Even if it does require family ambush tactics, elderly matchmakers, and what appears to be a standing ovation from the chickens.
CHAPTER 9
The next night, walking into Koa’s family dinner feels like heading into an exam I forgot to study for—except the subject is my entire personality.
Koa picks me up at exactly seven in his weathered Toyota 4Runner, which has the kind of relationship with air conditioning that most people have with their ex-spouses—technically functional but prone to sudden, inexplicable failures at the worst possible moments.
The drive west takes us through sugar cane fields stretching toward the mountains, past red dirt roads that stain everything they touch, heading toward the rolling hills above and behind Hanapepe, where the Hale family has carved out their own piece of paradise.
“So,” I say, gripping the door handle as we hit another pothole that feels like it was personally excavated by angryspirits, “any family traditions I should know about? