“I don’t go to church there.” Her voice is low and really sexy. It’s such a contrast to her girlish appearance. “And I wasn’t there in connection to anyone in the worship band. I was hired to tune their piano. I had finished up and was playing, for fun, before leaving. I was embarrassed being caught in there. I should have left when I was done but…come on, it’s a baby grand.”
“You play in jazz clubs and tune pianos?”
“Yep. Tuning pianos is my main gig in terms of paying bills, but only because performing is something I love that doesn’t earn me much. I also sometimes teach private piano lessons.”
“That’s amazing! How long have you been playing? And how did you get into piano tuning?” Without meaning to, I’ve turned my body in my chair, leaning towards her.
“All my life. I think I started plunking around as a toddler. I got into piano tuning through a family friend. Uncle gave me piano lessons growing up and let me roam free in his shop when I wasn’t playing. When I was old enough, he took me on as his apprentice and I learned the trade and worked my way through college. I still work with him. Do you play an instrument?”
“Guitar. I’m definitely no professional, though — only for fun. Still, I love music. Did you grow up here?”
“4th generation. I’m what they call hapa or hapa-haole. A mix. My family came here from Japan in the early 1900’s as sugar cane plantation workers. I’ve got Japanese, white, and Hawaiian in there,” she gestures vaguely towards her face. “You said you live in Kaneohe, but you don’t sound like it. Where are you from?” Her laugh is musical, somehow both bright and low, like her singing voice.
“My accent does tend to stand out here. I’m from Tennessee. My family still lives there. And because I’m assuming it will be your next question, I’m here because I’m in the Navy. I’m a SWO. That’s an acronym for Surface Warfare Officer, but we say it like ‘whoa.’ That’s real Navy to the uninitiated. I’m on ships — a Navy destroyer specifically.”
“And your friends that were supposed to be with you tonight, are they in the Navy too?”
“Mostly. Our housemate, Nikki, came with me, as friends. She’s an Army nurse, but she got back together with her boyfriend and left. My two closest friends are dating. Norah, my roommate, is also a SWO, but her boyfriend is a native Hawaiian she met here. I imagine they went back to their room.” I shrug. “Deacon, a Navy dentist, and Fern, a fellow SWO, did the same. They’re heading back to the mainland to get married tomorrow. Jameson, a Navy helicopter pilot, and Everett, another SWO, came solo, so they weren’t staying at the hotel. Somehow, by the beginning of the second set, I was totally alone.”
“Sorry your night didn’t go as planned!” She casts her eyes down towards her clasped hands.
“I’m not.” I couldn’t mean it more.
She has finished her tea and motions to my mug. “Do you want more? I can raid the minibar and make it a hot toddy if you like.”
I shake my head. “Ah, thanks, but I don’t drink. Another tea would be nice though. I can bring the hot water over if you’d like more as well.”
She looks intrigued. “Not to buy into stereotypes but, you’re a sailor and you don’t drink?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask why?”
Normally at this point I brush people off. I don’t necessarily try to be secretive about it, but most people don’t really care about the answer; they’re just being polite. They’re happy to keep things on the surface. Light. Fun. It’s easier to say something about it not being my thing and moving on. Sometimes I don’t even tell people I don’t drink. I give them a simple “Nah, I’m good for now.” But something about Nalani feels different. I don’t want to be glib or share half-truths for the sake of easy conversation or appearances.
“This could be going too deep too fast and scaring you off but…I don’t drink because my parents were alcoholics.” I had been looking down at the ground and I trace my eyes up her seated form until I’m looking in her eyes. She doesn’t look judgmental. That’s new and unexpected.
“I’m so sorry. Was that hard for you growing up?”
“Huh. No one has ever asked me that before.” She holds out her mug in answer to my earlier question and I fill it with hot water, sitting next to her and turning until our knees are almost touching. “Yeah, it was. I didn’t know my dad. He drove drunk, hit a tree, and died on impact when I was two years old. Thankfully, he was the only person involved in the accident. By all accounts, he wasn’t a very nice guy. Oddly enough, my mom wasn’t much of a drinker at that time. I think she avoided alcohol because of my dad, at least when he was alive.” I pause to take a careful sip of my tea, the liquid hot enough to burn a trail down my throat.
