The Best Week That Never Happened

by Dallas Woodburn

  “What was the other time?” I prompt Kai. “That you confessed your feelings? I don’t remember any other time.”

  “The first night we reconnected, when you met me in the lava tubes. I was totally trying to put the moves on you.”

  I laugh. “That was different! You barely knew me! I was some random girl you were hoping to make out with!”

  “It wasn’t like that, Tegan,” Kai says, his voice serious. “You were never some random girl. I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since you left.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I loved you when we were kids. I loved you when we met again three years ago. I love you now.” His arm tightens around me. “I’ll always love you.”

  I nestle against him, my bare feet tucked against his calves. We lie there in silence for a while, the hammock swaying gently in the breeze. Birds flutter in the trees and call out to each other. My ear is pressed against Kai’s chest, and I can hear the steady beating of his heart.

  When the sun sinks fully beyond the horizon, the breeze turns cooler, and goose bumps spring up on my skin. It’s time to go inside, but I burrow closer to Kai, trying to hold on to this moment a little longer. How is another day over already? A pit yawns open in my stomach, so wide it could swallow me whole.

  “We better head in,” Kai murmurs. His lips brush my forehead. His breath is warm. “Get ready to go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “To the art gallery. I mean, um, if you still want to … ”

  I sit up. “Oh my god—yes! Of course I want to! With everything that’s happened today, I forgot what day it is.” Carefully, I roll sideways and swing my legs down out of the hammock. “What time is it? Are we late?”

  Kai checks his watch. “It’s a little after seven. Let’s eat dinner here and then head over. The gallery opens at eight, but we don’t need to get there right on time.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I reach down and help him up. “I’m so glad you’re taking me to your show, Kai. I know it’s a complicated situation, but it’s important to me. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you, T.” His hair is adorably rumpled, and one cheek is creased with lines from the hammock. “I wanted to go. Of course I did. This is a big deal—my first piece in a real art gallery! I’ve been dreaming about this forever. I was just—nervous about it, I guess—and I let myself make excuses. Thanks for calling me on it.”

  I don’t tell Kai, but I’m nervous too. I’m nervous to meet his friends. Will they all be like that guy R.J. was at the restaurant? Looking me up and down, judging me, deeming me not worthy? What if another fight breaks out? What if R.J. tries to punch Kai again?

  What if this night is a total disaster, and it’s all my fault for forcing Kai to go?

  But we need to go. Not only do I want to experience the thrill of seeing Kai’s artwork in a gallery for the first time, I also need Kai to make things right with his friends. That’s the only way I’ll ever be able to let go of him at the end of the week. I need to know he’s going to be okay without me.

  We head inside, and I duck into Kai’s room to change, while he scrounges around for leftovers in the kitchen. In the mirror, I check my hourglass tattoo. I have to force myself not to look at it a thousand times throughout the day, monitoring the infinitesimal trickle of sand. Now, there is definitely more sand in the bottom half than in the top. I run my fingers over the black lines, wishing so desperately I could flip the hourglass back over somehow. Give myself more time.

  I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over a flowing yellow skirt I found in my suitcase. It is also new, and I wonder if in some other life—some alternate past that leads to a future that doesn’t end after this week—I bought this skirt thinking of Kai. I always associate him with the color yellow: cheerful, confident, easygoing. Maybe that’s why it is so strange to think of him as anything but happy. I remember what his mom said: He’s been having a hard time lately. It means a lot that you traveled all the way here to cheer him up.

  Why was he having a hard time? Was it because of our fight and his falling-out with his friends? Or something else, something more? I need to ask him about it. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him.

  I pair the skirt with a simple white T-shirt, my yellow sandals, and Mom’s gray sweater that still smells like her. Thinking about my mom for too long makes this lion of grief roar up inside of me, and I don’t have time for grief. After tonight, I only have three more days here. I need to be present. I need to make the most of the time I have left.

