“No, I want to. Reservations! That’s so sweet of you.” I remember what his mom said on that first day. He’s never made reservations for anyone before.
I stand up and wrap my towel around my waist. A truth about life: sometimes it’s time to head inside before you feel ready to leave the water.
Our hotel bathroom is bigger than my bedroom at home. There’s a walk-in waterfall shower and a Jacuzzi tub. Fancy bath products are arranged on the counter between the sinks. I want to try them all.
Nothing compares to a long, hot shower after a day in the sun and the sand and the ocean. Under the stream of water, I close my eyes and try to imagine all of my worries running off my body and disappearing down the drain. It works a little bit.
Kai and I don the fluffy hotel robes and sit out on our private patio, polishing off the rest of the chocolate-covered strawberries. Then, already, it’s time for dinner. I’ve decided to wear my red sundress, the same one I wore on our first date. There’s a kind of poetry in it. Things are coming full circle. Reservations, a dinner date, butterflies in my stomach. So much has changed since that first night, and yet some things remain the same. Like this incredibly handsome guy, with his hair still wet from the shower, looking oh-so-grown-up in a button-down shirt and khaki slacks, a slow molasses smile spreading across his face when I step out of the bathroom and announce, “I’m ready!”
His eyes dance. He puts his hand on his chest like I’m lightning and he’s been struck. “Man, T, that dress. You look stunning.”
“You don’t look half-bad yourself. I still can’t get used to seeing you in pants.”
Kai laughs and waggles his eyebrows.
“I mean, instead of shorts! I’m used to seeing you in shorts!” I throw a pillow at him.
He catches me around the waist and nuzzles my neck. We grab the room key and head off to dinner, two sort-of grown-up little kids out on their first last date.
Kai leads me down the path from our hotel room to the resort restaurant, nestled snugly against the cliff. The hostess escorts us to a table on the patio with a spectacular view of the ocean stretching as far and wide as the eye can see. The sun is sinking down, washing the sky in bright orange. My next-to-last sunset. It’s a beauty.
“Have you been here before?” Kai asks.
I look around. “I can’t remember. Maybe I came here with my parents, when I was little. Have you?”
“Only a few times—for big occasions. The last time wasn’t that long ago, actually. My high school graduation. My parents made reservations here after the ceremony, to celebrate. Paulo tried to steal the saltshaker off the table.” Kai tilts it toward me. The ceramic saltshaker is shaped like a seahorse. The pepper grinder, disappointingly, is a normal pepper grinder shape.
“We got all the way to the parking lot,” Kai continues. “And suddenly, Paulo started crying. He pulled that saltshaker out of his pocket and explained that he’d wanted to take it home as a toy. But the poor kid was so racked with guilt, he didn’t even make it off the property before he confessed! We took him back here, and he apologized to the manager, who was really nice. He said Paulo could take the saltshaker home as a souvenir, but Paulo didn’t want to.”
I rub my thumb over the ridges in the seahorse. “He’s such a sweetheart. I wish I could see him grow up. He’s gonna be a great guy, just like his brother.”
Kai smiles. “You mean Theo?”
“Theo’s a good kid too. I’m serious. You’re a role model for both of them, Kai. They look up to you so much. Anyone can see that.”
“Thanks, T. I’m far from perfect. But I try.”
“They’re lucky to have you.” I set the saltshaker back down on the white tablecloth and rest my hand on top of Kai’s. “Hey, will you apologize for me? To Paulo? Tell him I’m sorry to miss his soccer game.”
“Of course I will. He’ll understand.”
For the rest of dinner, we don’t talk much. Our silence is like a friendly dog—like Olina—curled up in a ball at our feet. I am so filled with emotion that I could overflow. I don’t need to talk about anything. It’s enough to simply sit here, drinking in the fading sunset, holding Kai’s hand across the table. He orders the seafood pasta, and I choose the salmon. Every bite is perfection. I scrape my plate clean.
When the waitress comes with the dessert menu, I’m about to offer apologetic eyes and wave it away—too much; too full; no, thanks!—when something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I change my mind.
Across the patio, a couple is sitting down to dinner. They are a little less pale than they were yesterday, and they’re dressed up in nice clothes rather than hiking gear, but it is definitely them: the honeymooners who took our photo at Akaka Falls.
A memory sweeps in. Wait a minute—I have been to this restaurant before. It was the first time I came to Hawaii, ten years ago. My parents and I ate dinner here the day we arrived. We sat on the other side of the patio, facing the resort instead of the ocean. But I’m sure it was this place.
We’d had a long day of travel and sun, and I was tired. After we finished our meal and the waiter cleared away our plates, it took forever to get the bill. It was so hard to keep my eyes open. I was a little girl with a full belly who was up way past her East Coast bedtime.
Eventually, my dad flagged down the waiter and handed over his credit card without even seeing the bill. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. “I don’t need to check it first.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that,” the waiter said with a grin. “Your meal has already been taken care of.”
I didn’t understand the details at the time. But, later, my parents explained that a man dining at the restaurant had secretly paid for our meal as a random act of kindness. He told the waiter it was because we looked like a really nice family, enjoying a meal together. He requested that they wait to bring our bill until he left, so we did not get a chance to thank him or even meet him. But that added to the sense of magic. He could have been anyone, and so he was everyone. The whole world seemed a more generous place.
Years later, when my parents told me they were separating, I was angry. I clung to those half-remembered words from a stranger, brandishing them as evidence that a divorce wasn’t possible. A really nice family, enjoying a meal together. How could we have fallen so far? How did we get so lost? We had been a happy family. Hadn’t we? Somehow my parents had reached an impassable broken place, full of tense silences and bitter words, and by the time my dad moved out, everything had this air of inevitability.
But thinking about it now, the memory of that stranger’s kindness doesn’t make me sad. And my parents’ divorce no longer makes me angry. It doesn’t mean that the love we felt as a family was any less real or true. We were a really nice family, enjoying a meal together. And we still can be. If I got to do things over again, I would tell my parents, “No, I am not having two separate graduation parties. This is my big day, and all I want is to have dinner with the two of you, together. You are still my family.”
In truth, the divorce was probably for the best. They both seem much happier now than they were in those final months, when they were fighting constantly. Maybe one day I’ll understand everything better. And maybe one day they’ll reach a truce—even a friendship.
I hope that I can watch them from Heaven, or wherever it is that I’m going after I leave this world. I want to see what happens next. Do they find their way through the mess together? Do they find a way not to hate each other anymore? I want to see how their story ends.
“What sounds good to you?” Kai asks, interrupting my thoughts. He holds up the dessert menu. “I’m pretty stuffed, so you should order what you want. I’ll only have a bite or two.”
“Maybe the chocolate lava cake?” I tell Kai what I’m planning to do.
He grins and says, “That sounds perfect.” Then he gets a funny look on his face. “Tegan, no one else comes even close to you.”
I point my finger at him and make my tone very serious. “Kai Kapule, I expect more from you. Don’t you go putting me up on a pedestal. I’m not perfect. I want you to remember me for all that I am. Yes, there are good things about me. But I’m a regular person, with flaws and insecurities and plenty of regrets. Remember me as, well, me. All of me. Okay?”
He nods. “Okay. But it’s still true, what I said. No one else is like you.”
Before I can reply, the waitress returns. I order the chocolate lava cake. “Not for us, though.” I point to our honeymooner friends across the patio. “We’ll pay for it now, and when the time comes for their dessert, will you please bring the cake to them? Just say … ” I remember the card in our hotel room. “Best wishes for many blissful years ahead.”
Instead of going back to our room, Kai announces that he has one more surprise. We walk across the beach to the more densely packed sand near the water’s edge. At this hour, we are the only ones here. It is as if we are stepping back in time—or trying to step back in time—returning to Monday night, when Kai brought me here after The Blue Oasis. Farther down the beach, I spot the chaise lounges we slept on that night. They are covered with towels, waiting for morning.
Kai fiddles with his phone, and I can guess what he is searching for. The glow from his phone screen lights up his features: his straight nose, long eyelashes, strong cheekbones. The face of the boy I loved a long time ago, and the man who—I hope—will eventually learn to love someone else.
Kai tucks his phone into his shirt pocket, and soon the delicate ukulele melody winds its way into the night. “Magic by the Water.” He lifts one hand in the air. “Miss Tegan Rossi,” he says in a formal voice, “may I ask you for this dance?”
Please, T, his eyes say. Please let me pretend.
So I smile, playing along. “I would be honored, Mr. Kapule.” I place my hand in his.
Kai pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my waist. I put my other hand on his shoulder. He smells like spicy cologne and hotel shampoo. Closing my eyes, I rest my temple against his cheek, and together we sway to the music. A breeze gently lifts the hem of my dress and plays with tendrils of my hair. Our feet shuffle a circle in the sand. I can hear the waves rolling in and receding, rolling in and receding. Goose bumps spring up on my arms. Kai’s hand shifts on my back, drawing me closer.
Kai is trying to be romantic. Returning to slow dance on the beach is a super sweet gesture. The murmuring of the waves, the soft breeze, the gentle moonlight—in another world, all of this would be perfect.
But here, now, in this world … everything is wrong. I don’t know how much longer I can make believe. I want to scream at him that we can’t go back in time. This isn’t Monday night, when the whole future seemed to stretch before us like a fresh swath of beach brushed clean by the tide. This is Saturday night. My Last Night. Our future is a beach littered with kelp and driftwood, half-smashed sandcastles and broken seashells. Relics of memories and regrets and might-have-beens. The tide is closing in, and no matter what I do, I can’t escape it. Tomorrow, I’ll be crushed against the rocks. And Kai wants to pretend the inevitable isn’t happening.
My face is hot, and my heart is beating rapidly—I wonder if Kai can feel it through the thin fabric of my dress. The tears are building behind my eyes, and I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. I try to swallow, but it’s no use.
Kai tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love you,” he whispers.
When I open my mouth to reply, the dam breaks. I mean to say, “I love you too.” Instead, I let out a sob.
