Across the table, Kai is golden in the candles’ glow. With his faint shadow of stubble and that crisp button-down shirt, he looks so grown-up. This is definitely the closest we’ve ever come to a date. Is this a date? Do I want it to be?
Kai interrupts my thoughts. “I still can’t believe you’re here!” he says. “What do you want to do this week? Give me the whole list.”
“Hmm … maybe hike that waterfall you told me about?”
“Akaka Falls? Yeah, we can easily do that hike—it’s only a short drive away.”
“Cool. And I’m excited to see the ocean. It’s been years since I’ve been in the waves!”
Kai gives me this look, like I said it’s been years since I’ve eaten. “Wait—you haven’t been to the ocean since you got here?”
“Nope. I went to the lava tubes, then I came to see you downtown, then we went to the clinic and to your house. No ocean yet.”
Kai slaps the table decisively. “Well, that’s what we’re doing after dinner, then.”
I laugh. “At night?”
“The ocean is best at night.”
Before I can ask more questions, the waiter appears with our dishes. “For you, miss,” he says, setting a tray before me with a flourish. In a little boxlike bowl, a miniature garden of leafy greens is growing. Beside the garden is a dainty pair of scissors, and next to that rests a salad bowl, an array of chopped-up toppings like carrot and jicama, and a carafe of dressing.
“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim.
“The living salad,” the waiter says, setting down Kai’s plate of tacos. “It is aptly named, yes?”
“It’s almost too pretty to eat!” But I’m starving, so as soon as the waiter leaves, I pick up the scissors and begin snipping away at the tiny garden. “This is so much fun!”
“You’re like a little kid,” Kai says.
“You know you want to try some.”
“Okay, let me at it.”
I nudge the tray toward him, and he snips off the tallest leaf of lettuce. He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and then proclaims, “This is what my pops would call ‘rabbit food.’”
“You’re not supposed to eat it like that! You’re supposed to mix it all up in a salad. It’s de-lect-able.”
“If you’re a rabbit.”
I stick out my tongue at him, he sticks out his tongue at me, and I’m not nervous anymore about being on my first-ever real date with Kai Kapule (if this is even a date). I forget about trying to act fancy and grown-up. I forget to worry about when I’m going home, or what that R.J. guy was talking about, or whether Kai will find out I lied to him, or if my memory of the past few weeks will ever come back. Instead, I sink into myself, into this moment that feels both familiar and brand new: a warm summer night; a delicious meal in a candlelit restaurant; laughing across the table from the one person in the world who knows me best.
I eat every bite of my living salad, plus a couple bites of Kai’s pork tacos. I don’t know if the food is fresher in Hawaii or if maybe not being stressed about finals means I can actually slow down and enjoy eating—whatever it is, food tastes better here than in my usual life. Kai is skimming over the bill (I want to split the check, but he stubbornly refuses to take my money) when, from out of nowhere, ukulele music starts to play. As I glance around the restaurant, my gaze settles on an elderly man set up with a microphone and sound equipment on a makeshift stage against the far blue wall. He strums a bit more, then closes his eyes and begins to sing. His sandpapery voice complements the joyful ukulele notes with surprising beauty. The lyrics are something about magic and water and moonlight.
When the song ends, I feel wrung out. I turn my head, and Kai is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. When our eyes meet, he smiles and says, “Wanna get out of here?”
“Yes.”
Kai drives with the windows down. The night air is just cool enough to make goose bumps rise on my legs. I breathe in deeply. Ever since I woke up in the lava tubes, there’s been this strange tightness in my chest, as if I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He winks. “You’ll recognize it when we get there.”
I dig my hands into the pockets of my sweater, and in the left one—a pocket I swear was empty before—I discover a package of sweet mint gum.
“Want some?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. I pass him a stick, and we chew in comfortable silence as the road unwinds beneath us. Outside the window, the lava rock could be the dark side of the moon.
