I haven’t talked to him in months, even though he’s left me a bunch of messages. I don’t get past the sound of him saying my name before I delete them. At this point, I don’t know what would fix our relationship, but I know it goes beyond some lame apology left on my voice mail.
After we finish loading every last piece of my dad’s old life into the bags, I help Mom cart them down the hallway and to the front door. She’s going to donate everything to the thrift store tomorrow. Someone might as well get some use out of this stuff.
An hour later we’re in the kitchen making dinner, when Ansel comes home. He’s dirty and rumpled from working all day at the golf course.
“Howzit. What’s with all the bags by the door?” he says, snatching a chunk of the red pepper I’ve just sliced.
I dart a glance at my mom, but I can tell from the way she’s pointedly studying the mangos in the bowl on the counter that this is not a conservation she’s anxious to have with my brother. Lately he’s a fuse, just waiting to be lit—especially when it comes to my dad.
“We cleaned out Dad’s closet,” I say, like it’s no big deal.
Ansel narrows his eyes. “So, what? You’re just going to throw his stuff out?”
“There’s no reason to keep any of it.” Mom grabs a mango from the wooden bowl on the counter and gives it a squeeze, a little harder than is probably necessary.
“What if he wants it?”
“If he wanted it, he would have taken it with him.” She rinses the fruit and then carefully runs a peeler over the rind. She’s still avoiding looking at my brother. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s trying to keep his anger from escalating or because he is the spitting image of my dad and it hurts too much.
“What if I want it?” Ansel says, his lip curling. “That didn’t occur to you?”
“Suddenly V-neck sweaters and boat shoes are your style?” I’m trying to lighten the mood, but it’s a mistake. My words are like gas on a fire.
Ansel’s face turns red. “Shut up, Marty,” he says. “I can’t believe you helped her with this. Actually, I take that back—I can believe it.”
I’m trying not to take his outburst personally. Of the three of us, Dad leaving has hit Ansel the hardest. He’s somehow convinced himself that Mom drove him away—like if she’d just laid off him a little, he’d still be here. My mom is intense—we’ve all felt the need to run away from her at some point—but my brother has conveniently forgotten that Dad wasn’t the easiest person to live with, either. He is not a saint. He’s the worst mansplainer, he never listens, and he always, always puts his own needs first.
Case in point: he moved away and left his kids behind.
She doesn’t answer Ansel—what is there to say? She just keeps peeling the mango, like nothing is wrong, but I can see her hands are shaking slightly.
He snorts in disgust, then storms out of the kitchen. I hear the rustle of plastic as he lifts the bags and carts them down the hall. A second later his door slams shut.
I think about going after him, trying to smooth things over, but then I hear my mom start to sniffle again. Our relationship may not be easy, but I can’t leave her. Not now and not when the summer ends.
I know she would only argue with me if she found out I’m not planning on traveling with Nalani anymore. I don’t want her to try to change my mind. And so, like with everything else I’m not ready to deal with, I push it aside. Hoping that it will all somehow magically go away.
Eight
The next day, I arrive at the hotel half an hour before I’m scheduled to meet Will and his brother for the luau. I was hoping to sneak behind the front desk so I could log in to the computer and check the guest records, but there are too many people around for me to safely do it, so I decide to use the computer in my mom’s office instead. She’s not working today, but if anyone asks me why I’m in her office, I can just tell them she asked me to pick something up for her. And pray they don’t mention it to her.
Housekeeping is quiet—most of the day staff has left—and I make it to my mom’s office unnoticed. I’m shaking a little as I sit down in her chair and log in to her computer. After I search through the first few guest records, I start to feel discouraged. There’s nothing beyond the normal room service and movie charges, nothing that can tell me which room I took the sunglasses from.
But then, in room 5618, I find more than $15,000 worth of charges from some of the hotel’s high-end stores. And that’s when I remember the row of shiny black bags on the credenza.