“Then it was just the two of us. I think that was hard on her. Pretty soon she was drinking, at night. At first it was a nightcap. Then a drink or two with dinner. Before long, she started as soon as she got home from work. After a while, she was occasionally sneaking out and going to a bar, leaving me alone. I’d wake up and go searching for her, and the house would be empty. Sometimes she’d get blackout drunk at home and I’d find her passed out.” I rub my hands down my face, not wanting to remember what that felt like, even though it’s impossible to block out completely.
“I thought she was dead. I was scared, alone in my house at night, with my mom’s body on the stairs. Like something from a horror movie. And then she’d wake up, and act like nothing had happened. She was good at hiding it from other people. Lying to cover herself. Using enough charm to be seen as likable, but aloof enough to still keep everyone at a safe distance. And I got good at being the charming, social kid who invited himself over to friend’s houses to get help with my homework or a warm meal. I was good at convincing people, that’s probably my dad in me. At least I was unintentionally manipulative — I only didn’t want to be alone.” She reaches out and takes my hand, comforting me with the small touch and grounding me in reality. I have to remind myself, I’m not that kid anymore. I’m in control. I’m no longer at the mercy of my circumstances.
“I learned to stay organized, do the work, and hold on tight to the little bit of control I had in the chaos. Control is all I have. When I was 10, Mama met a really nice guy. He was hardworking and honest and truly cared about her. He was also smart. Bill figured out what was going on right away. He gave Mama an ultimatum: get clean or lose me. Once Bill knew what was happening, he wasn’t going to leave me in that situation, even if it meant threatening to put me in the foster care system since there wasn’t any extended family who could step in. That got to her. Mama went to rehab. She’s been sober for 17 years and they’ve been married for 16.”
I take a deep breath, smiling to try to bring the mood back up. “I have a couple of half-siblings. They’ve built a good life. I don’t want to paint her as a villain. I’ve had a lot of therapy to work on forgiving her for how she failed me. She’s in a good place now. We have a good relationship. I love her and respect how hard she worked to be better for herself and for me. But I will never put another person, especially not a child, through what I went through. I am NEVER touching alcohol.”
8
Nalani
There’s that smile again. It’s warm, but not quite genuine. No, that’s not right. He’s genuinely smiling, but he’s trying to put on a confident, this-doesn’t-bother-me image. I bet it works on almost everyone. I’m still holding his hand and I caress the back of it with my other hand, taking in cool skin, raised veins and soft hair with my fingertips. “Clearly, you’ve come a long way to be who you are now, Ames. I hope you know it’s ok to still have some hurt though. I know we’ve only just met, but you don’t have to use your social image here. Not with me.”
He stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Shit, I hate confrontation. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know you well enough to have said anything.” I drop his hand, weaving my fingers together and gripping them tightly. I’ve always
found it calming, focusing my attention on the feeling of my fingers biting into each other.
I can see him making himself relax, the loosening starting at his shoulders and moving down. “I should have said: can you tell me what you mean? I just poured a bunch of childhood trauma on you, obviously I’m not worried about staying on easy surface conversations. I spent a lot of time in therapy in particular, because I’m not very good at figuring out and dealing with my own emotions. It helps sometimes to have things pointed out.” He smiles encouragingly.
“Oh, ok. I only meant that you seem to hide the full extent of your feelings. I doubt most people notice. It’s just, from the casual observations of someone that doesn’t really know you…” I’m trying to qualify what I’m saying, and he motions for me to move along, still encouragingly. I exhale in a puff. “You have this social mask — like a face you put on to project the right image. You wanted me to see you as confident and unbothered by your past. I do see your confidence. I see that you’re charming, and you’ve worked hard to move beyond the scared kid with his blacked-out mother. But I see the hurt too. Maybe we don’t know each other that well, but I want you to know that you don’t have to pretend with me. I prefer real.”
