When We Break

by Piper Lennox

  “So when you asked me what it was like growing up here, what you really meant was, ‘Tell me this place is a tropical paradise with no real-life problems whatsoever, because that’s what I want to hear.’”

  We pull away from each other at the exact same second, the same distance. Even the car seems to get bigger, just to give us space.

  “Kona is beautiful,” she says softly, after we’ve wound down enough roads for the electric charge in the air to neutralize. She pulls into the lot of a tiny ice cream shop and yanks up the emergency brake before turning to me. “But it isn’t perfect. There’s no such thing.”

  “I meant it, like, colloquially. I know perfection isn’t real.”

  “Okay, so what does ‘colloquially perfect’ mean? Better than growing up anywhere else? Because I wouldn’t know.”

  I have no clue how someone I’ve just met can make me so defensive. There’s something about Colby that pulls me right in, then makes me instantly regret it. The tone is calm, almost easygoing. But it makes her delivery that much rougher. Like touching metal so hot, it feels cold. By the time you realize and pull away, it’s too late.

  “I guess,” I say carefully, “I meant to ask what your childhood was like in general, and if you think living here made it...well, yeah, better than most.”

  She reaches for her purse, wedged between my feet and a bunched-up floor mat. I climb out and look at her over the top of the car.

  “My childhood was fine.” Her face is unreadable behind her sunglasses. “I spent a lot of time helping my parents and taking care of animals, exploring nature...so living here, for me, was better than if I’d been born in a big city.”

  I nod, not willing to risk any follow-ups, and study the building. “Kona Creamery?”

  She hitches her purse higher on her shoulder. “You said you wanted to see what Kona is like for the locals, right?”

  “No, this is good. It just surprised me.” The wood-plank facade is aged from salt air, bleached with sunlight. A family with cameras on their wrists and actual zinc on the dad’s nose laughs from a table on the wraparound porch. “This seems like more of a tourist attraction than a local thing.”

  “Pretty much everything in Kona is a tourist attraction,” she chuckles.

  I hold the door for her. She steps back, thanks me quietly, and slides inside.

  “Colby!” A heavily pregnant woman waves from a booth as we enter, while a preteen behind the counter, toddler on her hip, rings up a customer. She nods and smiles hello.

  “Hey, Mrs. Phillips.” Colby bends down to hug the woman. “Peak season treating you well?”

  “It’ll be better once I’m not hefting these two around,” she sighs, running her hands over her stomach. Her eyes shift from Colby to me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I wait for Colby to introduce me, which she doesn’t. It makes reaching around Colby to shake the woman’s hand that much more awkward. “Orion.”

  “Faith. Nice to meet you.” She winks at Colby and nudges her shin with her foot, swollen and wedged into what, I now see, is a bedroom slipper. “Colby Harlowe bringing a boyfriend around here! Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she says simply. Once again, her tone is impossible to decipher, so calm and factual. I don’t know why it annoys me.

  “I’m in town for, uh...Rochelle Copper’s party,” I explain.

  Faith’s expression changes, her smile becoming transparent. “So you’re....”

  “Kidneys,” Colby says, before I can answer. She studies a wall of pictures to our right, endless Polaroids of tourists and locals with giant sundaes meant for at least eight people in front of them. “Where’s Elise?”

  “Still in Texas trying to jumpstart superstardom. The usual.” The woman rolls her eyes with equal parts pride and total mystification. “Now answer me this, is there something about Kona that makes uploading music videos to Instagram or whatever impossible? Because she seems to think Austin is the only place in the world she’ll get discovered.”

  Colby gives a tight smile. “Sometimes you’ve just got to get away from the hometown. Doesn’t matter where.”

  Faith gives the eye-roll again, this time directed at Colby. Her gaze lands back on me. “First time in Hawaii?”

  I nod. “It’s, uh...really beautiful.”

  “Can’t say I care much for the heat, right now,” Faith sighs, and fans herself with a laminated milkshake menu before motioning to the counter. “You two go on up and get something. On the house.” She signals to the preteen, who nods back and sets the baby in a bouncing chair, scoop at the ready.

