know me, Luka.” My shouting makes him recoil. But, as always, he holds his ground flawlessly, even as I storm back. “You’ve seen me, what—five times? Five vacations? You know that me. That one tiny part. And that’s basically all I know about you. We spend over three-hundred days apart, every year, and you’re going to stand there and tell me I’ve changed, when you didn’t even know me to begin with?”
His phone rings in his pocket. For once, he doesn’t answer it.
“Just tell me if I’m wasting my time, here,” he says, sighing. I swear, I hear it catch, but only for a second. “Do you want to be with me?”
The headache pools from one side of my brain to the other as I look away.
I shake my head.
His breathing balloons in the silence, the push and pull of air like waves crashing on the sand and retreating too fast.
When he leaves, I expect a door slam. It’s the one part of conversations like these I always know to brace myself for. No matter how different a fling is, whether it was a week or a month, or in this case, years, they all end the same.
Instead, he closes the door to the suite so softly, I can’t even hear the click.
Eighteen
Luka
When I wake up, sunlight stabs through my office blinds and revives the nausea I’ve been fighting all night. There’s bile in my throat. If I dared to lift my head more than two inches off the carpet behind my desk, I’m sure I’d smell gin in my pores.
The knock that woke me happens again. It’s a soft one, in a pattern: social, not business.
“Hang on,” I call, wincing at both the effort and volume, and stagger to my feet. The mirror confirms my suspicion: I look like shit.
On the other side, instead of Tanya, I find my mother.
“Wow,” she coughs, stepping inside. “You bring the entire bar up here with you? Oh, I got you a latte at Glasshouse.” She waves her hands to clear away the smell of alcohol and sweat. No luck.
“What are you doing here?” I set down the coffee, partially as a show of anger, but mostly because the smell of it twists my stomach.
“Honey, you know why I’m here.” She examines the breath spray she found in my desk drawer, then spritzes some into the air. “You need to talk to your father.”
“I don’t ‘need’ to do anything.” My chair screeches on the mat as I fall into it. “He fucked up the one contract I—”
“Language.”
I square my jaw. I’ve got a theory that neither of my parents actually care about us cursing, and that the reprimands are just a power play. When I was younger, I found a way around it: start with the worst language first, get scolded a few times, then roll on with all the B-list words I want. Shit and damn are plenty forgivable when you’ve already dropped an f-bomb.
“I’m serious, Mom. Dad fucking knew—”
She gives me the evil eye. I pause.
“Dad knew,” I go on, “how important it was that we get that contract. He knows all those rumors are bullshit, but he fed them to the Kalanis anyway.”
As predicted, she doesn’t chastise me for the lesser curse word. She’s already commenced the dusting of my shelves and careful rearrangement of every book and curio I’ve got.
“Your dad had his reasons for telling the Kalanis what he did. And if you hadn’t left last night—”
“Please stop cleaning. We have custodians for that.”
She shuts up, but gives me a look I’ve never seen before, eyes narrowed. Slowly, she sets a snow globe back on the shelf.
“I’m tired of being the go-between in all these fights,” she sighs, shifting her purse onto her shoulder. In the doorway, she turns and points at me. “Talk to him. Today.”
Before I can argue, she leaves. And she makes sure to slam the door, kicking up my headache in her wake so I can’t even follow her.
For every loophole I’ve got, every trick I learned as a kid to stay a step ahead of my parents—Mom always knew how to jump another step ahead of me.
I leave the resort just in time to dodge Parker and the rest of the staff coming in. Like every morning, I spin my schedule in my head: more coffee, a shower hot enough to dissolve every bit of alcohol still in my skin, and a fresh suit before heading to the Kalanis’ house.
Dad’s truck is gone. I relax. I know we’re going to have to hash things out, sooner or later; Mom will hound us both until we do. But I’d rather wait for “later.”
In the shower, I let the steam flood my sinuses and unpack the pressure I’ve been carrying there ever since last night. I’d gone to see Tanya hoping for a sympathetic ear and some incredible sex. Instead, after finding those stupid fucking notes on her laptop, I got drunk, spilled my guts, and lost her.
Only, you never had her in the first place.
All that balance talk Dad gave me, making time for things like surfing and dating—why did I ever listen to it? He has no idea what running a business like Port: Kona takes. He played in the local game. A bed-and-breakfast type of place, nothing but a lodge and some cabanas, was perfect for him. But a full-fledged resort? You can’t get a place like that running itself without years of work upfront. You put everything else on the backburner. You kick ass while there’s ass to be kicked.
