The Best Week That Never Happened

by Dallas Woodburn

  “Snorkeling.” I twist my hair into a rope and coil it into a bun, wrap a tie around it once, twice, three times. “I didn’t go snorkeling the last time I was here. I haven’t snorkeled since we were kids. And that was, like, a lifetime ago.”

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “Ten years! That’s almost a decade of snorkel-less existence for yours truly.”

  “That just means we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “Do you think my body will remember what to do?”

  Kai nods assuredly. “Our bodies always remember.”

  I glance at him, then down at the floor, a hot blush creeping across my neck and chest when I think about last night on the beach, how his lips were soft and warm, and how he gently cupped the back of my head in his hands as if I was something valuable, something worth holding onto. Now I can feel his eyes on my face, but I stare at the gray concrete floor, too nervous to meet his gaze. I take out my hair tie and release my bun, letting my messy waves fall around my shoulders.

  Kai clears his throat. “I think I’ve almost got this thing fixed. Could you grab those flippers, and we’ll head out?”

  It is another gorgeous day in paradise. Cloudless blue sky, warm breeze. We roll down the windows to let in the sea air. The terrain is aridly beautiful, tufts of green-brown grass and spindly trees sticking up from the black waves of lava rock. Both times I came to Hawaii before, my parents and I barely left the resort at all—only to go shopping in downtown Kona and manta ray snorkeling.

  “You’re gonna love this place,” Kai says. “Best snorkeling on the island. It’s a local spot, off the beaten path.”

  “Sounds awesome. Do you think we’ll see any turtles?”

  Kai grins. “I haven’t seen one in months. But you’re my lucky charm, Rossi. So I say chances are high.”

  “Should we follow it around the world this time?”

  “If you want to. I’ll follow wherever you want to go.”

  We’re both wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see Kai’s eyes, but I can imagine their intensity—the same expression he had that long-ago night in the lava tubes, brazenness mixed with vulnerability. He is one of the only people I know whose emotions are so apparent on their face and in their voice. I used to think he was that way with everyone—an open book—but now, after seeing him interact with his family and that guy at the restaurant last night, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he only lets down his guard around certain people. Namely, me.

  Which is why I can’t keep up this cheerful façade much longer. If my memory doesn’t come back soon, I have to tell Kai the truth: that I don’t remember planning to surprise him, that the flight here remains a giant blank in my mind, that I can’t even find evidence of a plane ticket. Earlier this morning, I called both of my parents again, shoving away the panic rising inside me with each empty ring. No replies to my text messages. No new emails. When I tried to upload a photo of my living salad to social media, it stubbornly refused to load. Maybe something is glitchy with the Wi-Fi here.

  Kai turns off the main road down a small paved street that winds through the lava rock, toward the ocean. Eventually, we reach a tucked-away parking lot shaded by a cluster of trees. Outside the Jeep, I vigorously spray myself with sunscreen. Kai studies me with a half-smile.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Kai says. “Just remembering.”

  Remembering what? I want to ask, but instead I twirl my finger through the air. “Turn around,” I tell him. “Let me get your back.”

  “Want me to get yours?” he asks.

  “Nope.” I pull the pink surf shirt out of my bag and yank it down over my head. “This baby has SPF included. No way I’m trusting you with my back again, Kapule.”

  “C’mon, that was years ago! I’ve apologized a hundred times!”

  “Worst sunburn of my life.” Which is the truth. But I’m smiling, and Kai’s smiling, and all these years later, I don’t care anymore about the strip of skin on my lower back that is perpetually three shades lighter than all the rest—it healed that way after the epically bad sunburn I got when we went snorkeling as kids. Eight-year-old me trusted eight-year-old Kai to put sunscreen on her back. He missed a spot.

  Now, Kai takes off his shirt and turns to look out at the distant waves. I spray the sunscreen, being extra careful not to miss any spots. Then I press my palms against his warm skin and rub it in. His muscles are firm under my fingers. I want to lean forward and make a trail of kisses down his spine.