He exhales, releasing the tension that had crept back into his shoulders. A new look comes in his eye. I’m trying to decipher its meaning, worrying that I’ve said the wrong thing, and suddenly he’s cupping my face and pressing his lips to mine. Oh my. His lips are soft, and he smells amazing with a hint of earl grey tea on his breath. As first kisses go, it’s hitting all my buttons. It’s gentle and tender, the movement of his lips sensual and the feel of his hands on my face comforting. The contact is dizzying, and that’s not only because it was unexpected. I haven’t been kissed in a while. I’m still reeling when he pulls away, squeezing my fingers and whispering ‘thank you’ while standing up.
Whoa, is this over? I’m surprisingly comfortable in this strange situation and that kiss has me tingling all over. But now he’s on his feet. Maybe I should grab my stuff? I stand, wondering how to make this part less awkward, and he’s in front of me, taking my hand and leading me to the bed.
“I just realized you’ve been sitting up for hours. I should have offered you a more comfortable spot immediately, but I was selfish. I wanted to stay close to you. Here, you can recline. Set up the pillows however you want, stretch out. I’ll bring the tea over.”
He leaves me at the bed and comes back, dragging his chair over, then bringing our mugs. He gestures to the bed again and raises his eyebrows. I’ve never been good at telling people no. It’s easier just to sit on the bed. Once I’m sitting though, I can admit he was right. This is more comfortable.
Ames pours us more hot water, drops in new tea bags, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I’m entranced by the movement of his muscles as he works his way down. He’s not stripping for me, that would be weird. Hot, but weird, given that we’ve only just met. He starts talking while he works.
“You had a read on me pretty quickly. Is that something you’re good at: reading people?” He has on a white t-shirt underneath. He said he’s in the Navy, it’s probably a uniform undershirt. The combination of the casual white tee and tuxedo pants is strangely yummy.
“I guess.” I’m very distracted. He seems oblivious to my staring, focused on the task at hand.
“Is that just you, or learned?” He puts the shirt on a hanger, puts his tuxedo jacket over it and places them both in a garment bag before taking off his socks. Every motion is efficient and somehow as impactful on my body as that kiss.
“Learned, I suppose. I had to, to know who was safe. I spent too many years not knowing. But I still get it wrong sometimes.” An image of Noa pops up, unwanted, and I blink him away.
He looks concerned, then I get another look at that full-watt smile as he drops himself into his chair, stretching his feet out onto the bed next to me. He has really nice feet. First wrists, now his feet? Why am I so weird?
“That’s better, right?”
I agree, feeling suddenly shy.
“Tell me, Nalani, did I make this more awkward by kissing you? I should have asked first.” If someone I’d grown up with had said that, I’d assume they were joking, but he’s definitely serious. I’ve never had someone ask to initiate affection first and suddenly the idea is very sexy. Especially after being with men who push for what they want, ignoring what I say. What would I have said if he had asked to kiss me? Probably something really urbane and intelligent like “wuh?”
“Should I have brushed off your question about drinking and asked you something safe and boring instead? Maybe kept a little more emotional distance between us?” There’s no social mask this time, he simply looks curious.
“No, not at all. This is weirdly not awkward. Maybe it should be, but I feel pretty comfortable, and I’m not just talking about this bed.” I squish back into the pillows I have propped up behind my back. “Want me to take a turn going too deep too fast! It’s possible I could have…” I was being flippant, planning on joking about the deep dark secrets I could share. Only the weight of my actual secret is already sitting heavily on my chest. My social mask was slipping, but I can’t joke about it. There’s nothing funny about my life right now. I fumble, unsure how to recover. “I mean, I, uh.” Lucky for me, Ames’ superior social skills come into play, and he jumps in, smoothing over my stuttering and nose-diving control on my emotions.
“What was it like growing up here?”