I sit on the floor and let the water stream down my skin, trying to wash every part of the night away. I should have never told he
r I wanted more. I should have never asked if she wanted more, either. I knew exactly what her answer would be.
Still—I couldn’t help but hope it might be something different.
The door rattles. I stand carefully and shut off the water. “I’m almost out, Mom.”
“It’s me. When you get done, meet me in the kitchen for a minute.”
I freeze, the towel in hand, before drying off. I can tell Dad is still outside the door. When I clear my throat instead of answering, I hear his footsteps start away.
In my room, I go through four different suits, stepping in and then out of the pants every time I spot another option. I part my hair on one side, then switch it, before gelling it all up and back the way I always do.
It’s obvious I’m avoiding him. Even he knows it, all the way from across the house.
When I’m ready, I sit on the edge of my bed and breathe. The boxes of books and old surfing trophies stacked along my walls, already packed for the second my house is built and even the slightest bit livable, make me claustrophobic.
The scent of coffee hits me as soon as I open the door. He’s brewing the darkest roast we’ve got, our shared favorite, the grind that turns filters nearly-black. According to Mom, it smells like burnt hair.
There’s already a mug filled to the top on the table across from him, waiting for me.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I take a sip. Breathe. Wait.
“I’m sorry for the way I did what I did,” he says. “I should have tried talking to you about it more, first. But I’m not sorry I did it.”
“Good apology.”
He shifts his jaw. As furious as I am, and even though I have every right to give him attitude, I can tell it’s time to pack it in before I push him too far. Dad’s chilled out a lot since his stroke and retirement, but that doesn’t mean he can’t kick my ass.
“Look,” I continue, calmer, but firm, “I know you think I work too much—you’re probably right. But I have to work hard, Dad. I’ve almost got that place running exactly how it should. Once I get the affiliate shit together, I’ll lay off work for a while.”
“That’s not why I did it. The Kalanis deserved to know how Paradise Port really runs these things.” Dad holds his mug with both hands, staring into it. He drinks it black by preference; me, by necessity. I’m usually in too much of a hurry to add anything.
“But there’s nothing to—”
“And you deserve to know it, too.”
I stumble over the last of my protest and sit back in my seat. It creaks. We’ve had the same dining set, the same faded yellow on the walls, and the same beige carpet flecked with primary colors, for as long as I can remember. I can’t wait to have my own place, everything even newer and more modern than the resort. Times like now, when my parents have me cornered at the table like a kid, it’s all I can think about.
“The Lee family didn’t want to be bought out,” he says. Already, he’s holding up his hand, anticipating my interruption. “Let me finish. When they signed on with us, we only had one of their shuttles. Remember?”
I nod. “Yeah, for picking guests up from the airport.” It benefited Kona Tours, too, because we handed out their pamphlets to all incoming Port guests. Before they even set foot in our resort, they could read about the Lee family and the island tours and bike rentals they offered.
“Then we started doing tours, too,” Dad adds, “and the bike rentals.”
“Which we paid the Lees a fair portion of, for using their equipment,” I remind him. “They had no problem with it. They were earning plenty.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, son. They weren’t.” Dad looks up from his mug. “Corporate started buying shuttles and bikes of their own, and spent the next year edging Kona Tours out. They pulled so much business from them, the Lees had no choice but to accept the buyout.”
I study him. “But they wanted to be bought out. Mr. Lee kept going on about retirement and—God, that stupid little dog of theirs, how they were going to breed it and start a farm.”
Dad doesn’t mimic my laugh. So much for easing the tension.
“Paradise Port is out to get local companies. Plain and simple. And before you say anything, trust me—I didn’t want to believe it, either.” He props his elbow on the table and rests his head in it, sighing. “I saw them do a lot of bad things, while I was there. The Lees were just the first time I had a face attached to the damage.”
“Well, and not like I’m defending it, but there’s nothing illegal about them starting a competing business.”
“It may not be illegal, especially since they sic a team of lawyers on every contract they write up,” he laughs bitterly, “but legal doesn’t mean ethical. They pulled Kona Tours in as an affiliate—a teammate. Then they used them for the information and resources they needed, the customer base, the advertising methods...and drove them out.”