  Kai clears his throat.

  “Sorry if my hands are cold,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “That feels really nice.”

  I spray some more on his lower back and reach down to rub it in, my fingers brushing the waistband of his swim trunks. Then I’m blushing, thinking about what’s underneath his swim trunks. We didn’t go any further than making out last night. I wonder if Kai knows that I’ve never had sex before. Has he had sex before? It seems strange not to know this about your best friend, but this is one topic we studiously avoid. I know he’s dated a few girls—“casual, nothing serious,” he would always tell me—but I’m not exactly sure what “casual” means. If my school is any indication, you can definitely be in a casual relationship with someone and have sex. That just never sounded appealing to me. Giving up control of your body and your emotions like that, with someone you hardly know? The situation never felt safe enough. Maybe all this time I’ve been subconsciously waiting for Kai. Wanting my first time to be with him.

  I imagine him turning around and taking me into his arms, like he did last night. I imagine us climbing into the back seat of his Jeep. I imagine tugging down his swim trunks and taking off my own swimsuit. Letting him see my nakedness. Being vulnerable enough to share every bare inch of myself with him.

  I’ve zoned out; Kai’s sunscreen is definitely rubbed in. I drop my hands from his back and busy myself with putting the sunscreen away, trying to calm down. Take a chill pill, Tegan. This is Kai. Just Kai. Nothing’s changed.

  Only that’s a lie. Everything has changed. Even though we haven’t talked about what happened last night, and even though Kai hasn’t tried to kiss me again, I can tell we’re not going back to where we were before. Last night shifted something between us. The energy is different now. I used to be able to push aside my flickering feelings for him, pretending they didn’t exist. Now that my feelings have been uncaged, they’re all I can think about. He’s all I can think about. He’ll never be just Kai again.

  But what about him? Was kissing me what he expected it to be? Ever since the phone conversation when Kai tried to talk honestly about our relationship—if I’m real with myself, ever since that night in the lava tubes three years ago—I’ve known that his feelings for me were more than strictly platonic. Does he still feel that way? Or am I just Tegan to him now that his curiosity has been satisfied?

  “You okay, T?” Kai asks, peeking around the open door of the Jeep.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.” I tuck my bag under the seat and slam the door closed.

  Kai hands over my snorkel gear, and our fingers brush. I spend the entire walk across the parking lot, through the scrub, and into the soft sand trying to figure out how I can subtly get him to hold my hand again. I switch my bag of snorkel gear to my other shoulder. It’s like I’m back in middle school with an all-consuming crush. Like I’m trying to figure out a tricky logic problem in math. If only relationships were as easy as solving for x.

  Kai’s talking about this snorkel spot, how he used to come here all the time with Theo and some other friends but hasn’t been here in a while. “Snorkeling is still fun, but it’s not the same as when you’re a kid, you know? Back then everything was so exciting. Now I guess some of the magic’s gone.”

  “Maybe that’s just part of growing up,” I offer.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Does it have to be?”

  “I hope not. Be
ing here in Hawaii with you makes me feel like a little kid again. The world seems filled with adventure and surprises.”

  “It makes me really happy to hear you say that,” Kai says, his eyes locking onto mine.

  Suddenly, I don’t care anymore about innuendos or logistics or solving for x. I’ve always prided myself on being fearless—I’m tired of being scared in this one area of my life. I boldly reach over and grab Kai’s hand. Nothing subtle about it.

  For one heartbeat, two heartbeats, panic swells within me. What have I done?

  Then Kai looks at me with a giddy smile. He threads his fingers through mine and squeezes my hand.

  A giddy smile spreads across my own face. So I’m not just Tegan to him, like he isn’t just Kai to me. And I’m pretty sure mine wasn’t the only world that shifted last night with that first kiss.

  Other than us, the beach is deserted. It’s that timeless time of day when it seems like the sunshine might stretch on forever. The light has a magical quality. Kai leads me across the soft sand to the edge of a precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, a coral reef juts out, forming a shallow cove of clear blue water.