That’s much, much safer ground. I smile gratefully, taking my now steeped mug of tea. I tell him about running wild in the neighborhood on the windward side, a whole street full of aunties and uncles always keeping an eye out. I talk about the small-town feel of Kailua 15 years ago, and how safe and free it was to be a kid with a bike, friends, and the afternoons to explore. He tells me about being a kid in the suburbs of Memphis, his soft Southern twang coming out a little more. We talk about music and our families, the conversation flowing freely. Ames is easy to talk to and I haven’t gotten anxious, which is unusual for me. On-the-verge-of-panic can be my default in social situations.
I look at the clock and am surprised to see we’ve been talking for more than three hours. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and when I come out Ames has cleaned up all of our tea mess and turned all the lights off except the lamps by the bed. It’s tidy and cozy. He’s lowering himself back into the chair and I stop him with a hand on his arm.
“Would you rather sit on the bed? If it was more comfortable for me, I imagine it would be more comfortable for you too.”
“If that’s alright with you, I would. I was afraid that might be too much for you.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. He walks around to the other side of the bed and joins me, sitting against the headboard. I’m looking at him, taking in the nice profile his straight nose creates and tracing the line of his soft lips with my eyes when he turns to look at me. His eyes are deep blue, like the water around the coast by Makapu’u Lighthouse.
“So, do you think you want to talk to me about what sent you into a tailspin earlier? Or is that still too much for a first date?”
9
Ames
I’m close enough now to see her eyes are a warm golden brown and green with flecks of gold. The way they widen tells me my tactic worked. She’s thinking about the fact that I called this a date and not worrying about whatever made her whole demeanor change earlier. I want to know what that was, but I also don’t want her to be upset.
“This is a date?”
“Unconventional, to be sure. And I suppose I didn’t actually ask at the outset. Minor details. I promise I’ll do better next time. I want it to be a date, though. I’ve wanted that for 7 months. I didn’t even look for someone to take to our outing tonight because nobody could compare to the mere memory of you.”
“You really thought about me for 7 months? Why?” I raise my left eyebrow at her. “I mean,” she gestures at me, making me want to pu
mp my fist in the air. That has to mean she finds me attractive, right? She kissed me back, that’s a good sign. And she saw the real me, beyond what I project, which has never happened before. I can’t remember the last time I was this unsure of myself around a woman. “There has to be any number of women interested in you.”
I shrug, sticking with bald honesty. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know, I’ve only been interested in you and I’m a loyal kind of guy.” I’m not sure if her surprise has to do with her or me. I push on. “I felt something there, at the church. Like you were singing directly to me. Only me. There was this connection. You were consumed by the music, and you’re so incredibly beautiful, Nalani. The most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I wanted to be right there with you, feeling what you were feeling. It didn’t matter that I knew nothing about you. It didn’t matter that months and months went by. No one else could compare.” I bite at the inside of my cheek, worried about crashing and burning, as if I’m not already way past the point of no return. “Was that just me?”
“No,” she whispers. “I thought about you too. More than I should have. That sort of fueled my running out of the church.” I exhale loudly, unable to keep the smile off my lips. I’m definitely asking more about that little tidbit.
“Sweet.” She returns my smile, although there’s still an edge of nervousness to everything she does. God, I wish I could help her feel comfortable. “You don’t have to tell me anything deeper, Nalani. I didn’t mean to push or pry. We can talk about something else, anything else.”
“No, it’s okay.” She leans back, tipping her head to look at the ceiling. Those dark waves fall back, behind her shoulders, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Her long, thin fingers — pianist’s hands if I’ve ever seen any — are twisting and gripping with nervous energy.
“Earlier, my reaction, was because I’ve been,” she swallows loudly, pressing her eyelids closed, “preoccupied lately, avoiding thinking about a big situation that I really need to confront head on. I’m not good at that, Ames.” She looks surprised by her own honesty. “Avoidance is easier. I hate conflict. It’s easy for me to keep the peace with other people, but I struggle when it’s myself I’m grappling with. And it’s really, really hard to admit that to you. The way I am, who I am, has created problems in the past. I’ve been told I’m not an easy person to be around.”
Like a Good Wife (Oahu Naval Officers Book 2) Page 3