“A girl can hope, right?” she responds.
“As most girls would hope, I’m sure.” My sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, and she lifts her head and switches cheeks, facing away from me.
“Why are you sitting out here?”
“Why are you standing out here?” she asks.
“Noa is my ride, and I almost forgot I was on a different island without anything that’s familiar to me.” It’s honesty. I’m lucky I know my name right now. I haven’t stopped running in the entire last month, preparing to pick up, suddenly leaving behind the life I lived for eight years.
“I have my car, but I had too much to drink, so I’m sitting here until I’m sober,” she says, slurring her words a bit.
Kai has been out here for at least a couple hours now. I’m surprised she hasn’t sobered up completely. “What about Lea?”
“She’s passed out inside. She’s going home with Noa, plus she can’t drive, so that’s why I’m sitting here.”
I reach my hand out to her. “Luckily, I’m stone sober. How about I drive you home? Do you live near the hotel by any chance? I can walk from there if you do. I need to get back to the hotel, so I can relieve Noa’s mom of babysitting duties.”
“I’m about a ten-minute drive. That’s a long walk at night,” she mumbles.
“Eh, I can handle it.”
“No, no, I can just get a room at the hotel. It’s a perk of working there.”
“Are you sure?” I’m pretty sure she’s sure. She can hardly keep her eyes open.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
I’ve been reaching for her hand, but she either hasn’t noticed or isn’t ready to move. I lean in and scoop my hand around her arm and tug gently, seeing if she’ll comply, which she does.
Once I have her standing, her head flops onto my shoulder. “Were you drinking more while you were out here?” I ask, jokingly.
“No, were you?” she asks.
“How are you still drunk, and which of the three cars are yours?” The only people left inside were the two chefs, Noa, and Lea, so it shouldn’t be hard for Kai to spot her car.
“Low blood pressure or something,” she says, stumbling on a small rock.
“That’s not good, “I tell her.
“I’m fine,” she argues. “I’ve always been this way.”
“Fair enough.” She’s heading in the direction of an old yellow Wrangler. “Is that yours?”
“Yup.”
“Keys?” I ask, holding my free hand out.
She turns her entire body toward her dangling purse and reaches inside as if it were a foot deep. I hear the clinging and clanging of whatever else is in there, but it takes a solid minute before she retrieves a set of keys. “Don’t hurt Bee,” she says.
“Bee?”
“My Jeep.”
“Oh, Bee, yellow, got it.”
“My dad gave it to me before he died.”
She doesn’t stutter or trip over her words. She announces her dad is dead as if she says it routinely every day.