  “I’ll grieve when I’m dead,” I announce to the mirror, mimicking the way Andrea would always say, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” as rationale for her late-night Netflix-bingeing. I almost laugh. Does this mean I’m gradually accepting the fact that I’m going to die at the end of this week—that, in the real world, I am already dead? Or is this funny because it’s still so absurd to think of actually dying? Am I still in denial about the truth?

  I put on my puka shell necklace and leave my hair loose around my shoulders. Then I leave the bedroom and head into the kitchen, where Kai is heating up some dinner leftovers from last night, pineapple pork and lots of veggies.

  “Hey,” I say. “Anything I can do to help?”

  He looks up, and I wish I could freeze this moment—the expression in his eyes when he sees me. Like he’s drinking in every inch of me, and it lights him up inside.

  That slow smile spreads across his face, making me blush.

  He turns off the burner and sets down his spatula. Then he closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around me. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear. “I can hardly take it.”

  Now I’m lit up inside. When Kai calls me beautiful, I know he’s talking about more than my appearance. Because he doesn’t just see my outside layer, the way the rest of the world does. He peels back all my layers. He knows me, truly and deeply. He loved the little girl I was, who still lives on inside me, at my core. He knows all of me—all my flaws and insecurities and vulnerabilities—and he thinks I am beautiful.

  He kisses my earlobe, my forehead, my nose, my lips.

  I break away. “Where’s your mom?” I would be embarrassed if she came in and saw us like this. Does she even know that we’re, like, a couple now? I love spending time with Kai’s family and don’t want to make anything awkward.

  “She’s putting Paulo to bed,” Kai says. “Little guy’s exhausted. Soccer camp always takes it out of him.”

  He grabs two plates and dishes out dinner. “You ready for this?” he asks.

  I’m not sure if he’s asking about the meal or the art gallery. Thinking about the latter makes butterflies gather in my stomach. Kai’s little-boy voice pops into my head, from our countless games of hide-and-seek as kids. Ready or not, here I come!

  “Yep,” I tell him. “Born ready.”

  Come and get me, R.J. and Nadia and the rest. I’m not scared of you. I’ll be scared when I’m dead. I bite my lip, smiling to myself. I think I’ve found my new mantra.

  The art gallery is wedged into a busy street in downtown Kona, surrounded by shops and restaurants. Kai turns onto a side street to find a parking space. Then we walk together, hand in hand, down the street. Kai’s wearing the same button-down shirt from our first date, at The Blue Oasis. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the only collared shirt he owns.

  “What?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring. “Do I have something on my shirt?” He looks down.

  “No, you look great. I love that shirt. Is that the one you wore the other night?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles sheepishly. “Don’t get me wrong, I have other nice shirts—I’m not that much of a beach bum. But this one’s my lucky shirt.”

  “It is? I mean, was it always?”

  “Not before that night. But now it’s the luckiest shirt ever. It made you finally see me as more than a friend.” He smiles, draws in a big breath, releases it. “And I could use a bit of extra
luck tonight.”

  We reach the entrance to the art gallery. The door is propped open with a giant geode; light spills out onto the sidewalk, along with the murmur of voices and laughter. Kai looks at me and raises his eyebrows. Ready?

  I smile confidently. Fearlessly.

  “I can’t wait to see your piece,” I tell him.

  It’s the right thing to say, because Kai seems to get a jolt of energy—a reminder of why we’re here. This is a celebration! His work is hanging in an art gallery! He leads me across the threshold, into the noise and light.

  The gallery has smooth, well-worn hardwood floors and bright-white walls. People mingle around the airy rooms, nibbling on crackers and sipping on wine. I don’t see any of Kai’s friends. But I’m sure they’re here somewhere.

  “Look up,” Kai tells me, so I tilt my head back. The ceiling is a giant mosaic of seashells and stones, arranged in an undulating wavelike pattern.

  “Wow,” I breathe. “That’s amazing.”