He pulls into the parking lot for the resort—the place I used to stay with my parents, the place Kai and I first met as children, the place we bumped into each other again three years ago.
“Perfect choice,” I tell him as we climb out of his Jeep. I spit my gum into a trash can, and Kai does the same.
We skirt the edge of the hotel grounds and make our way onto the soft sand. There is a full moon tonight, but otherwise the beach is dark. Kai pulls out his cell phone and turns on the flashlight. I can’t see the ocean, but I can hear the waves. A siren song. The pull is magnetic. For the millionth time, I wonder how I was able to stay away for so long. How did I ever think the lake was the same as this?
My foot sinks into a hole, and I stumble forward, reaching out for Kai’s arm. He is there, steadying me, keeping me from falling.
“Careful,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, thanks. It’s these sandals—they make me clumsy.”
Reluctantly, I release his arm so I can slide the yellow straps off my feet. I hold the sandals in one hand as we continue down the beach. My free hand dangles, close to his, within reach. I think of all the times I heedlessly grabbed his hand when we were kids, pulling him this way or that, wanting to show him something. Back then, I would reach for his hand without thinking. I knew his childhood hands—their scratches and blisters and bitten fingernails—as well as I knew my own.
Our arms brush. A mistake? They brush again. Then his calloused palm kisses mine. As our fingers interlace, a wide grin spreads across my face. I’m grateful for the dark. The dark, and the moon, and the crickets, and the waves. His hand is warm and firm. It seems like nothing bad can happen, as long as he is holding my hand.
We trudge through the soft sand, cool against our bare feet. This silence with Kai is a companionable silence, like the silence you experience when you’re alone, except without a hint of loneliness. One night in tenth grade, when I was upset about my parents’ divorce and Andrea’s new boyfriend, who took up all her time, I called Kai and vented about everything. Just totally unloaded. I remember he didn’t try to give me advice or tell me that everything would be all right. He didn’t try to fill the silence with platitudes, and he didn’t need me to fill it either. He stayed there quietly on the phone, breathing softly, and soon I began to feel calmer. I remember closing my eyes, resting my cheek against the pillow, cell phone pressed to my ear. It felt like he was there with me.
At the time, I thought that was good enough. Cell phones and text messages and FaceTime and email. For years, he’s existed as a photo on my phone screen, a ringtone blaring from my nightstand, a disembodied voice, and strings of sentences without capitalization because he doesn’t believe in email formality. But Kai was right—all that other stuff is better than nothing, but it doesn’t come close to being side by side like this in real time.
We reach the more densely packed sand, where a couple of empty chaise lounges, covered with towels, wait for tomorrow’s sunbathers. We walk farther in, until the waves sweep over our feet. I jump at the cold. Kai laughs and squeezes my hand, pulling me back out of the waves. He turns off his flashlight and fiddles with his phone, apparently searching for something. His gaze is focused downward, so I take the opportunity to drink him in. The glow from his phone screen lights up his features: his straight nose, long eyelashes, strong cheekbones. The same face of the boy I met all those year
s ago, yet also a different face—more mature. A man. Maybe that’s why I feel weirdly shy around him.
“Aha! Found it,” Kai announces with a triumphant smile. He tucks his phone into his shirt pocket, and soon the first notes of music wind their way into the night. It takes me a few seconds, but then I recognize the delicate ukulele melody.
“Is this the song from the restaurant?” I ask.
Kai nods. “One of my all-time favorites. It’s called ‘Magic by the Water,’ written by a Hawaiian musician.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Kai lifts one hand in the air, like a waiter holding an invisible tray. “Miss Rossi,” he says in a formal voice, “will you give me the pleasure of this dance?”
“I would be honored, Mr. Kapule.” I place my hand in his.
Kai pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my waist. I place my other hand on his shoulder. He smells like laundry soap and coconut. Crazed butterflies flap around in my stomach. Ever since he emerged from his bathroom earlier looking all clean-scrubbed and grown-up, my body has been humming with a constant low-level excitement. It can no longer be contained; now all of my nervous energy is exploding into overdrive.