  Colby thanks the woman and heads for the counter. I nod goodbye and follow.

  “Hi, Colby. The usual?” The girl grabs an empty pint container, but Colby shakes her head.

  “Just a cone, this time.”

  “You still want salted caramel? Because we’ve got a new flavor Dad made. Pretzels, white chocolate, and a salted caramel stripe.” The girl knocks on the case in front of her. The barrel of ice cream is almost empty. “It’s selling real good.”

  Before Colby can answer, the girl opens the case, swipes two tiny wooden spoons into the vat, and hands them to us. Colby tastes hers slowly; when we make eye contact, we both nod.

  “Sold. Two cones, please.”

  “Actually,” I pipe up, “just a small cup, for me. Like...kid’s size, if you have it.”

  The girl cuts her eyes at me, then at Colby, before filling the order. We each shove a few bills into the tip jar before thanking everyone and waving our way outside.

  “They seem nice,” I offer, when we’re seated. “So this is family-owned?”

  “Yeah. A lot of places around here are, which is cool.”

  We fall back into silence. I finish my ice cream long before her.

  “Not big on sweets, huh?” She flicks my cup. “Never seen an adult get the kiddie size.”

  “Force of habit, I guess. I had to monitor my diet for so long, it’s kind of automatic now.” I look over and notice her cone melting down one side. “This side’s dripping.”

  She peers around her hand and licks the drip from her fingers. For some unfathomable reason, I have to look away.

  Before the conversation can die another awkward death, my phone rings. “One sec,” I tell Colby, who shrugs in response.

  It’s a video call from Walt. I swipe Answer. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey—got someone who wanted to say hi.” The phone’s connection gets spotty while the phone changes hands, the apartment ceiling spinning like a top before London’s giggling face fills the screen.

  “Daddy!”

  I grin. “Hey, bug!”

  “Daddy, Uncle Walt took me to the tearoom and the candy store and then we got ice cream, and look, he got me this!” She barely takes a breath before brandishing a neon pink pinwheel and blowing on it with enough force to collapse her lungs. It barely moves, but the slightest spin is enough for her to dissolve in giggles again.

  “Wow, that’s quite a day.” I arch my eyebrow at Walt when he appears over her shoulder. “Especially since Uncle Walt knows Daddy doesn’t like you having that much sugar at once.”

  Walt arches his right back. “Well, Daddy isn’t here, is he?” He takes the phone back from London. “How’s Hawaii?”

  “It’s good. Exactly like the pictures.”

  “Was the party awkward as shit?”

  My cringe is visible, I’m sure, but when I look at Colby, she’s finishing her cone with a smirk.

  “Uh...no, no, it was fine. It was kind of nice, meeting the mother and all that.”

  “Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.” Walt pauses as, from the back of the apartment, London starts blasting Frozen on the television. “And hey, listen, I’m not spoiling her rotten, I promise. We had fruit for breakfast, salad for lunch. I just figured she needed some fun today. Last night was tough.”

  “She didn’t sleep well?”

  “That’s an understatement.
Barely slept at all, so I’m sure she’ll crash soon.” He pitches a look over his shoulder and lowers his voice, which is probably unnecessary with Disney blaring. “She was scared you’d ‘gone away’ again.”

  Colby looks away when I turn my head. I know she’s listening—she can’t help but hear it—but I appreciate the courtesy of pretending she isn’t.

  “But,” Walt goes on, “I explained you were just on vacation, which calmed her down a little. We wound up making a couch fort in the living room and watching movies until, like, four in the morning.”

  “Her sleep schedule is going to get all kinds of fucked up.”

  “Quit worrying, man. I’ve got this.”

  I run my hand through my hair and nod reluctantly. “I know. How’d she do on her vocab test yesterday?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  “You’re kidding.” Now I can’t resist the sigh that’s been building ever since I took the call. “We went over those flashcards with her a dozen times—”

  “Isn’t a ninety still a B?”

  My eyes snap to Colby as soon as she says this. She stares right back, like she’s honestly waiting for my answer. So much for courtesy.