I bite my lip. This has to be it.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. The room is registered to Jefferson and Lucy Miller and, thank god, we have their address on file. They live in Richmond, Virginia.
I’m smiling as I take a quick photo of their address, wondering what the Millers are going to think when they open a package postmarked from Hawaii and find a pair of sunglasses they probably never even noticed they were missing.
I turn off my mom’s computer and head upstairs. Marielle asked me to check in with her, and I’m pretty sure it’s because she wants to make sure I’m dressed appropriately. She gave me strict instructions on what to wear tonight. Something “conservative and classy.” I’m not sure my yellow dress is going to cut it—especially because it’s a little tighter and a little shorter than I recall it being—but it was the only thing in my closet that came anywhere close to her requirements.
It’s happy hour and the lobby is crowded with people spilling out from the bar, clutching their half-price lava flows. Marielle is watching over the festivities from behind the front desk. She frowns, taking in my dress, as I cut around the line of guests waiting to check in.
Without a word, she slips off her gauzy white cardigan and holds it out toward me.
I blink at her.
“Take it,” she says, shaking the sweater at me. “It’s going to get cold once the sun sets.”
That’s not why she wants me to wear her cardigan and we both know it. But I reluctantly pull it on. It’s too big and it smells strongly of her rose perfume. I feel my nose start to itch, like I’m going to sneeze.
“Remember—” she says, straightening her name tag.
“I know, I know,” I interrupt. “I’m representing the hotel.”
“Yes. Well.” She pats me on the arm. “Have fun.”
Fun. I’m not so sure about that. My nerves are in shreds. I don’t know how this is going to go, considering what happened yesterday when Will and I played that stupid game. Plus, while my luck has held out so far today, I keep waiting for something bad to happen. Because something bad always does. However, I’m hoping that my intention to return everything is enough for the universe to cut me some slack tonight.
I head toward the hotel entrance. I spot Will kneeling by the indoor koi pond, watching a huge orange fish skim the surface of the water. He glances at me and smiles, and my heart speeds up.
I really wish my heart wouldn’t do that. As much as I like him—there’s no point denying it; I do like him—Will Foster is a complication I don’t need. Spending the summer with him isn’t going to be easy. Even if I was open to a relationship—which I am not—I don’t want to feel these feelings for someone who lives on the other side of the ocean. I don’t want to feel these feelings for anyone.
“Hey, Marty.” Will stands up. “You look nice.”
I smile. I know this is probably just good manners—something he says to all the girls—but my cheeks flush. I can keep telling myself that nothing can happen between us, but the fact is, I spent a lot more time than normal getting ready for tonight. I’m happy that he noticed.
“Thanks,” I say. “So do you.”
And he does look good. So very good. His dark hair is in its usual mile-high pompadour, but one stray lock has fallen over his eye. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt, but instead of the tiny polo player on a horse, his shirt has Marvin the Martian embroidered on the pocket.
“Where’s your broth
er?” I ask.
Will’s face tightens almost imperceptibly. He gestures to a leather wingchair on the far side of the lobby, where the dark-haired boy I’ve seen before with Will is sprawled, scrolling through his phone.
“I needed a minute away from him,” Will says. “I need a lot of minutes away from him, if I’m honest. This trip isn’t off to the greatest start.”
What am I walking into the middle of?
Hayes doesn’t look up from his phone as we approach. Will knocks him lightly on the shoulder and he sighs heavily and gets to his feet. He’s probably around fifteen. Tall and thin, with the same dark hair and the same startling blue eyes as his brother. He’s dressed like Will, too, only his Polo shirt is the real deal and he’s got on red-and-green slide sandals that probably cost more than my entire paycheck.
“Marty, this is Hayes.”
“This thing isn’t going to be all families and old people, right?” Hayes asks. There’s a haughtiness in his expression that immediately puts me on guard. I know his type—I cross paths with people like him every day here at the hotel. The kind who expect to be treated like royalty, who think my sole reason for existing is to serve them.