I let my temple rest against his cheek and close my eyes. Together, we sway to the music, our feet shuffling a circle in the sand. I can hear the waves rolling in and receding, rolling in and receding. A breeze gently lifts the hem of my dress and plays with tendrils of my hair. My heart is beating rapidly—I wonder if Kai can feel it through the thin fabric of my dress. His hand shifts on my back, drawing me closer; his fingers ignite sparks across my bare skin.
Kai leans back slightly, looking down at me. I pride myself on never being afraid of anything, and yet as I lift my gaze to meet his eyes, my nervous energy is tinged with fear. It is like Kai and I are dancing along the edge of that massive precipice we have chosen to ignore for all these years—or, at least, I have chosen to ignore—and now, suddenly, we are gazing over the edge, preparing to leap together into the unknown.
Once we cross this line, there will be no way to un-cross it.
It’s terrifying. And yet … I want this. I want this more than I can ever remember wanting anything. It feels so right, being here with Kai, slow dancing in the sand under an enormous glowing moon. He was right all those years ago, when we sat together in the lava tubes and he tried to kiss me. He was right when he said that being together was worth risking our friendship. All this time I’ve been telling myself I’m being practical, but really I’ve just been scared.
Kai’s eyes are dark pools. Does he feel it too—this buzzing electricity between us?
“I still can’t believe it,” he says. “You’re here. You’re really here.”
“I’m here.”
“Tegan Rossi,” he murmurs, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “You dazzle me, you know that?”
I laugh, looking past Kai’s shoulder, out to the milky white moon and the dark endless ocean. In the distance, the resort is all lit up like a giant cruise ship. For most of my life, I have felt the furthest thing from dazzling. Gritty, maybe. Stubborn. The girl unafraid to get her hands dirty, to dig in, to patiently put in the long, drudging hours of work.
But dazzling? I don’t think I have ever dazzled anyone.
The song emanating from Kai’s shirt pocket is winding down, the ukulele melody slowing. Everything feels fragile. I think of a tiny pink seashell. I think of spun glass. The musician is plucking a single string now, notes floating out softly into the hushed, humid night.
“I’m serious,” Kai says. He gently lifts my chin so there is nowhere for me to look but his face. “You are a blaze of light.”
There is a question in his eyes that I ache to answer. The moment builds, electric, inevitable. The cliff beckons us over the edge.
Time unfolds in slow motion. Kai leans down. I reach up and meet his lips with my own. His mouth is warm and tender, somehow both new and familiar at once. He tastes of sweet mint gum. His hands softly cup the back of my head, thumbs grazing my neck. I clutch his shirt, pressing my body closer to his. I can’t get close enough. We are both breathing hard.
“Oh, Tegan,” he whispers. “You’re really here.”
“And I’m not going anywhere.”
His smile is contagious. He grabs my waist and scoops me up, carrying me over to one of the chaise lounges and gingerly setting me down on top of an abandoned beach towel. He starts to lie down on top of me, then hesitates.
“Am I squashing you?”
“No!” I laugh. “No. Come here.” I pull him down. His weight is comforting, sturdy—a tether, pressing me to the earth, to here, to now. Soon there is nothing but the ocean waves and the midnight air and his urgent fingers on my skin; everything else melts away.
hey t,
do you like sweet mint gum?
just curious.
—kai
TUESDAY
The sensation of moving very fast. Speed building and building. Out of control. Suddenly, jerking sideways. Slamming into something hard. A sharp intake of breath. A scream lodged in a throat.