  “Wow,” I murmur. “It’s beautiful. How do we get down there?”

  “We jump,” Kai says.

  I stare at him. He stares back. After a few seconds, he laughs.

  “Just kidding! Follow me.”

  We walk along the cliff edge thirty feet or so, until it naturally starts to curve. Kai points down. Carved into the rock of the sea cliff are steps leading down to the cove.

  “Who made these?” I ask in awe—and gratitude.

  Kai shrugs. “The island is full of little gifts like these steps. Some people say the gods made them for us.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I think humans made them, a long time ago. I bet they would be glad to know others are using them. C’mon!” He tugs me forward. “Be careful—might be slippery.”

  We slowly make our way down the narrow, uneven steps. Kai keeps his hand in mine, even though it’s an awkward angle for him to stretch his arm backward. When we reach the sand below, I revel in its cool softness between my toes. Kai strips off his T-shirt, and I try not to stare. I duck behind a giant rock to take off my shorts. Once we’re in the water, I’ll forget that I’m in bikini bottoms, but right now I feel so exposed. I pull out my snorkel gear and fit the goggles over my eyes and nose. The salty plastic smell takes me back to the last time I went snorkeling, years and years ago, with Kai. The lenses are a little smeary, exactly the way I remember. I carefully fold my shorts and place them high on the rocks, away from the waves, along with the snorkel gear bag. Then I grab my fins, take a deep breath, and step out from behind my cover.

  Kai is facing away from me, putting on his fins. A memory flashes through my mind of his little-boy self spraying me with water through his snorkel. I run up and kick the waves, splashing him. He turns toward me, laughing. His mask is up on his forehead.

  “Be careful, Rossi. Remember who you’re messing with!”

  “And who is that?”

  “The Splash Ninja! I’ll get you when you least expect it! Consider yourself warned.” He winks, then adjusts his mask down over his eyes and nose.

  “So how do we do the fins? I forget.”

  “Put them on here, in the shallow water,” Kai suggests. “Then walk backward out into the waves. It’s awkward at first, but once the water gets deep enough to swim, you’ll be great.”

  After a bit of struggle—one flipper almost gets carried away by a wave—I manage to fit the rubbery fins over my feet. Together, Kai and I take big steps backward into the ocean. The water is a cool bath. When we’re in deep enough, Kai says, “Ready?”

  I nod and bite onto my salty-tasting mouthpiece. Nerves flutter in my stomach. I hope I remember how to do this.

  Kai turns and dives into the water, his snorkel tube popping up above sea level. I practice taking one, two, three breaths through the breathing tube, and then I follow suit.

  Through my goggles, an expanse of turquoise. Shafts of light filter down through the water. The world condenses to the sound of my breathing. My lungs still have that weird can’t-get-enough-oxygen tightness. I remind myself to take even, slow breaths. When I first tried snorkeling as a girl, I got anxious and began to hyperventilate. I remember swallowing water and popping my head above the surface, sputtering with frustration, on the verge of tears. My dad calmed me down and taught me to count in my head as I got acclimated to breathing through the tube.

  One, two, three, in. One, two, three, out. Before long, I get the hang of it again, and I don’t need to think about breathing anymore. It comes naturally.

  I swim after Kai, toward the coral reef. My fin-feet propel me forward. My hair trails out behind me. I am a mermaid. Underwater, Kai turns and gives me a thumbs-up, looking adorable in his snorkel mask. He prides himself on being the suave local, but snorkeling is one activity that levels the field. Everyone, even Kai, looks like a tourist in a snorkel mask. And maybe we are all tourists in this underwater world—snorkels are our temporary visas, allowing us to visit this mysterious country for brief slices of time.

