The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

  “Itinerary?” I groan. “Is it mandatory?”

  “Indeed,” Keeks says. “The Arlo and Greer company were all summoned to the excursions, which would include Romeo.”

  “I connected the dots, Keeks.” I sigh. “Well, whatever, doesn’t mean I have to talk to him. It’ll be fine. Is there anything going on tonight?”

  From her pocket, Keiko takes out a piece of rolled-up paper and, as if it’s a paper scroll, she unravels it and holds it like the town squire about to announce “hear ye, hear ye.” Her eyes travel over the paper and she says, “After giving the itinerary a quick overview, tonight is scheduled as free time.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “As well as tomorrow.”

  “Hey,” I say, smiling. “See? This is starting to be better than we thought.” I take Cora’s hand in mine. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “It would behoove you to hydrate after a long flight,” Keeks calls out.

  “That’s what we plan on doing,” I say over my shoulder. “Hydrating with Mai Tais.”

  In the distance, Keiko starts rattling off how alcohol actually dehydrates the human body, but we press forward with one thing on our minds—tropical inebriation.

  “I like rum,” I say, licking the rim of my glass rather aggressively. “I’ve never been this attracted to rum, but I’m feeling . . .” I pause and roll my head to the side. “Dare I say, I might have a crush?”

  “I’ve had a crush on liquor before,” Cora says while sucking on the end of a cherry stem. “It ended poorly. We broke up the next morning while my body revolted over giving the intoxicating beverage a chance.”

  “What was it?”

  “Fireball.”

  I wince and give the rim of my glass one more lick before tipping back the rest of my Mai Tai. “Fireball is a devious bastard. Grabs your attention, makes you feel all warm inside, and then BAM!” I smack the table. “Trouble. That’s what it is . . . just trouble.”

  “Fireball is like the bad boy you should stay away from.”

  I nod. “If Fireball had a mode of transportation, it would be a motorcycle, and you know Fireball wouldn’t wear a helmet.”

  “Or a condom,” Cora adds. “Fireball is too good for a condom. For any protection.”

  “Fireball says FUCK condoms and then shoots its load on your back.” I gesture with my hand.

  “And it’s a cinnamony load.”

  “So much cinnamon.” I sigh and sit up. Turning to face Cora, I say, “I believe we’ve reached the threshold of loving Mai Tais or hating Mai Tais. If we drink one more, we’re going to regret our decisions, but if we stop here, we’ll remember how much Mai Tais make us feel valued and respected, unlike the shrewd Fireball.” I press my hand to hers and speak with my heart. “I want a long-term relationship with Mai Tais, a meaningful vacation fling that will mean something to me when I’m sixty and thinking about my younger years. I don’t want to be resentful and rigid when thinking about them . . . like how you feel about Fireball.”

  She nods. “I hear you and I see you.” She drops her cherry stem to the counter and takes a deep breath. “I need a Pop-Tart.”

  “Pop-Tarts by the ocean,” I say, the idea so grand in my head that I can’t imagine doing anything else. I can’t possibly fathom something bringing me more joy. I tap the bar top and say to the bartender, “Dear sir, we shall take two Pop-Tarts.”

  The bartender, whose name we don’t know, turns to me and says, “Sorry, ladies, we don’t have Pop-Tarts here, but you could check the gift shop.”

  “You’re a gem.” I smile at him. “We’d like to close our tab.”

  He chuckles. “I have it on your room. Just need your signature.” He slips me a receipt attached to a board and I quickly sign across and up the paper, and then draw a palm tree after my name. I hand the receipt back to him and say, “The palm tree is a little treat for you.”

  “That was very kind of you. Let us know if you need anything else . . . like a shot of Fireball,” he says with a smirk.

  My eyes widen as Cora gasps next to me, hand to her chest. “How dare you bring up an ex-lover? You know we’re in a weakened state.”

  “That’s why Fireball is the bad boy of liquor. It doesn’t care about your feelings; it just keeps you coming back for more.”