I wake up panting, covered in sweat. My vision is blurry; it takes a few seconds for my surroundings to click into focus. I’m lying on a chaise lounge in the middle of a deserted beach at daybreak, waves crashing onto the shore a mere three feet away from my toes. A rainbow-striped beach towel is pulled up to my chin. I sit up and look around, wrapping the towel around my shoulders like a blanket. There is an identical chaise lounge next to mine. Empty. I’m still wearing the red dress from last night. One yellow sandal is wedged beside me in the sand; the other is …
I leap up and dash into the ocean waves that are pulling my rogue sandal out to sea. The cold water laps at my ankles. Lunging for the flash of yellow in the waves, I soak half my dress—but it’s worth it when my fingers close around the smooth plastic strap.
I hear laughter and look back at Kai, watching me from the beach. He’s holding two to-go cups and raises one to me. “Once you’re done with your morning swim, I’ve got coffee!” he shouts.
I kick an arc of water in his direction, but he’s too far away to be splashed. He settles into one of the chaise lounges, nestling my coffee cup into the sand. I am happy to see him but also shy, unsure how I’m supposed to act now that we’ve crossed that invisible line. Remembering his lips on mine makes me blush. I turn and gaze out at the expanse of ocean. Sunrise spreads across the morning sky like watercolors on a wet canvas. It’s stunningly beautiful—somehow the sky seems bigger here than it is back home.
I can sense Kai’s eyes on me. I wonder what he’s thinking.
The hem of my dress drags back and forth in the waves.
What are we supposed to do now? What if he acts like nothing happened? What if he thinks last night was a mistake?
Eventually, I wade back to shore, my dress clinging to my damp legs. Kai’s expression is inscrutable behind his sunglasses.
I plop onto the chaise lounge beside him and reach for my coffee. It tastes hot and strong. “Thanks for this.”
“No problem.”
“I forgot how good the coffee is here.”
“It’s the only coffee I’ll drink.”
“Such a snob. Hey, guess what? It’s my first time actually drinking this coffee here, in Hawaii.” Kai sends me bags of Kona coffee for my birthday and Christmas, and sometimes just because, so I’ve brewed it at home many times. But the last time I was in Hawaii, I hadn’t started drinking coffee yet.
“I think that calls for a toast,” Kai says, bumping his cup against mine. Our fingers brush. “Tegan Rossi, good morning, and welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. May you never go back to second-rate coffee ever again.”
I raise my cup. “Here’s to being coffee snobs together.”
We sip in silence for a little while, listening to the waves roll in and out, in and out, an unending rhythm. Then Kai turns to me. “So what do
you want to do today?”
The way he says it: like we’re a unit. My heart lifts to know that no matter what today brings, we’ll be spending it together.
“Don’t you have work?” I ask.
“I told my boss I have a friend visiting, and he gave me the day off. Actually, he gave me the whole week off.”
“Really? Was he upset?”
“Naw. I told you, he’s chill. Besides, I have vacation time saved up.”
“Well, that’s awesome! As long as you’re sure you won’t get in trouble.”
“I’m sure.” Suddenly, Kai leaps up from his chair and crunches his empty coffee cup in his fist. “I am the Hulk!” he growls, waggling his eyebrows.
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my coffee. As kids, we would rent inflatable water wings from the pool desk and strap them to our arms, crushing cups of water and stomping on seaweed, pretending to be the Hulk and the She-Hulk. “I can’t believe you still remember that!”
“I remember everything about us,” he says.
Us.
I look down at my feet, digging my toes into the sand. “Maybe today, we could … go snorkeling?” I suggest.
Kai grins. “That is an excellent idea, Miss Rossi.” He reaches down and pulls me up from my lounge chair. I want him to keep holding my hand, but he lets it drop. We trudge side by side through the sand, toward the fancy resort, toward the parking lot where Kai’s Jeep rests, toward a future that somehow also seems like our past.
“Do you think it’s like riding a bike?” I ask.
“What?” Kai looks up at me, his nose adorably scrunched in confusion. He’s sitting on the floor of his parents’ garage, trying to reattach an ancient snorkel spout to an equally weathered mask.
The Best Week That Never Happened Page 7