“I’ll be right back,” I say. I run to the bathroom inside the hotel. I slip off the cardigan and run cold water over the mark, but it’s no use—this isn’t coming out. I glance up at my frazzled reflection in the mirror, my wild eyes and pinched lips, and I almost laugh at how crazy I look. You’re blowing this way of proportion, I tell myself. Marielle isn’t going to fire you for this.
I don’t think so, anyway.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. In and out. In and out. And when I open my eyes again, I feel a bit calmer.
There’s nothing else I can do about the sweater right now, so I clean the rest of the poi off me and then slip the damp cardigan over my arm. I’ll take it to a dry cleaner tomorrow; maybe they can work some dry-cleaning magic. In the meantime, I’m going to try my best to enjoy the rest of the evening.
When I leave the bathroom, I find Will waiting for me at the end of the corridor. My heart skips. He’s leaning against the wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. Watching me walk toward him.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he says.
“I’m fine. It’s just a sweater.”
Hopefully Marielle feels the same way.
“Sorry about my brother,” Will says. “He can be a real dick sometimes. But I’m sure you’ve picked up on that already.”
I give him a small smile. “He’s not so bad.”
He totally is, but there’s really nothing to be gained by agreeing with Will. At the end of the day, Hayes is his brother. And I’m just some girl he met a few days ago.
“It’s just … he’s going through something right now,” he says. “I’ve been trying to cut him some slack, but he’s making it really hard.”
I’d like to ask Will what’s going on with Hayes, as well as what’s keeping him up at night, but I’m not sure that’s a line I want to cross. Keeping Will at arm’s length is already difficult, especially when he’s standing right in front of me, his eyes locked on mine. The way he’s looking at me, like he wants to close what little distance there is left between us—like if I just gave him a signal, he’d kiss me—makes my breath come in shallow bursts. My legs start to shake.
How can I want to be close to him and as far from him as possible at the same time? It’s super confusing. I take a step away from him before something happens that we can’t take back.
“Our dinner’s probably getting cold,” I say. I wrap my arms around myself. It’s better not to start anything with him. I know this, but I’m still disappointed.
“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “I guess we should get back.”
We haven’t been gone long—the fire-knife dancers are still onstage—but clearly it was long enough for Hayes to polish off two more mini bottles of rum. The empty bottles are scattered on the table near his head, which is resting inches from his still-full plate. The family we were sitting with has disappeared. Maybe they’re getting dessert or maybe they asked to be seated somewhere far away from this stupidly drunk kid.
Will swears under his breath. “Hayes,” he says, poking his brother hard on the shoulder.
Hayes sits up. Macaroni salad clings to the front of his hair. His eyes are unfocused and he’s having trouble holding his head up, like his neck is made of rubber.
“We need to get him to the hotel,” Will says to me.
“I’m fine,” Hayes slurs.
But this is not what fine looks like. People at the surrounding tables are staring as Will and I help Hayes to his feet. Hayes’s head lolls against his chest as we awkwardly walk him through the luau. We’re almost at the van—I’ve already taken my keys out of my purse—when Hayes mumbles something.
“What?” Will says.
Hayes suddenly pulls away from us and hunches over, his hands on his knees. And then he throws up.
All over my feet.
Nine
After what happened last night, it’s pretty clear that Karma is not going to let up. Not until I return all the stuff I stole, at least.
Will was mortified that his brother puked on me, but there’s no way he could have been more embarrassed than I was. I chucked my shoes in the garbage—the second pair I’ve had to get rid of in the past few days, due to disgusting circumstances—and went back to the hotel bathroom to rinse myself off with hand soap.
When I got home, I took a long shower. I went to bed early, but I didn’t sleep well. I kept waking up, wanting morning to arrive so I could send the cursed sunglasses back to the Millers. Which is why, just before nine a.m., I’m sitting on the front step of the post office, waiting for it to open.
There’s no one else in the parking lot. The sky is overcast but it’s humid, and I’m already starting to sweat. I take out my phone. Will and I texted back and forth a bunch during the night—I’m not the only one who had trouble sleeping—and I’ve agreed to meet him for coffee this morning. Just him. Not that Hayes would be in any shape to go out, anyway.
I hope he is spectacularly hungover.
I know I probably shouldn’t go out with Will this morning—I need to establish some boundaries if I’m going to keep things strictly professional between us, and that definitely doesn’t include hanging out with him every day. But …
I sigh.
That but is the problem. Because I like him. And I want to see him. Meeting him has been literally the only good thing to happen to me this summer. Of course, if you look at it another way—that I’ve met a guy I’m interested in who seems to return my feelings, except he’s going to leave in a few weeks—maybe it’s not such great luck after all.
Maybe this is just another joke the universe is playing on me.
The rain starts to come down. I get off the curb and stand under the red awning above the post office door. I still have a few minutes before it opens, so I do something else I really shouldn’t do: creep on Will’s Instagram. I find his profile. I know it’s his, even though his account is locked down, because his profile photo is of Marvin the Martin. I smile, wondering if I should follow him, but I chicken out. I don’t want him to know I’ve stalked him on social media.