“If Port was that shitty, they wouldn’t have made the Lees an offer. They’d have just run them into the ground naturally.” I drink my coffee. It’s still close to scalding, but I don’t stop, needing a distraction from how intensely he’s staring.
“That’s what they do. They make it look like they’re friendly with local businesses, just to cover their tracks.”
“Do you remember when you signed with Paradise Port?” I ask. I force myself to level our gazes. “You got so much flak from everyone. Our neighbors, your friends, Kai—everyone kept telling you franchises are evil, that they destroy mom and pop operations.” I set down the mug and point at him. “And what did you tell them?”
Slowly, he takes a breath. “I told them, ‘Every time a new franchise or chain pops up on the island, everyone panics. But they’re never as bad as we think they are.’”
I let my hand drop. “Exactly.”
“But Paradise port really is that bad,” he finishes. “Worse, actually. Because I never expected them to do what they have in the first place, but then to use the affiliate program as the ruse.... And I was complicit in all of it, because I didn’t speak up. I was just like you, convincing myself it was okay, because it wasn’t illegal. But with the Kalanis getting pestered and all this news about Aruba, I couldn’t deny it to myself anymore.”
From behind me, a breeze kicks across the garden, sending the smell of earth and leaves into the kitchen. The stack of blueprints I left under the vase rustle. We both glance at them.
“That’s another thing,” he says. “You bidding on Rochelle’s house so you can tear it down and build yours? You’re right: someone’s going to get that house.” His eyes come back to mine. “But it shouldn’t be you.”
“Why not? I’ve worked my ass off for two years straight, saving pretty much every dime I make to build this house.”
“Because it’s wrong. Just because it’s allowed or legal, or going to happen anyway, doesn’t make it right.” Suddenly, I’m seeing the same look on his face that Mom gave me in my office. Like they aren’t sure who I am. “If you can’t see that...then I don’t know why I’m even talking to you about all this.”
“Yeah.” I push away from the table, sloshing my coffee, and get my keys from the hook. “I don’t know, either.”
“Luka!” he shouts. But, just like last time, I’m in my truck and gunning the engine before it can get to me.
Nineteen
Tanya
“You okay? You sound weird.”
I knew, when I answered my phone, Mollie would hear the nasally weight of my voice, courtesy of a night of drunk-crying. But as the phone flashed and her name appeared, along with a photo of us, I had to talk to her.
“Kind of hungover.” I cover the receiver before I sniff.
No use: she hears.
“Uh-oh. Out with it.”
My sigh ripples the liquid in the glass in front of me, right under my face: some hair of the dog, which now seems like less of a panacea and more of a vomit-inducer. I push it away.
“Luka and I got in a fight.”
“Wh
at else is new?” She chuckles. When I don’t join in, she stops, clearing her throat. “So this one was really bad, huh?”
“Yeah.” I get up and stumble to the couch, where drunk-me wisely set up two glasses of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a box of Wheat Thins, my favorite hangover snack. I pop two pills before falling face-first into the cushions. “The SparkNotes version is he wants to do boyfriend-girlfriend, I don’t, we argued, and he left.”
She’s quiet, but I know she’s still connected; I can hear the news blathering on in the background. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Right? Like, we agreed—”
“Not Luka. You.”
The look I shoot my phone is useless, since she can’t see it, but I do it anyway. “Me?”
“You like Luka, don’t you? Why wouldn’t you want to be his girlfriend?”
The couch is so plush, it barely makes a sound as I flail myself onto my back and stare at the lights overhead. “Perhaps you need a reminder of who you’re talking to, here.”
“I know. You ‘don’t do relationships.’ But I guess....”
I wait. I can practically see her biting her lip, that face she makes when she knows exactly what she wants to say, but has no idea how the other person will take it.
“I guess I figured, once you met the right guy, you’d give him a chance.” The television in the background goes silent. “A real one.”
“And, what, you think Luka is the ‘right guy’ for me?” I slide the patio door open and step out. Already, the sun is baking everything in its path; even the designer outdoor rug under my feet stings. I drag one of the chairs into what little shade there is, tucked against the glass, and sit. “I think you just like the idea of us being sisters-in-law.”
Her laughs calms me in a way nothing has been able to for hours. I wish so badly she were here right now. “That thought has crossed my mind,” she confesses, “but it’s not the only reason I think you guys would be amazing together.”
