by Gage Grayson
That’s a phrase I never thought I’d fucking say.
I’m sure Madeline can see my confusion, but she stays with her hand up, her goofy-sexy face unrelenting, until I finally fucking figure it out. I raise my hand to give Madeline a high-five, and as our palms slap, Madeline grabs my hand and interlocks her fingers with mine, pushing my hand and my entire arm so it rotates down toward the sand, and we’re holding hands like normal.
Watching Madeline’s goofy-sexy expression transform into a sassy, frisky grin as her hand grips mine sends exhilaration racing through me. Fuck, this girl and what she does to me. I don’t even fucking get it.
“Let’s do this shit,” I say, pulling her closer to me as we walk. I shoot her a grin, but she just keeps looking forward, toward the ocean, the same smile on those lips I’m suddenly dying to kiss again.
I don’t know how long it takes us to walk to Lahaina Harbor. It could be ten minutes, or fifteen, or maybe even a half hour, but it feels like a fraction of a second, and it also feels timeless as Madeline and I take in the beach, the aroma of salty ocean air, the gorgeous coloratura-soprano melodies of indigenous birds, and the distant sound of waves and tranquil conversation, our hands locked and our comfort reaching the point where we can enjoy our surroundings and take each other in without having to fill every fucking second with needless words.
We keep walking north, leaving the fantasy world of the beach and the resort and entering another fantasy world of actual roads, houses, businesses, and natural vegetation that hasn’t been landscaped and engineered to death for tourist consumption.
“How do you know where we’re going?” Madeline keeps looking straight ahead after asking the question, as if she knows where we’re going.
I can tell from her persistent grin and her lively tone that she doesn’t really care how I know; she knows we’ll end up there.
“I wouldn’t be showing you around if I didn’t know this island like the back of my hand.”
Madeline reaches over with her free hand, leaning over with just the right blend of recklessness and grace, and she grabs my other hand as we walk.
We’re now facing each other, walking slowly. Madeline’s face is full of mirth.
“Oh, you’re showing me around. Is that what you think is happening?”
“If you know the way to the slip, or anywhere else, by all means show me. I’ll follow you.”
Madeline’s stumbling intentionally, dragging us both toward the poorly paved ground and bouncing back up.
“I don’t know how to get places, is what you’re saying? My sense of direction sucks?”
I’m not usually the tripping, stammering type myself, making it a point to carry myself with confidence, to move with purpose and pay attention to what the fuck I’m doing. When she intentionally falters and moves in random directions like this, it puts my own sturdy, dependable swagger to shame.
“It doesn’t matter,” I respond, pulling her in closer. “If you wanna lead, I’ll follow you. I don’t care where the fuck we’re going.”
Madeline stops and takes a step closer to me, then another, and then a final step so our bodies are pressing against each other lightly, and then we meld into a starved, all-consuming kiss under the North Pacific midday sun.
From that point on, Madeline stays in front, pulling me in the right direction, not missing a fucking step until we get to the pier.
It’s not like parasailing’s on my usual agenda for this honeymoon, or any vacation for that matter, but when I get my first glimpse of those waiting speedboats and several rainbow-striped parachutes already soaring hundreds of feet above the ocean and traveling toward the horizon, I feel like a little kid getting his first in-person glimpse of Disneyland.
I can’t see her face as she strides in front of me, but I don’t doubt that Madeline’s electric excitement is sending a strong current back in my direction as she grips my arm.
Madeline she spins around to face me.
“Here we are, ye of little faith. I know how to get places.” Her voice rings through the mild cacophony of the pier and the boat engines starting up.
“I told you I’d follow you anywhere.”
“But you didn’t know we’d end up here.”
We fall into another kiss, shorter but just as fucking hot. Her mouth is sweet and soft, and love the way she tastes. Fuck, I could do this all day. Fuck the parasailing. Let’s just stay right here.
But then she’s pulling me toward the pier again.
I get my phone out as we walk toward the slip to double-check the confirmation and get the text message ready in case they need to see it.
“Who are you texting?” Madeline asks, no longer clutching my arm.
“Getting the confirmation ready, just in case.”
She raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Okay, if you’re that worried about it. Nerd.”
That magical mirth fills Madeline’s face again, and I’m pretty sure she’s purposefully reminding me of the countless measures of beauty surrounding me just outside my little smartphone screen.
I take that lesson fucking seriously, and the next few minutes become a haze as I focus on the surreal majesty of the Pacific in the background and the smoldering hotness of Madeline so close to me in the foreground.
Speaking with the boat dispatcher, listening to the little safety speech, getting prepped and boarded by the staff who have this down to a quick science—it’s all a blur in the background as I watch Madeline’s complete joy and anticipation.
She’s not in her own world, though; she’s giving me long, secret looks that make me feel like I’ve got my own personal Haleakala Volcano inside me that’s about to fucking erupt.
When the speedboat pilot is boarding and we’re getting ready to fly, I give Madeline a similar look, wanting her to feel that same magma-level heat. But now, she’s just fixated on the ocean and the sky, and she looks so fucking adorable in her orange lifejacket.