Since I’m already in Instagram, I decide to lurk on Kahale’s profile. My hands start to shake as I scroll through a bunch of photos of him posing shirtless on the beach, until I get to the one I’m searching for. A photo of the two of us, taken on prom night. Kahale and me, standing beside the lemon tree in his parents’ backyard. He’s wearing a white linen suit; I’m in the sparkly midnight-blue halter dress that I bought because it reminded me of the galaxy. I’d never spent so much money on a single piece of clothing before, but it made me feel beautiful, so I figured it was worth it.
My throat tightens. I remember how much I was looking forward to the night ahead and to being with this boy I’d had a massive crush on forever, the one who finally, finally seemed to return my feelings.
I can’t believe he hasn’t deleted it. But then, it appears he doesn’t delete any of his photos, because following that post are pictures of him and Grace Hamasaki, the girl he ditched me for right in the middle of prom. They broke up two weeks later, but she’s still all over his feed.
I’ve tried my best not to think about Kahale going MIA at prom, searching for him all over the hotel and then discovering him with Grace, making out in the backseat of the limo he’d brought me to the dance in. Or the days after, when he kept texting me, trying to apologize.
“Don’t you dare text him back,” Nalani said as we pushed our housekeeping carts down the hallway. We’d just started our shift, but all I wanted to do was climb back into bed and hide under the covers. I hadn’t been out of the house in two days.
“I’m not planning to,” I said, wiping my hand across my eyes. Kahale kept texting me, hoping we could still be friends, but I couldn’t imagine how we could ever go back. Well, maybe he could, but I certainly couldn’t.
“You shouldn’t be wasting any time feeling bad about him,” Nalani said. “Let Grace have him. We both know you can do much better.�
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Maybe that was true, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. I’d had a crush on Kahale since freshman year. I was so happy when he asked me to the dance. It wasn’t that easy to just let go of my feelings, as much as I wished I could.
Nalani stopped in front of our first assigned room. After knocking on the door and getting no answer, she slid the HOUSEKEEPING PLEASE sign off the door handle and inserted her master key. We pushed our carts into the room.
At first glance, the suite didn’t even look like it needed to be cleaned. There was barely a trace of the person staying there, aside from a stack of paperbacks and a travel candle on the nightstand. They had even made the bed. Two twenty-dollar bills rested on the pillow.
Nalani grinned. She picked up the bills and fanned herself with them.
“Why did they want us to come in here if there isn’t anything to clean?” I asked her. We had half an hour allotted to clean this room and nothing to do. Not that I was complaining.
“Why ask why?” She walked over and opened the closet doors. A row of men’s clothes hung on wooden hangers; a few pairs of polished leather loafers were lined up on the floor.
“He’s here alone,” Nalani said. She pulled out a crisp white button-down shirt and held it against her. “Must be a businessman.”
“Probably here for a conference.”
We sometimes played a game where we tried to figure out who the guest was, based on their personal items.
I decided to check the bathroom, just in case he needed clean towels or more toiletries.
“Nalani,” I called, my stomach lurching. “Can you come in here?”
She walked in, still holding the white shirt in her hand.
“Seriously?” She held the shirt over her nose and stared at me, wide-eyed.
“I guess we know why he left us a tip,” I said.
Guests were always quick to call the front desk when they had a problem with their room, even if it was for something as minor as a burned-out lightbulb, but for whatever reason, the guy staying here didn’t feel the need to give us a heads-up that he’d clogged the toilet. Unspeakably dirty water had overflowed onto the marble floor.
“I’m never going to unsee this,” Nalani said, backing out of the bathroom.
Gagging, I grabbed a stack of used towels and threw them on the floor, hoping they would absorb the worst of it. Then I went back into the main room and called down to housekeeping to let them know we were dealing with an apocalypse.
“Leo’s coming up,” I told Nalani.
She stuck the white shirt haphazardly back into the closet and started rooting through the hotel minibar. She grabbed two mini bottles of rum and a tin of macadamia nuts and stuck them in a drawer on her cart.
I lifted up the travel candle from the bedside table. It was practically new—the wick had been lit, but barely any of the wax had melted. It smelled like vanilla.
The guy may have given us a tip, but it didn’t feel like nearly enough to make up for the catastrophic mess he’d left behind. And maybe it was because I was tired of people messing with me and not thinking twice about it—like my dad, like Kahale—so I took the candle.
I didn’t need it—or even want it, really. I took it because it seemed like a fairly harmless way to mete out justice to someone who I felt deserved it. I didn’t feel great about stealing it, even as I was taking it. It didn’t give me a rush or make me feel better. I didn’t feel anything.
And that might be the worst part.
I tap my finger against my lip. Leo would have logged the issue of the clogged toilet into this guy’s guest record. So all I need to do is look through the records for the ten rooms Nalani and I cleaned that day—two days after prom—and I should be able to find the right room. Which means I can return the candle.