“This ‘thing’ is a luau and it’s going to be fun,” Will says.
Hayes rolls his eyes. “We have very different ideas about what’s fun.”
“That is definitely true,” Will replies.
My smile feels frozen on my face. I really hope they aren’t going to argue all night. “We should probably get going.”
The luau is held in the Imperial Wailea, one of several high-end properties that line the same stretch of perfect sugar-sand beach as the Grand Palms, but it’s just far enough away that we need to drive. I lead them out into the parking lot, past a row of luxury cars, including a very shiny red BMW convertible that Hayes stops to admire.
When I stop in front of the hotel van, he mutters, “This is a joke, right?”
A bolt of irritation shoots through me. I’ve done my fair share of complaining about the van, but now I feel weirdly defensive of it.
“No joke,” Will says.
Hayes frowns. “Why can’t we rent a car?”
“I already told you, you have to be twenty-five,” Will says, sounding tired. “The van is fine.”
“Fine for you, maybe,” he huffs.
I jingle the keys, looking back and forth between them. The tension in the air is thick and I have no idea how to cut it.
Will slides open the door. “Just get in.”
I’m surprised when Hayes complies—although he is muttering under his breath as he climbs into the backseat. He moves over, clearly expecting his brother to sit beside him—leaving me alone up front like a chauffeur—but Will slides into the passenger seat instead.
“What kind of name is Marty, anyway?” Hayes asks. I narrow my eyes at him in the rearview mirror. He’s rolled down his window and his elbow rests on the open sill.
What kind of name is Hayes?
“It’s short for Martina,” I say, pulling onto a wide street lined with palm trees. “It was my grandmother’s name.”
She died right before I was born. My dad always said that our name wasn’t the only thing we shared, that I’m also as bright, talented, and thoughtful as she was. I’m not sure he’d still believe that if he found out I’m a thief. Then again, my opinion of him isn’t what it once was, either.
Thinking about my dad can quickly torpedo my mood, so I push him out of my brain.
“So, Hayes, Will mentioned you want to do some surfing,” I say. I can probably convince Ansel to give them lessons—if he’s still talking to me, that is. I haven’t seen him since he stormed out of the kitchen when he found out Mom and I were getting rid of Dad’s stuff.
Hayes snorts. “My brother came here to surf. I’m only here because my parents forced me to join him.”
Will’s jaw tightens. “Who complains about a trip to Hawaii?”
“Whatever,” Hayes says. “You don’t get it. And I don’t care what we do, as long as it isn’t touristy.”
O-kay. Well, we’re on our way to a luau, which is pretty much the most touristy thing to do on the island. I’ve been to a few of them over the years, when family from out of town was visiting.
Will and Hayes continue to bicker until I pull up to the Imperial Wailea. I hand the valet my keys and we walk through the front door. Like the Grand Palms, this hotel has a huge open-air lobby that maximizes the spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean framed by swaying palm trees.
We head toward a bamboo arch and join the line to get into the luau. While we wait to check in, a girl in a traditional Hawaiian muʻumuʻu approaches us with leis.
“Aloha. Welcome to the Imperial Wailea Luau.” She steps toward Hayes and he bends slightly so she can loop a string of fresh plumeria flowers around his neck.
“Hey, I just got lei-d,” he says, snickering.
I wrinkle my nose. Will must also be experiencing secondhand embarrassment, because he groans and says, “How many times have you heard that gem?” to the girl.
She smiles, but she doesn’t comment and I see myself in her—shrugging off the same dumb comments and tired old jokes, day after day, because she has to. It’s part of the job.
“Oh, come on,” Hayes says as she gives Will and me our leis. “That was funny.”
The line moves forward. When we reach the front, another girl takes our names and then leads us under the bamboo arch and along a crushed seashell path. The luau is held on a stretch of emerald-green grass on the edge of the beach, partially hidden by a row of palm trees. The sun is just beginning to set, painting the sky pink and orange. The hostess leads us to a table right near the stage, where a well-built guy in a green pareo is playing “Over the Rainbow” on a ukulele. The smell of roasting meat wafts through the air, courtesy of the kālua pig in the fire pit.
