Aloha in Love

by Watts, Jennifer

  Aloha in Love

  Jennifer Watts

  Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Watts

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means (electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system) without prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Editing by creativestraight.com

  Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com

  Cover design by yourebookcover.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Playlist

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  To my uncle, Mike, who always had Hawaii in his heart.

  You are truly missed.

  Playlist/Soundtrack

  1. Breakdown - Jack Johnson

  2. Time Will Tell - Bob Marley & The Wailers

  3. Santeria - Sublime

  4. Pressure Drop - Toots & The Maytals

  5. Here Comes the Sun - Peter Tosh

  6. Sea of Love - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

  7. Somewhere over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

  8. Sunshine - Matisyahu

  9. A-Punk - Vampire Weekend

  10. Say Hey (I Love You) - Michael Franti & Spearhead

  11. Amber - 311

  12. Stone Love - Pepper

  13. High Tide, Low Tide - Ben Harper & Jack Johnson

  14. Hawaiian Wedding Song - The Outriggers

  15. Ku-u-i-po - Elvis Presley

  Chapter 1

  The over-produced sound of Boney M’s “Feliz Navidad” plays over the satellite radio as I stare out the 30th floor window of my office. The bay skyline is foggy, and the view is obscured by gray clouds hovering in perfect harmony with my mood. Behind me, my office door clicks and my assistant, Terry, gives me a perfunctory nod.

  “I despise this song,” I announce, muttering just loud enough for Terry to hear. I try to tally up how many times I’ve heard the familiar refrain in the last twenty-four hours: at the grocery store last night, at Starbucks this morning, and during the elevator ride to my office.

  Terry perches on the edge of my desk. “Whatever, Scrooge.”

  “Why does hating this god-awful song make me Scrooge? For the record, I don’t hate Christmas, but this nauseatingly upbeat tune, with all its saccharine seventies keyboard rifts, really makes me want to hurl.”

  He gives me a knowing look. “Like I said…Scrooge.”

  “Does that make you Tiny Tim then?” I smirk, cocking one eyebrow.

  “First of all…” He waves his finger at me like a stubby wand. “Terrance Jones has never been referred to as tiny—just ask my Grindr date from last night.”

  I ignore him, freeing my long red hair from its elastic band for the first time in eight hours. I’ve spent the entire day pouring over city permit applications for our newest condominium development. Glancing at the clock now, I realize that it’s too late to chat with Terry—no matter how much I live for his wild dating stories.

  “Terry, did you have something you needed from me?”

  “What, you think I came in here to talk about Christmas carols?” He says, standing up from my desk.

  “I should hope not.” I yawn into my fist, pushing aside my paperwork as Terry replaces it with a spiral bound volume.

  “The plans came in for the Rory Building.”

  “But the Rory Building isn’t my project?”

  “It is now. The big guy wasn’t happy with Dylan’s first draft, so he ahem ‘asked’ that you take over.” Dylan is a junior broker, who seems to value cocaine and women much more than his position at the firm.

  I roll my eyes. “We both know that Mr. Silver doesn’t ask for anything.”

  The owner and CEO of Silverdale Developments, Mr. Silver or Dale Sr. as I know him, also happens to be my father-in-law. I was working for the firm when I married Dale, his son, who I’d been dating since college. Our union didn’t curry much favor, but I gained a lot of respect for Mr. Silver over the years. He was your typical CEO—blunt and intimidating—but his fair and hardworking nature made dealing with him easy. Sometimes I wondered (although I’m ashamed to admit it) if that work ethic skipped a generation with my husband.

  Sighing, I turn the proposal over in my hands, wishing Dale Sr. could entrust his son with the Rory Building instead. I know I shouldn’t be so unfair; after all, Dale spent the last three days traveling for work. He travels a lot for Silverdale, but Lord knows that the time apart has taken a toll on our four-year marriage. I flip through the massive booklet as Terry adds (oh-so-helpfully) that it looks almost finished.

  Just then, I flip to one of the renderings and gasp. “What the fu—”

  “Fuck, Ashley. The words you’re looking for are What. The. Fuck. Don’t worry, I’m a big boy and won’t rat you out to HR.”

  I ignore him—a true cornerstone of our relationship—scanning through the remaining drawings before landing on the final page. “I thought this land was slated for affordable housing? How did Dylan manage to pull a complete one eighty on this project?”

  “Affordable housing?” Terry snorts. “That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one—we live in San Francisco.” He walks around my desk and peers over my shoulder. “So what’s the damage?”

  An all too familiar feeling of anxiety creeps into the pit of my stomach. I’ve been feeling this way a lot over the past few months, raising serious questions about what I’m doing with my life. I’d love to bitch to Terry, but this isn’t the appropriate moment to do so. I clear my throat and read aloud. “Luxury condominiums…marketed to off-shore investors…purchase prices starting at $1.9 million?”

  “Well, a fuck is definitely in order then.” Terry bends forward to pat my hand. “Maybe even a fuckity-fuck.”

  “I know you’re just the messenger, Terry, but I thought Silverdale was doing something good for the community.” Terry watches me with fascination. I think my erratic moods are the most interesting part of his day. “Sorry,” I say, rubbing my forehead in frustration. “I should probably keep those things to myself.”

  “Nah, my lips are sealed.” He mimes the action of zipping his lips closed. “Need any help?

  “I think I just need some time to sort through all of this.”

  “Say no more, boss.” Terry turns and heads for the door. “But Ashley?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m right out here if you need anything.”

  I flash what I hope passes for a smile, trying to ignore the dull pounding in my head. He disappears down the hallway and leaves me alone with my thoughts. For as long as I’ve been at Silverdale, Terry has been my assistant, and I know how lucky I am to have someone like him in my corner.

  • • •

  It’s after 6pm and I’m ready to call it a da
y, exhausted after my 6am start this morning. I stuff the project plans into my credenza and lock the drawer more aggressively than usual. With some time to kill before spin class, I catch up on my favorite food blogs, hunting for a new recipe. The food pictures make my stomach growl, and I wonder how someone landed that kind of job—writing about food. I click one last recipe: a gruyère, mushroom, and caramelized onion French tart. My eyes drift closed, imagining a patio sunset meal complete with that flaky tart, some micro greens, and a crisp glass of Chardonnay.

  I love cooking almost as much as I love food. I have a particular affinity for savory dishes, French cuisine, and anything fusion, but I don’t cook much at home anymore. With Dale uninterested in trying my concoctions, cooking seems silly. My husband is always on some food program or cleanse. For now, it’s no carbs and lots of eggs—some kind of “keto” thing. I literally watched him wrap three pieces of cooked bacon around a hunk of cheese last week, while he gave me hell for eating one half of a whole-wheat bagel. The last time Dale told me to start watching my macros, I saluted him with my middle finger, downing half a pint of salted caramel ice cream before his very eyes. Afterwards, he had the gall to send me a recipe for keto-tacos, with shells made from full-fat deep fried cheese—I’m no expert, but that sounds like a one-way ticket to a triple bypass.

  At least he’s temporarily off intermittent fasting, because we almost never have the chance to eat a meal together. I do believe in the health benefits of fasting, but Dale’s a different breed—there are preachers’ sons and there are CEOs’ sons, and Dale was definitely the son of a CEO. When he gets his mind set on something, that one track plays over and over until he’s had his fill. I get it for high performance athletes, but my twenty-seven-year-old, one hundred and fifty pound, tennis-playing husband could probably go out for brunch once in a while and be just fine.

  Thinking of Dale reminds me that I should call to confirm what time he’ll be arriving home. I grab my cell and pull up his contact profile. It takes him five full rings to pick up, and when he finally does, he sounds distracted and out of breath.

  “Hey babe,” I say, just to piss him off.

  “Ashley.” He answers with a stern voice. “You know how I feel about such juvenile terms of endearment.”

  Oh do I ever, I think, but instead I try again. “Hello, Dale, my beloved husband.”

  “Better,” he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “How was the trip?” I ask.

  “Fine.” It sounds like he’s still catching his breath. “I’m just leaving the hotel gym right now.”

  “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

  I hear muffled sounds in the background and assume he’s walking outside. “Heading straight to the airport now. I should be back in town around 11pm.” The flight from Vancouver was short and Dale always packed light, but the airport traffic was a killer.

  “I’ll wait up for you then.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I’ll probably be up and energized anyways,” I say, fiddling with the rainbow colored post-it notes on my desk, “since I’m taking an 8pm spin class.”

  “Well, whatever suits you, Ashley.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  “You too. I should get off the phone if I’m going to make my plane.”

  “Right. See you tonight.”

  “See you.” We both hang up, and I exhale in one big gust before tossing the phone onto my desk. Glancing out the window at the drizzly skyline, I decide to call it a day. I’m not due to meet my spin partner, Maggie from accounting, for another half hour, but I desperately need a change of scenery outside these four walls.

  • • •

  A few hours later, red-faced and drenched in sweat, I towel off in one of the spin studio change rooms. Tonight’s workout was only forty-five minutes, but it still managed to kick my ass. Maggie bolted once the last cool down song finished, which (to my luck) happened to be a techno remix of Boney M’s “Feliz Navidad.” I hung back for a while to kill time, and that’s how I ended up with the changing room to myself. As I open my locker, my phone rings and a number I don’t recognize flashes onscreen.

  “Hello?” I assume that it’s Dale calling from the airport.

  “Ashley?” The voice sounds familiar, but not enough to place it.

  “Yes, and this is?”

  “It’s Erin. Erin Perry.”

  “Erin,” I repeat back, hunting through the recesses of my mind, until it clicks: Erin Perry is a fitness instructor. “Did I miss a session or something?”