  I stand from my chair as Cora reaches out her hand. “No,” I say into her ear. “You’re strong. You don’t need Fireball. It’s not good to you. It doesn’t care about your feelings.” I wrap my arm around her chest and slowly pull her away from the bar.

  “It loves me.”

  “It doesn’t,” I snap back and then calm my voice to a whisper. “It . . . doesn’t.”

  Resigned, she nods, and I hold her hand, guiding her away from her toxic lover. Our flip-flops snap against the beige tile as we drunkenly navigate through the luxurious hotel. With a lack of walls, the entire lobby and dining area are open to the sea breeze and lit up by strategically placed tiki torches. Faint Hawaiian music plays in the background, and because the hotel isn’t crowded this weekend and is free of kids, it’s quiet. Serene. Just what I need.

  Yes, I do believe I’ll have a love affair over the next two weeks. A love affair with Mai Tais, the sun, and the sand.

  “Thank you for being there for me,” Cora says quietly. “What you just saw was a low point. Bottom of the barrel. I’m hoping it’s only up from here.”

  “I pass no judgement. I know what it’s like to be in a weak moment like that. It’s hard to see past what your heart wants. But I’m proud of you. You held strong. Now we can enjoy our Pop-Tarts and think about how we’re strong, confident women who don’t need Fireball to make us feel good.”

  Cora gives me a side hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like the third wheel coming on this vacation. It seems as though everyone is hooked up with someone. Arlo and Greer, Gunner and Lindsay, Keiko and Kelvin—well, when he gets here. I assumed you’d be tied to Romeo the whole time.”

  “Ha!” I let out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, no thank you. Trust me, there will be no tying myself to Romeo.”

  We turn the corner and find the gift shop, which is still conveniently open. “The motherland of snacks,” Cora whispers. “Do you think they have Pop-Tarts?”

  “Not sure, but if we put out good vibes, we might be able to manifest it.” I pause in our pursuit to the store and take a deep breath. “Dear Hawaii, please provide us with the sweet, sugary nectar from Kellogg’s.”

  “Preferably blueberry nectar,” Cora adds.

  “Blueberry, really? I never pictured you as a blueberry Pop-Tart girl. You’re more like a brown sugar.”

  “What? How so?”

  I loop my hand through her arm and continue to walk toward the store while divulging my logic. “You’re fancy. You have a posh upbringing. I’m not saying you’re the kind of girl who would frown upon a Pop-Tart, but you do have a more refined palate, and in my head, brown sugar is more refined than an artificial fruit flavoring.”

  “They’re all artificially flavored, but I understand what you’re saying.” She gives it some thought. “You know, I am a brown sugar kind of girl. If I’m going to eat a Pop-Tart, by God, it will be fancy.”

  We step into the store and we’re greeted by the attendant behind the register. “Aloha.”

  “Aloha,” I say, diving right into the culture. Look at me. Mai Tais and alohas. Next thing you know, I’ll be firing up the pit for the luau. Is it called a pit? Hmm, something I need to look into. If I’m firing it up, I need to know the terminology.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  Hands clasped together, Cora asks, “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”

  The attendant smiles and points to the back of the store. “With the snacks.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Cora bows and then says, “Mele Kalikimaka.”

  “That means Merry Christmas, you nitwit,” I say, laughing.

  Cora pauses while the attendant laughs as well. “It felt like a
Mele Kalikimaka moment, didn’t it?”

  “Thank God you didn’t have the Fireball,” I say while dragging her toward the back.

  “I won’t see her at Christmas. Maybe I was wishing her Merry Christmas in advance. That’s just kind.”

  “Is that what you were trying to do?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I think I was going for God bless.”

  “Exactly.” I move around a rack of kid souvenir shirts, and from the corner of my eye spot the familiar blue package. “Gasp,” I say. “There they are.”

  “Where?” Cora whips around, looking frantic. “Do they have my fancy flavor?”

  I direct her head toward the Pop-Tarts just as I hear, “Stella?”

  My entire body freezes as the authoritarian voice I grew up with shakes me to my bones. Slowly, I turn around and come face to face with my dad. My dad, shirtless, wearing swim trunks and a straw hat.