  “The gallery owner’s wife was a mosaic artist,” Kai says.

  Was. The word niggles at me. Was a mosaic artist. Not is.

  “What happened to her?” I ask.

  “She died a few years ago. Cancer. He did the ceiling as a tribute to her. It took him three years to finish.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. I wonder how her Best Week unfolded, after she died of cancer. Did she spend the week on vacation with her husband? Maybe she went back and got to experience her honeymoon all over again. Or did she relive a week from her childhood? Or perhaps her Best Week was an ordinary week from her life. Making art. Making dinner. Making love.

  I wish I could channel this mosaic artist who died. I have so many questions I yearn to ask her. Does it hurt to cross over? Will I ever stop missing this life, this humanness? Will I ever stop aching for Kai and my parents and my friends—all the people I’ve left behind?

  Will my life always feel unfinished?

  “You okay?” Kai asks. His eyes look pained. I can tell he regrets telling me about the gallery owner’s wife. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Better than fine—I’m excited. Take me to your piece!”

  “This way.” He grins and leads me through the front room, down a little hallway, and into another room. It’s emptier and quieter back here. Then we veer left and head for the far back corner. All I know about Kai’s piece is what he told me after shave ice the other day: it’s a wood carving. But I have no idea what the subject matter is.

  That part is a surprise, Kai had said, winking. You’ll just have to wait and see.

  The first thing I notice about Kai’s piece is how large it is—the opposite of his delicate, dainty snowflake ornaments on display at the Tiki Room. It stretches across the wall, the size of a giant flat-screen TV. From across the room, it simply looks like a big, flat piece of wood. I can’t tell what the image is.

  But as we get closer, shapes begin to emerge. Slowly, I realize what Kai has created. What his hands have brought to life in the grains of this wood. We step up to his piece, close enough to reach out and touch the grooves if we wanted.

  “Wow.” I let out a long breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Kai, this is … magnificent.”

  I look over at him. Instead of studying his artwork, he is studying me. Wanting to see my reaction. He flashes a smile, partly nervous and partly proud.

  “Truly,” I say. “This is … I have no words to even describe it. I’m speechless.”

  His wood carving is of manta rays. The giant, magical creatures of the deep, soaring through the water with their graceful fins spread wide. He has captured them so perfectly—it looks as if they are moving. Dancing, twirling, flying. Kelp wavers around the edge, forming a frame around the scene. Tiny fish circle the manta rays like halos around angels. I peer closer, studying the details. It must have taken Kai hours upon hours to meticulously carve these figures into this wood. I am amazed by his talent, his dedication. His vision. That he can look at an ordinary slab of wood and see … this. It’s remarkable.

  And then, I notice her. On the right side, floating up close to the surface of the water. A girl with wavy hair, wearing snorkel goggles and swim fins.

  I glance at Kai. Point to her. “Is that … ?”

  “Yep. It’s you.”

  “Oh my gosh.” I can’t believe it.

  “I didn’t consciously plan it,” Kai says. “It just sort of happened. To be honest, I was angry with you when I made this piece. It was during that period when we weren’t talking. But you’re always there, in the back of my mind.” He grins. “Or the front of my mind. You’re in all the art I create, T.”

  I point at the snorkeling girl. “Not like this. I mean, you’ve sent me photos of your other art pieces, and I saw your snowflake carvings at the shop. You’ve never put me into your wood carvings like this before, have you?”

  “Not literally,” Kai admits. “But the way I feel about you—that love comes through in all of my art.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I’d say that you’re in all the math problems I solve, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

  He laughs. I step back, wanting more room to take in the whole breadth of the piece. It really is stunning. I am swept away with this yearning to be there, underwater, with the manta rays and the fish and the swaying kelp.

  And suddenly, I know what I want to do on Sunday. On my Last Day. Right before the sand in my hourglass tattoo runs out.