  “Do you mind? I’m on a private phone call.”

  “Who’s that?” Walt asks, trying to peer at the edges of the screen. I turn away and block any view he might get of her.

  “Someone eavesdropping,” I snap. Colby scoffs.

  Behind him, the volume—and London’s singing—cranks to eleven. We both wince.

  “I’d better go. Hey, London, come say bye!”

  In the distance, drowned in the music, I hear London scream, “Bye, Daddy!” Walt and I shake our heads at the same time.

  “Thanks for touching base,” I tell him. “I’ll call tonight.” When I’m back in my hotel. Alone.

  Walt says goodbye, and the call ends. I stare at the blank screen a minute before spinning back to her.

  I’m about to tell her off. Honesty is one thing; rudeness is another. Before I can even wet my lips to do it, though, she cocks her head.

  “Are you one of those parents?”

  “One that cares about my child’s education? I guess I am. Sue me.”

  “Wow.” She holds up her palms. “Quick to react, indeed.”

  The weathered wood underneath us lets out a screech as we push out our chairs at the same time and stand. I pull out my phone and try to find my resort on the GPS: the last thing I want to do now is get trapped in the car with this girl.

  But, just my luck, my phone is blinking at one percent. As soon as I open the app, it dies.

  “You getting in or not?” Colby twirls her car keys and waits.

  I look at the sky, now melting from bright blue into orange and purple at the edge, then at her car. Not slamming my door shut after I climb in is almost impossible.

  Four

  Colby

  Eden was right about me. I can be a huge, huge bitch.

  It’s not like I meant to piss off Orion—it’s just that easy. But that’s the thing. I never mean to piss people off, when I speak my mind. Yet, somehow, I always do. And I never learn my lesson.

  I feel him look at me when we pull into the drop-off loop of Paradise Port, his hotel. When his mouth opens, the requisite “thanks for the ride” already shaped on his tongue, I take a breath. His mouth shuts.

  “Sorry.”

  The apology falls like a brick. Probably because I spat it out, and even cringed—inside, at least—as I said it. We both stare through the windshield at an astoundingly fit family of seven crossing past, lined up with parents at both ends.

  “Thank you,” he answers, while the smallest kid breaks the line to grab her flip-flop, directly in front of my bumper. I wave off the mother’s apologies. “And thank you, for the ride. The...rescue candy, talking to me. All that.”

  He’s already pulling the door handle. One click, two; the interior lights come on, barely visible with the sunlight pouring in the rear window like it is. I nod my goodbye, but can’t look at him.

  Instead, I’m watching the family. All in athletic clothes, probably coming back from a day of hiking or cycling. The littlest girl and one of her sisters are fighting over who gets to hold a key card. When light shoving turns to full-on punching, the older child grabs the younger one’s wrist and squeezes until she lets go of the card with a shriek.

  “Jesus,” Orion breathes, laughing. “Makes me glad I’m an only child.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper. The older child runs into the lobby after the rest of the family, while the youngest sniffs, her small face turning purple with rage, before shaking out her injured arm and following.

  I’m thinking about Eden. Specifically, the time as kids when we tried to race up the koa tree in her backyard. The only rule was that whoever reached our stranded Frisbee first, won.

  My footholds were better than hers from the start. I gained a fast, wide lead, easily three feet ahead before she’d even left the ground. But, being taller, it didn’t take much for her to catch up—enough to grab my wrist before it reached the next branch. For years afterwards we’d argue over whether or not she meant to throw me down. I knew, and still know, she did it on purpose, even if she did feel bad about the stitches I needed on my bottom lip after I hit the ground.

  The memory shifts. I’m hit with the next image like a truck: Eden’s body falling to the soft, wet earth, limbs not even bouncing on impact. If I could play this ever-reprising scene on a projector, you’d think I’d been on the ground watching, when in fact, I didn’t see it at all. I just heard it.

  It’s one of many gifts from the universe: my apparent ability to conjure traumatic scenes from sound alone. Almost as useful as my inability to shut my dumb, bitchy mouth.

  “You okay?”

  I nod as my fake coughs, meant to push away the tears, turn into real ones. Orion leans back against his door when they get louder.

  “Fine,” I wheeze, when I catch the smallest break. It doesn’t last.

  “Come get some water in the lobby.” He opens his door. When I shake my head, about to sputter that I really am fine and not, say, dying of consumption, he leans back into the car, turns off the engine, and pulls my keys from the ignition.

  “Come on,” he says firmly. Not that I’d remember, but it sounds like his “dad voice.” No point arguing.

  In the lobby, while tourists wind past and laugh with their heads thrown back, already drunk on the free cocktails passing on trays, Orion gets me a bottled water from who knows where. Paradise Port is the kind of place where employees have everything you need on hand. And if they don’t, they’ll find it damn near instantly.

  “Thanks.” I twist off the cap and drink until my throat cools. A few deep breaths, and I’m okay again.

  But, of course (thanks, universe), it doesn’t last.

  “Colby, there you are!” Aunt Rochelle appears from the tourists like a bubbling weed. She’s dragging someone behind her. “You left so fast, you didn’t get to meet Amanda! Amanda, this is my niece, Colby.”

  For the love of God.

  I stare at the woman’s chin when I stand and offer my half of the handshake. Her hair, the ends a faded and soft yellow like lemon juice, when I robotically echo her greeting of, “Nice to meet you.” The fluted bridge of her nose, when Rochelle tells me, in the most unnecessary announcement of all time, that this is the woman who can now see, thanks to my cousin’s eyes.

  Orion waves hello as he stands behind me. The lucky bastard already met her, and doesn’t seem to have any problem returning her gaze.

  Aunt Rochelle prattles on about the success of the party, or rather, the success she’s deluded herself into believing it was. Maybe I’m being too harsh, though. Maybe, to her, it really was successful. She got to see Eden again, in a way.

  While the three of them start a conversation about the reporters from the party and when the stories are expected to air, I pull my stare from the elaborate tiles under our feet and dr
ag it up the woman’s frame.

  Her sandals are new, pinching the smallest toes on each foot. There’s a tattoo on her ankle: a four-leaf clover, the shading uneven. It reminds me of Eden’s sugar skull tattoo, particularly the section she picked at during healing, leaving tiny white dots where the ink pulled up. I stare at it and feel my heart palpitate, like a fan blade catching on a balloon.

  When I decide to just take the leap, to just look and see it isn’t as hard as I thought—she looks right at me. Smiles.

  There it is. The muddled green, almost dirty-looking but glinting in the last sunlight from the windows. It’s a color I’ve known all my life, could instantly find in a gradient. If someone handed me a tray of paint, I could mix it in one try.

  I almost expect to see Eden’s wink envelop one eye, or the crinkle at the corners with her sly smile. How many times did I see these eyes glancing at me over her shoulder, or taunting from a car window, or studying me over sunglasses in every shade of the rainbow?

  “Excuse me,” I tell them, but I’ve turned away before I can finish. For all I know, none of them heard my politeness. Not that I can even try to care about that right now.

  I hear Rochelle call after me. Within seconds, after I’ve found a break in the crowd and ducked down a hallway, pressing myself into the set-in door of the stairwell, I hear footsteps.

  But it isn’t Rochelle who peeks around the corner and asks if I’m okay.

  It’s Orion.

  “Here.” My purse, totally forgotten, is dangling from his hand. He hesitates before reaching in, as though giving me a chance to stop him, and pulls out the rescue mints.

  “They don’t work,” I snap, but the effort stabs straight through my chest, and I find myself reaching for them, anyway.

  “You want to come up to my room?” he asks, kneeling in front of me after I slide down the wall, feet braced against the other side of the doorway. His voice is low and rolling.

  All those anxiety websites tell you to think of a happy place, somewhere calm and peaceful and usually blue, to ground yourself during a panic attack. They always suggest the ocean—a tropical paradise—which just makes me think of home, which then makes me think of Eden and my mother’s nagging and a hundred other stressors that do anything but calm me down.