  I’m going to tell you right now—this isn’t normal.

  Growing up, my dad was straitlaced. Rigid, almost. He woke up, worked out in the garage, ate breakfast with the family, and then went to work, where he did something like computer processing. Still not quite sure on the details. When he’d get home, Mom would have the food on the table, ready, and then he’d check over our homework while Mom cleaned the kitchen. If we were lucky and he was in a good mood, he’d play a round of cards with me and my sisters. He wore a button-up shirt until he had to take it off to go to bed, and his hair was always perfectly parted to the side and slicked down with gel. Not a hair out of place. Always a freshly shaven face.

  That is not the man I’m looking at right now. Yes, he might have the same stern look in his deep chocolate eyes, but that’s as far as it goes when it comes to the man I know as my father.

  “Dad?” I ask, still unsure if it’s him.

  “Stelly, have you been drinking?”

  My spine immediately stiffens, and I’m about to answer when Cora tumbles into me. “Oh yes. The Mai Tais are fantastic and we plan on procuring a long-lasting relationship with them while here, but don’t worry, Mr. Stella’s Dad, we stayed away from Fireball.” She taps her nose and then points at my dad. “We’re keeping it classy.”

  Yup . . . really classy.

  My dad has never seen me drunk.

  And the fear coursing through me of acting like a fool in front of him is real.

  But to my shock, he says, “The Mai Tais just about took me down last night.”

  Umm . . .

  What?

  Dad reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Donny.”

  I nearly choke on my own saliva. Donny?

  **EYES POP OUT**

  DONNY?

  Uh . . . never in my ENTIRE twenty-nine years has my dad EVER referred to himself as Donny. He’s always been Donald, and nothing else.

  Donald Garcia with the pressed pants.

  Donald Garcia with the sensible Volkswagen, which wasn’t allowed to be eaten in.

  Donald Garcia who would polish his shoes at night as a relaxation technique.

  Never once was he ever called Donny. My mom never called him Donny. She wouldn’t dare. Maybe that’s why they fell out of love—the inability to call each other nicknames.

  No. I know why they divorced.

  They never really loved each other. Thrown together by their parents, they married, had kids, raised them, and when we were all out of the house, they called it quits. They’re friendly with each other, but not friendly enough to call each other nicknames like Donny.

  “Coraline, but everyone calls me Cora.” She shakes my dad’s hand. “Wow, what a surprise, finding your daughter in Hawaii, at the same resort. What are the odds?”

  Yeah, what are the odds?

  I’ll tell you. They’re slim, but that seems to be the kind of luck I have.

  Perplexed and still trying to figure out if this is a side effect of the Mai Tais, I ask, “Dad, what, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

  He rocks on his heels. “Oh, you know, just living the good life.”

  Okay. This is definitely the Mai Tais. There’s no way in hell my dad would ever say something like living the good life. And here I thought I’d have a long-lasting relationship with the rum concoction.

  Oh hell no. Not if it’s making me have strange conversations with my dad where he says things like living the good life.

  Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I thought you said ‘living the good life.’ These Mai Tais must be hitting me really hard.”

  “No, that’s what he said,” Cora says. “And I couldn’t agree more. Life is too short. We have to enjoy it when we can. By the way, love the board shorts. Men are so scared to wear the short ones, but, dare I say, great legs, Mr. Donny.”

  “Why, thank you. Your friend is smart.” Dad looks at me and smiles before opening up his arms. “Where’s my hug, Stelly?”

  Before I can even consider what it would be like to be pressed against my dad’s naked chest, he envelops me against him, and I’m caught up in the smell of sunscreen and beer as he snuggles me against his furry chest.

  Curly hairs rub against my nose.

  His pecs encase my cheek.

  And I can honestly say, I’ve never been this intimate with my father.

  “It’s good to see you. You’re always so busy, I never get to see you anymore.” When he pulls away, I try not to flinch as I feel the imprint of my dad’s gray chest hair against my cheek. Not sure I’ve ever seen him shirtless, let alone hugged the man when he’s running around topless.