  Kai waves me closer. I swim forward slowly, careful not to get too close to the jagged coral. I learned as a kid that while it looks soft, coral is actually quite sharp. It’s easy to get too close, brush it accidentally, and cut yourself. From a safe distance, I look down at a living, breathing painting of colorful fish in all shapes and sizes. Later, Kai will tell me the names of the different creatures we saw. For now, I mentally give them silly names: princess shiny-fin, silver glitterfish, rainbow delight. I recognize a couple of poky purple urchins and tranquil starfish, and—Kai grabs my arm excitedly and points—a seahorse! I’ve never seen a seahorse in the wild before. It looks like a tiny dragon, speeding around the branches of coral.

  Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. Movement, shadows flickering through the watery sunlight. And then, I see him.

  Our sea turtle.

  He swims around the bend in the coral reef, right toward us.

  Ten years ago …

  I was in the shallow water, my feet touching the sand, practicing my steady breathing through the snorkel tube. I was able to do it pretty well within the safety of the shallow waters. But I wasn’t ready to venture out much farther.

  Kai swam over, gesturing wildly. He bobbed his head above the surface, so I did too. My mouth hurt from clenching around the mouthpiece.

  He spit out his snorkel tube. “Tegan, follow me!”

  “Where? What’s going on?”

  “There’s a sea turtle! C’mon, quick, before he swims away! You’ve got to see him!”

  I hesitated, for only a second, but Kai noticed.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said. “It’s not that far out.”

  My defenses rose. “I’m not scared. I just don’t get what the big deal is.”

  “Legend has it, you can follow a sea turtle to the end of the world. Let’s do it!”

  Kai’s excitement was contagious. “Okay,” I relented. “I’m ready.”

  I popped in my mouthpiece and dove into the water. Kai swam ahead, waving at me to follow him.

  After what seemed like a long time, but was probably only a couple minutes of swimming, the sea turtle came into view. He seemed so friendly, smiling lazily at us. A barnacle clung to his shell. I wanted to reach out and hug him. I wanted to hang on to his shell just like that barnacle. I wanted him to take me on a ride.

  Together, Kai and I swam after the sea turtle. But we didn’t get very far. A wave swept over us and filled my snorkel tube. Panicking, breathing in salt water, I burst up above the ocean’s surface, sputtering and coughing. The shore was so far away—I wished desperately for something to hold on to, to steady myself.

  Kai popped up beside me. I clung to his arm. “It’s okay; you’re okay,” he said, pulling me gently back to shore.
/>   Safely on the beach, I felt embarrassment eclipsing my distress. “I’m sorry,” I told Kai.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We lost the turtle because of me.”

  Kai shrugged. “Naw, my arms were getting tired. I would have turned back soon.”

  I dug my toes into the sand. “Thanks for showing him to me.”

  “He was pretty awesome, right?”

  “Very awesome.”

  “We’re lucky that we saw him. My dad says people used to find turtles a lot, but not as much anymore. I’ve only seen, like, five, in all the times I’ve been snorkeling.”

  “Wow.” And I did feel lucky, sitting there on the beach with my new friend Kai. For the first time in my life, I believed there was magic swirling around in the world, and it had settled onto my shoulders. The magic had chosen me. In that moment, I was so confident that the magic would continue on and on, that it would keep choosing me and choosing me.

  This sea turtle is almost certainly not the same sea turtle we saw all those years ago.

  But it could be. It looks exactly like him.

  I yank on Kai’s arm and point. The sea turtle glides unhurriedly through the water, a calm expression on his face. He approaches us steadily, getting close enough for me to glimpse a few barnacles clinging to his massive, beautiful shell. Then he turns and heads into the deeper water.

  Like an instinct or a muscle memory, I follow.

  Kai swims beside me. His eyes behind his mask are wide with excitement. Time has circled around and swept us back into its orbit. We’ve caught up to something that previously slipped away, something I thought was gone forever. It seems possible to keep swimming and swimming forever. Maybe we can follow this sea turtle to the end of the world.

  The water gets colder the farther we swim out. I’ve never swum this far from shore before. But I don’t feel afraid.

  What nobody tells you about sea turtles is that they look graceful and calm, even lazy, as they move smoothly through the water—but don’t mistake this for slowness. They are speedy. Gradually, steadily, our sea turtle pulls away from us.