She turns to me, vibrantly beaming and looking genuinely fucking thrilled to be where she is at this very moment.
“Are you worried about getting wet, Ethan? With your phone and all? Wanna check your email one last time?” she teases
I didn’t think I could love Madeline’s smile any fucking more than I already do, but seeing the teasing edginess sparkle around her face makes it so much fucking better.
“What about your phone? Is the Great Madeline too much of a free spirit to care?”
“Oh,” she drops her voice to this low, reverberating pitch that goes straight to my cock, “I’m not worried about getting wet.”
I chuckle and shake my head. This woman.
When we start gliding away from the pier and zipping across the sparkling blue ocean surface, we don’t actually get wet. We’re strapped into a tandem harness, and the transition from sailing straight ahead to rising through the clear, clean air is smooth and natural.
Even the breeze whisking against us is peaceful, and the views of the Maui coastline and mountains are unreal, like some gorgeous fever dream.
The view gets even better when I turn to Madeline, especially since she’s already staring at me in delight.
“Didn’t even get wet,” I observe to her while we swing gently in the harness.
“Good, you need your phone,” she pokes back at me, her eyes full of warmth.
“You’re right. I should check it now.”
Madeline chuckles while I reach into my pocket and retrieve my ever-present smartphone. I look at it for a second, pretend to poke at the screen like I’m doing something important, and then proceed to chuck it into the fucking Pacific.
I turn slowly back to Madeline. Her eyes are wide with glee, and for the first time, I hear her abandon herself to full-on cracking up, her melodic laughter easily filling the sky around us as the pilot picks up speed and we start drifting up further.
I’m kind of pissed about this when it makes Madeline turn away from me and watch the view as we rise, but when she thrusts h
er hands into the air and belts out an exhilarated scream, her excitement is super fucking contagious.
It feels like only a few more seconds before we start to descend.
As much as I’d like to float above the Pacific with Madeline all day after an unexpected parasailing stint, I can’t fucking wait to see what happens next.
Letting the flow of the day take over, I don’t ask Madeline to stay with me after we get back to dry land and start walking back toward the resort. Even if this is all the time we get together, it’s taken my mind off things and made this sad honeymoon experiment much better than I could have ever imagined.
But I’m not gonna lie, I’m thrilled when Madeline doesn’t make a beeline back to her room the minute we get back to the beach and walk by the hotel. She walks with me, even though I’m doing little more than wandering.
“Are you gonna get a new phone now?” she asks as we pass the beach bar.
“Eh, I’d probably have to go to another island for that. Right now, I don’t fucking care.”
I really fucking don’t. And let me tell you, that’s pretty fucking crazy for me. I’m walking on the wild side now.
We leave the bar and the hotel behind as we continue down the sandy shoreline.
“You don’t need it for work? Or to get back home?” This is the most sincere I’ve seen Madeline yet.
“If my coworkers knew I didn’t have a phone right now, they’d be freaking the fuck out, which is a good reason that I’m in no hurry to get a new one.”
“Coworkers, eh? So we’re narrowing it down…”
“Oh, finance, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Ha! Of course. What else would you do?”
I look at Madeline’s face in profile, framed by the sand and the ocean behind it. I can see the warmth and kindness in her smile.
“You have me all figured out. I don’t doubt it. What do you do? Probably something much less predictable.”
Madeline lets the question hang for a moment, walking silently with the same contended smile.
“Grad school. That’s all for now. I’ll make those big career choices when the time comes.”
I don’t press. I just enjoy the waning afternoon and the chance to wander with Madeline.
Ethan
I’m picturing it now.
I step into the office for the first time in half a month. I look nicely tan and, maybe, well-rested. Nobody knows the full story of my life, and most of the motherfuckers I work with think I’m on my honeymoon.
I look like it, too, in this imaginary scenario. It’s the first thing in the morning, and I’m fucking smiling. One of the Wolf of Wall Street-wannabes I work with takes notice and says, “How’s married life treatin’ ya, honeymoon boy? Was Hawaii good to you?”
And I tell them that Hawaii was just great, and I spent most of my time wandering.
And they’ll be fucking astonished and perplexed, because I am not a wanderer or a meanderer, or someone who lacks decisiveness and well-constructed contingency plans. I don’t play it by ear, and I don’t fucking wander.
Yet here I am, hours after running into Madeline, on a trip that didn’t even have a goddamn plan to begin with, and I’m having such a great time wandering around the beaches of west Maui and the streets of Lahaina with no purpose or destination in mind.
Madeline and I are bullshitting like old friends. We’re not gabbing on about our feelings or our lives or any earnest shit. We’re just rattling on about island weather, banyan trees, long-haul flights, and every mildly amusing thing we pass.
Like the metal sign we’re looking at that depicts a silhouette of a family: a father, mother, and a ballcap-wearing child fleeing from a palm tree. The tree appears to be firing round, black cannonball-looking projectiles at the family’s heads.
The words BEWARE FALLING COCONUTS are printed boldly at the top of the sign, with the same warning in Japanese printed below it.
We’re both stopped now, studying the quirks of this public warning.
“Why is the dad holding a lollipop?” muses Madeline.