  This shop must be another dimension. Alternate reality. A threshold for what-the-fuck situations. I hate to say it, but I don’t think the Pop-Tarts are worth the trouble. And that’s saying a lot, coming from drunk me.

  “Why aren’t you visiting with your dad?” Cora chastises me.

  “What?” I blink, still trying to comprehend what’s going on. “Uh, I teach a lot.”

  “Not during the summer.”

  “I teach workout classes during the summer,” I say, dazed.

  “What kind of workout classes?” a female voice asks to my right.

  Now who the hell is that?

  I turn to see who spoke up when my jaw nearly hits the ground.

  No.

  Fucking.

  Way.

  “Stella Garcia, as I live and breathe.” Turning to my dad, she asks, “Donny, did you plan this?”

  Dad rests his hand on his stomach and in a jolly tone says, “I had no idea she was here.”

  Please excuse me while I brace myself against a clothing rack.

  The cool fabric of the souvenir shirts, which have been hanging in the air-conditioned space, are a contrast to my heated skin.

  What in the fresh hell is happening?

  Ashley Broome, my high school nemesis, is standing in front of me. The girl who made my freshman and sophomore years on the volleyball team a living hell is standing . . . right . . . there . . . looking at me with those perfect blue eyes, long blonde hair and—oh, wow.

  And she’s calling my dad Donny.

  Swallowing back the bile that has risen in my throat, I say, “Ashley. Wow, what are you doing here?”

  She laughs and pushes at my shoulder as if we’ve been friends for years. “Oh, always the joker.”

  She steps toward my dad and, in absolute horror, I watch as she slips her hand into my dad’s.

  My eyes zero in on the connection. My vision begins to tunnel.

  She’s holding on to him.

  But not just like “oh no, I tripped on my ho-y sandals and I need to brace myself.”

  No, she’s holding him as if—as if . . . she belongs to him.

  As if they’re—I swallow bile—together.

  What in the devil is happening?

  “We’re here celebrating,” Ashley says.

  Mouth dry, my heart pounding, ready to escape my chest, I say, “Celebrating what?”

  She chuckles, and I watch as she takes her other hand and presse
s it against my dad’s naked chest, just where my cheek uncomfortably rested a few moments ago. She smiles up at him as if he’s her entire world, and that’s when my eyes see it.

  The glint of a diamond.

  The sparkle of promise.

  The eternal commitment between two lovers.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  There’s no fucking—

  “We’re celebrating our engagement, of course.”

  “Oh . . . shit,” Cora whispers next to me as I blink rapidly, attempting to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of me.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” Ashley reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “I’m going to be your new mom.”

  I . . .

  There’s . . .

  WHAT?

  That’s it.

  No more Mai Tais. Here I thought it was Fireball that was going to wreck us, that was going to swoop in with its wild ways and make us regret our decisions. We didn’t give Mai Tais credit where credit is due.

  Can we cue up a slow clap for the rum concoction? Because, well done on the mindfuckery.

  Well fucking done.

  Boss-level mindfuckery.

  Bringing a parent to an island in the middle of the ocean, changing his personality completely, and then attaching him to the girl—two years my senior—who used to torture me all throughout volleyball practice. Not just attaching, but marrying him.

  Ha.

  Oh, good one.

  This is really freaking good.

  “Why are you slow clapping?” Cora asks me.

  I look down at my hands—they’re moving without my knowledge. I shake my head. “Can’t tell you, but I do think I’m having some sort of weird episode.” I clear my throat. “I think there was something in the Mai Tais that’s making me delusional.” I swallow, my saliva feeling like a boulder trying to squeeze down my throat. Clutching the back of my neck, I say, “You see, I thought I saw my dad in Hawaii and engaged to a girl two years older than me.”

  “She’s two years older than you?” Surprised, Cora looks past me and asks, “What’s your skincare routine? Your skin is flawless.”

  “Aw, thank you,” Ashley says, making me nearly jump out of my flip-flops. “But this is just me, nothing special. I just seem to be lucky.” She pushes my shoulder again. “But I do recall someone having a tremendous amount of acne in high school. Looks as though you’re all cleared up now, Stella. Good for you.”