My shoulders relax. I glance at the guy behind the post office door as he unlocks it and lets me inside. I’m about to close out of Instagram, when my finger slips and I accidently like that photo of me and Kahale. I gasp. I quickly unlike it, praying that he doesn’t get a notification. Because if he gets one, he’ll know I’ve been on his profile.
And I really don’t want him to know I was on his profile.
I stuff the sunglasses into a padded envelope and pay to send them back to Richmond, Virginia. It costs a bit more than I expected, but the relief I feel when I drop them into the mailbox is worth every penny.
* * *
“Howzit, Marty,” Leo says as I park beside his baby-blue moped in the staff lot. “What are you doing here so early?”
“Back on day shift,” I say. Sort of.
I tell him about Marielle’s assignment. If he thinks it’s weird that she’s hired me out as a tour guide, he keeps the thought to himself.
I roll up the window and climb out of the van. Leo unbuckles the strap of his helmet and pulls it off, then stows it in the cargo space under the seat of his moped. He grabs his lunch bag and we walk toward the hotel together. I notice that he’s limping a little and it worries me, but I don’t ask him about it—Leo doesn’t like questions about his health or when he’s going to retire. He’s worked at the Grand Palms for almost forty years, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, and I’m super glad about that.
“Found a home for Libby yet?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
His face brightens.
“Don’t get excited,” I say, before he can list all the reasons why I should keep her. “I just haven’t had time to find a place for her.”
Leo’s smile tells me that he doesn’t buy it. “Your mom will come around.”
If he believes that, then he doesn’t know her at all.
The hotel comes into view and I spot Will near the entrance to the lobby, standing beside a marble column. I thought about asking him to meet me at the coffee shop, but then I realized that I’m paid to be his ride. Friends or not, I’m on the hotel payroll and I’m supposed to show him around.
“That him?” Leo asks.
I nod.
He purses his lips. I know he feels protective over me, even more so since my dad left. But there’s really nothing to worry about.
“We’re just friends,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing and Leo gives me a skeptical look.
I squeeze his arm. “I know better than to get involved with a guest.”
Leo shakes his head. “I sure hope so.”
Will glances over and notices us staring at him. I nudge Leo down the path that leads to the staff entrance.
“Okay, I can take a hint,” he says with a laugh. He tells me to be good, then disappears down the path. I stand there awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands, as Will walks toward me. I pull my long hair into a messy topknot—my dad used to make fun of me when I put it up like this. He called it a doorknob.
I hate that he invades my thoughts when I’m least expecting it. He’s left three messages in the past few days—all of which I deleted without bothering to listen to them. Just thinking about him makes me cranky, and so I do what I always do and push him away.
“Hey,” Will says when he reaches me. The circles under his eyes are somehow even more pronounced, and I feel guilty for keeping him up texting last night.
“How’s Hayes?” I ask.
He grimaces. “He finally stopped throwing up,” he says. “Sorry, again, for what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” The person who should be apologizing is Hayes. But I’m not holding my breath for that.
“So,” Will says. “Where is this place with the magical coconut cappuccinos?”
During our late-night text session, I told him about this place I used to go to all the time. I wasn’t lying about the coconut cappuccinos, but they’re mostly known for having the best loco moco on the island and I really want breakfast.
“It’s a few miles from here,” I say. “You up for a walk?”
“Always.”
We head away from the hotel. It’s rush hour, which in Wailea j
ust means there are a few more cars on the road than normal. It’s already starting to get warm, so I slide off my pink hoodie and tie it around my waist.
“I think we should continue our game,” Will says. He’s walking faster than I am—his legs are a lot longer than mine—and he slows his pace so we’re in step. “I’ve thought of a million more questions I want to ask you.”
I’m kind of surprised he wants to play again, considering how this went the last time, when I asked him if he’d change something about his past. But I’m willing to try again. I’ll just have to be more careful about my questions.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Would you rather live to be a thousand or live to a hundred, ten times?”
“You mean live the same life, over and over again? Like Groundhog Day?”
He shrugs. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
“Ten lives, I guess,” I reply. “I can’t imagine I’d hold up that well if I lived to be a thousand.”
He laughs. “Fair point. Although I think repeating the same life over again would be boring as hell.”
“Yeah, but it’d be like having a do-over. You could fix your mistakes.”
A shadow passes over Will’s face, and I want to stuff the words back into my mouth. So much for being careful.
“Well, that would be handy,” he says finally.
I could just ask him what it is he’d want to change—it’s obvious that something happened in his past that is bothering him. But if he really wanted me to know, he’d tell me. It’s easier to just change the subject and move us to safer territory.
“Would you rather be locked in a closet with a boa constrictor or a dozen rats?” I ask him.
“Rats,” he says without hesitation.
I squeal. “Really?”
“Why? You’d pick the snake?”
“Definitely.”
“But the snake could kill you,” he says. “The rats might bite you, but they probably wouldn’t cause any lasting damage. Unless you contracted the plague or something. And who gets the plague nowadays? I’ll tell you who: no one.”
Just My Luck Page 6