“Maybe that’s actually the son, who just had a growth spurt and is now two feet taller than his dad, who has to wear that baseball cap to try and compensate.”
“Maybe. Maybe they’re all children…but the lady’s an adult. She has boobs.”
I notice that we’re holding hands for the first time since we went parasailing.
“I don’t know why they had to depict those boobs. Unless that’s what they mean by ‘coconuts.’”
Madeline shrugs.
“They do fall over time, I guess. Maybe it’s all a metaphor for aging.”
“Of course. So obvious. What do you think the Japanese part says?”
I watch Madeline consider the sign with convincing sincerity.
“It says, ‘This sign is a joke. Can you believe Americans fall for this shit?’”
“So pretty much a direct translation?”
“Pretty much,” she affirms in a whisper, and after an afternoon of drifting aimlessly around Maui, we both finally lean in to share a soft kiss.
I’m having the time of my life bantering about bullshit with Madeline, but I’m keeping the heavier shit to myself today—like how our kisses always just kind of happen, and they feel like the comfortable yet meaningful kisses that come with a long-term relationship.
I definitely need to keep fucking quiet about that.
I don’t know who’s leading the way at this point, or if either of us are paying any attention, but after we start walking again, I spot the main building of the resort just a couple blocks away.
“It’s getting dark.” Madeline looks upward briefly. It means she’s going back to her room now, her world.
I’ll say it: I’m blown the fuck away by Madeline. I barely know her, but every moment with her is filled with an electric fun and excitement that I never felt with Audra—or anyone.
But it’s a lesson, I guess. I’ll be newly single when I get home from my honeymoon, and I’ll go out all the time like I used to and meet loads of women, and eventually I’ll find someone else who makes me feel the same way.
Or not. I don’t fucking know. Or fucking care right now.
I’m actually completely content in the moment, something that’s become pretty fucking rare for me if I’m being honest. As Madeline and I walk back to the hotel, I’m thinking about ordering room service, or maybe just a trip to the fucking vending machine.
“I’m getting hungry.” Madeline’s clarion voice slices through my thoughts. “How about you?”
“Uloji it is, then.” The words come out without me even thinking them. Good, it’s about time my instincts showed up again.
“You’re joking. I’m not a millionaire.” She gives me this side-eye glance. “Are you?”
I give her a sly grin. “I didn’t throw my fucking wallet in the water. And you can’t stay here without experiencing the Michelin star restaurant onsite.”
“Uloji has two Michelin stars, actually.”
Madeline is looking downward, almost like she’s embarrassed to know that.
“Really? Since you know more about it than I do, and definitely more than most of the oblivious rubes who are probably eating there now, I’d like to right that cosmic wrong by treating you to dinner, drinks, dessert, and whatever the hell else you want.”
“The people eating at Uloji are rubes?”
“One thing I’ve learned in my line of work is that money can’t buy taste or intelligence.”
Madeline eyes the hotel.
“I need to just run, literally, to the lobby restroom first. Like, really.”
Madeline bolts into the building, and I take the time to just fucking enjoy the moment yet again. Jesus, have I been so caught up in work for so long that I’ve forgotten how to appreciate just being?
Not ten minutes later, we’re about to walk into the Uloji entrance. Madeline looks down at her clothes, realization dawning.
“
Isn’t there a dress code? And don’t we need reservations?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“They’re gonna kick us out, and I’m honestly fucking starving.”
“I’ll go in and check. That way I can spare you the embarrassment, at least.”
“Okay, hurry up.”
I walk swiftly, using sleight of hand to retrieve a few bills from my wallet on the way in.
Madeline’s hugging herself slightly in the cooling dusk air when I get back outside a minute later.
“I thought you knew a lot about this place.” I do my best not to smile.
“What does that mean? I’m the one who said we needed res—”
“Let’s go. They’re ready to seat us.”
I hold in my laughter while watching the look of pure skepticism on Madeline’s face as we walk in.
“Right this way.” The maître d gestures for us to follow, and I finally let out bellow of laughter as Madeline’s eyes widen with happy shock.
Maybe it’s a slow night at Uloji, maybe it’s my doubling of the maître d’s weekly paycheck, but in no time flat, we’re seated by a massive picture window and served an amuse-bouche of caviar and yellowfin ahi with horseradish vodka sauce.
“It sounds weird, but it’s really fucking good.” Madeline’s opining with her mouth full of ahi and her eyes on the sunset out the window.
“Ahi sounds weird?” I ask while spooning caviar onto a water cracker.
“No! I mean horseradish vodka sauce. No reason it should be weird, though.”
“You should have some caviar.”
Madeline shakes her head while taking another bite.
“I’ve had too many strong flavors. It’ll just be a waste.”
Madeline readily finishes the plate while the waiter quietly stops at our table and opens a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Yellow Label champagne. The back-waiter swoops in and collects the empty ahi plate as soon as Madeline finishes.
“You’ve got some ninjas working here,” marvels Madeline.
“Ah, we want to be sure there’s room for your next course.” The waiter’s genuinely enjoying himself.
“The mochi crusted monchong?” Madeline’s wide-eyed, so elated it’s like she’s asking if it’s for real.