Just after the hostess seats us—I take the seat between Will and Hayes—a family with two small kids plunks down in the empty seats at our table. Hayes rolls his eyes as the mom clears a spot on the table to set down a coloring book and crayons for the two girls.
A waiter arrives with a tray of mai tais. The drinks are served in coconut shells with little pink paper umbrellas. Hayes grabs one of the coconuts and takes a sip. “Hey, Will. These drinks are virgin. Just like you.”
Will tosses his paper umbrella at him, his cheeks turning red as Hayes pulls out a tiny bottle of rum that he must have taken from the hotel’s minibar.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Will asks him.
“It’s the only way I’m going to get through this evening.” Hayes dumps half of the alcohol into his drink then holds the bottle out to his brother.
“No thanks.”
“Right. I forgot. You’re no fun anymore,” Hayes says. “One bad experience and you swear off alcohol forever.”
“I learn from my mistakes.”
Hayes turns to me and smiles. “That’s a dig, Marty, in case you missed it.” He offers me the bottle, but I shake my head. I wouldn’t mind something to steady my nerves, but I’m driving.
He grimaces. “So you’re no fun, either.” He dumps the rest of the bottle into his drink.
“Might want to pace yourself,” Will says.
“Don’t worry about me,” Hayes replies.
“I wish I didn’t have to.”
The guy on the stage starts to play Elvis’s “Hawaiian Wedding Song” on his ukulele. His chest is bare, showing off his well-toned abs. A haku lei encircles his curly dark hair.
“So, Marty,” Hayes says, drawing my attention back to the table. “What kind of perks do you get, working at a hotel?”
“I guess the perk would be my paycheck.”
“Hayes is planning to live off his trust fund,” Will says.
Hayes tucks his paper umbrella behind his ear. “Isn’t that what trust funds are for?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, but my words are drowned out by the sound of some
one blowing a conch shell. Two men dressed in pareos, leis looped around their necks, carry the metal tray containing the roasted pig right past our table.
Hayes pales. “I can’t eat that. It has a face.”
“So did that steak you had for lunch,” Will points out.
“Yeah, but I didn’t have to look it in the eye.”
“You don’t have to eat it,” I say sharply. I’ve reached my limit with Hayes and his constant complaining. “There’s plenty of other food.”
The line for the buffet is already starting to form, so we stand up and walk over to join it. The kālua pig is the centerpiece of the table, slightly raised and surrounded by pineapple rings. Bamboo bowls filled with Hawaiian food—taro rolls and lomi-lomi salmon, chicken luau, and fried rice—cover every inch of space.
“What is this purple stuff?” Hayes asks me, his nose wrinkling as he pokes distrustfully at a bowl of poi with a spoon.
“It’s poi,” I say.
He stares blankly at me.
“Poi is made from taro.” Will scoops some onto his plate. “It’s kind of like a potato. Just try it.”
Hayes shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
By the time we reach the end of the table, all Hayes has added is a baseball-sized scoop of macaroni salad and a dinner roll.
The family across from us is already halfway through their meal when we sit back down. While we eat, the drums kick up and a procession of Hawaiian dancers carrying lit tiki torches weave through the tables to the stage. Hayes can’t tear his eyes away from the hula girls with their shaking hips and coconut shell bikini tops.
I’m distracted by the fire dancers with their flaming batons, and because I’m not paying attention, the spoonful of poi I intend for my mouth slides off my spoon and onto my chest. I gasp as it drips into my cleavage and all down the front of Marielle’s white sweater.
Hayes snickers. Will hands me a napkin and I dab at the purple-gray blob, but it just makes the stain worse. My breath quickens. How am I supposed to tell my boss I ruined her sweater?
Just My Luck Page 5