  I’m joking of course, because the last time I met with Erin Perry was six months ago. Dale bought me an introductory personal training session for my birthday. It was my first, and last, foray into lifting weights.

  “So you remember me then?” She sounds a bit strange, but of course I remember Erin Perry. It’s hard to forget a woman with an eight pack, who loves burpees more than I love the Food Network Channel. She was pretty, blonde, petite, and constantly sporting a glow tan.

  “Of course. What can I help you with?”

  “Actually, I think I can help you. It’s Dale.”

  “Dale?”

  “Yes. He’s not in Vancouver.”

  I feel the irritation seeping into my voice. “You know this how, exactly…?”

  “Well, I was riding him—hard—this afternoon, and I for one am definitely not in Vancouver.”

  “Excuse me?” My mind works to process what she just said. When I don’t speak right away, she sighs and continues.

  “You don’t have to believe me, but how else would I know that your husband has a thin dick and doesn’t make any sound when he comes. It’s actually really disturbing.”

  It actually was disturbing, but I still haven’t managed to wrap my head around this new piece of information.

  “I was at your house this afternoon, you know, while you were at work. You wash your sheets with Gain detergent, which Dale hates because it’s a proletariat product, and you always have sweet and salty popcorn in your cupboards, which I only know because I ate a lot of it.”

  A long silence ticks by and I’m too shocked to react appropriately. Instead I mutter, you don’t touch another woman’s popcorn, almost to myself, as if I’m hexing her. From what I understand, if your husband is having an affair, there are often some common signs, but I honestly hadn’t had any suspicions. However, the very next second, my phone pings with a text from Erin. It’s a picture of my husband’s thin dick, resting in her cherry-red manicured hand. Believe me, I’d recognize that dick anywhere.

  “Anyways,” she starts, as if she didn’t just send me a dick pic. “I thought you should know ‘cuz I’m done with his ass, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m the woman to another woman, if you know what I mean…” She trails off, maybe waiting for a response. “What am I talking about? Of course you know what I mean.”

  “Why?” I manage to croak out. “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”

  “Same amount of time that I’ve been training him.”

  My heart squeezes as I do the math in my head: it’s been almost a year since they started sleeping together. She’s silent for a beat, as if the air might crumble, and carefully chooses her next words. “As for why…to be honest, I’m not even sure. I don’t love him. I’m not even sure I like him, but the idea of it all was exciting at first.” She clears her throat. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I am sorry. It was a shitty thing to do, and I’ll have to own it for the rest of my life.”

  I let out a small cackle. “Yeah, Karma is a bitch, and so are you.”

  “I guess I deserve that…I hope it works out for you, Ashley, I really do, but if you want my opinion—”

  “I don’t.” I try to cut her off, but she plows ahead anyways.

  “If you want my opinion, he’s not worth it. In fact, he’s the most worthless piece of shit that I’ve ever made the mistake of fucking.”

  She hangs
up abruptly, and I’m left gaping at the phone, thankful there’s no one around to overhear. It’s just me and that lone plastic Christmas tree in the corner, mocking me with its twinkling lights and colorful decorations. I get a text from Dale that says just landed, home shortly. It’s like his ears are burning. I don’t have the faintest idea of how to respond or what to do with myself, so I power down the phone, grab my gym bag, and embark upon the streets of San Francisco.

  Chapter 2

  Who knows how long I’m out wandering through my SoMa neighborhood, past the museums and art spaces and auto-repair shops. I loop around the block aimlessly, seeing the same shops again and again but only half-noticing where I’m headed. I walk until the soles of my feet burn, but this does nothing to distract me from the lump in my throat, nor the horrible sting of my unshed tears. It was already dark when I left the spin studio, but the moon has since dimmed. I feel my way to the front door of our walk-up townhouse with no idea of what time it is, but the glowing lights tell me that Dale is already home.

  I quietly let myself inside, dropping my gym bag before heading down the hall to our beautiful open concept kitchen. I love my townhouse, with its wide windows and sleek gray and white kitchen, almost as much as I love Dale, though at the present moment, love is precisely the opposite of what I feel. I find him seated at the breakfast bar, drinking red wine from one, among many, of the pretentious crystal glasses I so despise. They’re some stupid name brand that Dale swears by and literally the only thing he’ll use.

  He gives me a look that I can’t place. “You’re home late. Were the showers not working at the studio?”

  His eyes sweep over my workout clothes, clearly disappointed with my attire. Dale has this thing about sweat and showering immediately after exercise—come to think of it, Dale has a thing about everything. He doesn’t say anything else, waiting like a faux gentleman in his overpriced three-piece suit. I laugh without humor, shaking my head. He’s so committed to this façade that he actually took time to dress up.

  “Is something wrong, Ashley?” His tone is off and the words come out like an accusation, though his face is blank.