  I want Kai to take me on a manta ray snorkel, just like the first time we met, on his parents’ boat when I was a little girl. I always wished that we’d gone on a manta snorkel again, when I was here with my parents three years ago. I remember how peaceful and beautiful it was, slipping into the water as day quickened into evening, watching the manta rays glide and dip and twirl. I want to see them again, one more time. One last time.

  Acceptance settles within me. I feel truly calm and resolute for the first time since I woke up here in Hawaii. It will be a perfect final memory of this week. Of this life. My time with Kai will come full circle. The mantas brought us together, and they will help us say goodbye.

  Before Kai and I wander through the rest of the gallery, I remember that art galleries usually have placards hanging next to the pieces, listing the artists’ names. I want to see Kai’s name in official gallery lettering. I spot it—a small white card hanging a few feet to the left of his wood carving. I step closer and lean in.

  Kai Kapule.

  “Homecoming.”

  Lime wood. Hand-carved original.

  I take a photo of the placard, then another photo of him smiling in front of his piece, and one last photo of the piece by itself. Then we walk through the rest of the gallery, taking in the eclectic mishmash of paintings and photographs and sculptures of all different styles, from traditional to abstract. Other than Kai’s wood carving, my favorite piece is a detailed, vibrantly colored painting of a starfish sunning itself on a rock, about to be hit by a wave.

  “That’s Nadia’s piece,” Kai says.

  Of course it is. “Wow. It’s wonderful.” A surge of jealousy hits me, but I push it away. Kai needs to reconnect with his friends. Nadia is the keystone. Plus, I’m curious to meet these people I’ve only seen in photographs, who have been such a big part of Kai’s life. In the framed picture on Kai’s bookshelf, they all look so happy together. There must still be fondness there, if only Kai could get past his stubborn pride and reach out to them.

  I glance around the room. We haven’t bumped into his friends yet; so far, we’ve mostly encountered older people. A lot of the gallery browsers seem to be tourists, judging from their new-looking Hawaiian shirts and sunburns.

  A shadow darkens Kai’s face. “They’re here,” he mutters, nodding across the room. “Over by the snack table. Just like them to take advantage of free food.”

  I grab his hand. “I’m feeling a
bit hungry myself.”

  “We already had dinner!” Kai says. “We don’t need to go over there.”

  I’m surprised by the genuine alarm in his voice. He really doesn’t want to talk to them, I realize. They hurt him. He’s scared.

  I take Kai’s other hand in mine and gaze up into his brown eyes. Love for him squeezes my insides and wrings me out. I need to know that he’s going to be okay without me. And to be okay, he needs his friends back in his life.

  “Do you remember our very first argument?” I ask.

  “You mean when we were kids? Like, about where to build a sandcastle?”

  “No—our first real argument, after we reconnected. The trigonometry one.”

  Kai nods. Looks down at his sandals. “I still don’t know what I did to make you upset.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was my own baggage. I thought—I thought you only wanted to be my friend so you could get help on your homework.”

  Kai’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? That’s ridiculous!”

  I hold up my hand. “I know it is. That’s why I’m so glad I apologized, so we could move past it.”

  Kai looks wary. “I have an inkling where you’re going here, T, and believe me, this situation is completely different. My friendship with them was never like what you and I had. You never would have abandoned me like they did. Even when you and I fought, I knew we’d eventually get past it. And besides, I did absolutely nothing wrong—”

  “Please, Kai.” I stare into his face, catching his gaze and holding it. “You don’t have to agree with me. Just hear me out. I remember that first argument, when we didn’t talk for a day or so, and I felt like the rug was pulled out from under my feet. I realized that you could leave at any time—disappear, whenever you wanted, and there would be nothing I could do about it. I didn’t like the feeling, so I vowed to distance myself. I would never be dependent on you, which I thought meant that I would never get hurt.”

  Kai nods. He looks down at our intertwined hands. I can tell he’s listening.