Kai pulls back. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
The music notes unfurl delicately into the night, but we are no longer dancing. The breeze picks up, flinging sand against my bare legs. It stings. The sobs rear up inside of me like an unstoppable, unknowable force. I pull away from Kai and cover my face with my hands. My whole body shakes. I can’t remember the last time I cried like this. Not at the lava tubes. That was gentle and delicate compared to this. A desperate, animal sadness keens out of my lungs. I’ve never sobbed like this in front of Kai. I didn’t even cry on the phone when I told him about my parents getting divorced. I always told myself that crying was for Other Girls; I was too strong to cry. When the world knocked me down, I would brush myself off and Get Over It, as quickly as possible, with no drama. Now a lifetime of stored-up tears are erupting out of me.
“It’s okay,” Kai says, rubbing my back. “Let it out. It’s okay, T.”
I had thought he might be scared of my unrestrained crying. But he’s not. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. I don’t need to hide from him. Why did I used to think I needed to hide? I’m flooded with such strong love, it makes me cry even harder.
Kai’s hand on my back is a warm, gentle presence, letting me know I’m not alone.
Gradually, the flow of tears slows, and I’m able to catch my breath. I wipe my face with my fingers. My eyes are hot and puffy. The music from Kai’s phone has completely stopped. All I can hear is the heartbeat of the ocean waves against the shore, and my own heartbeat in my ears gradually calming down to a normal rate.
Kai kisses my forehead. “You want to go back to the room?”
“Not yet. Can we stay here a bit longer?”
“Of course.”
My legs are still a little shaky, so I plop down right there on the beach, folding my legs beneath me. The sand is cold against my bare skin. Kai sits down next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
“I’m sorry for bringing you back here,” he says. “It was a bad idea.”
“No, no—it was a lovely idea. It was so sweet of you.”
“I should have realized it would be painful. I know—” He clears his throat and digs his bare toes into the sand. “I know that we can’t go back, T. As much as I want to.”
“We both want to. Believe me, that is my biggest wish.”
He leans his head against mine. We stare out at the dark waves.
“Thanks for pretending with me today,” Kai says softly.
I thought I had already squeezed out every single teardrop, but new tears brim in my eyes. My words come out in a whisper. “I can’t believe it all went by so quickly.”
Back at the room, I try calling my mom once more. No answer. Not even voice mail. The phone rings and rings and rings, echoing through my mind, taunting me.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow …
I don’t want to go to sleep. But I don’t especially want to stay awake either. My body is wrung out, and my spirit is exhausted. Mostly, I crave normality. My biggest wish is to have my normal life back. I curl up under the covers with Kai because it’s the normal thing to do.
“Good night,” Kai says.
Your last “good night,” my brain thinks.
“Good night,” I whisper.
It doesn’t seem possible that I’ll ever be able to fall asleep.
It doesn’t seem possible that I’ll ever be able to let go of this life.
Maybe that’s what sleeping prepares us for. That liminal moment between wakefulness and dreaming, when you have to relinquish control and let yourself drift over to the other side. Maybe that’s what it’s like to cross over from life into death.
Soon, I will know.
dear t,
i’m not gonna lie. it is scary as hell to see you in that hospital bed, hooked up to all those tubes and beeping monitors. it breaks my heart to see you like this. so still.
i brought along a snowflake i carved for you out of wood. it’s a new thing i’ve been working on for the tiki room: wooden snowflake ornaments. i was planning to give this one to you for your birthday, but i finished it early. so i asked your mom if i could hang it in your window. she said yes, i should. i like to imagine you opening your eyes and seeing that snowflake. would you know it’s from me?
my dream last night was the most real-seeming one yet. we were staying in a hotel room together at the fancy resort. just us two. it was the best dream i’ve ever had. this morning, i swore i could smell you on my pillowcase. crazy, huh?
but i woke up from the dream with this enormous sadness welling up inside me. uncontrollable. just, like, this huge wave of despair. i can’t shake the feeling that it was my last dream of you. that you saved the best for last. that it was your way of saying goodbye.
you always said you were horrible at goodbyes. so, i’m begging you, tegan—don’t say it. say hello instead. open your eyes and say hello. i’ll be here, waiting for you with my sexy and charming smile. that’s an inside joke, from my dream last night. i really want to tell you about it. i want it to become a real inside joke between us.
i can’t bear saying goodbye to you. not in my dreams. certainly not in real life.
please, don’t say goodbye, t.
i love you.
—kai
SUNDAY
I’m underwater, so far down below the surface that no light reaches me. A steady beeping. I’m so cold. My whole body aches. I look around for the mantas, but I don’t see them. I don’t see anyone. I’m alone. Forever. My chest constricts in panic. Wait. I don’t want this. I—
I wake up in a panic, shivering, tangled in the sheets. The room is dark, the curtains pulled closed, and it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am. The hotel room. Kai. My relief to see him there, sleeping beside me in the dim morning light, is pummeled away by the crushing realization that today is Sunday. My Last Day. There will be no more waking up like this.
The Best Week That Never Happened Page 22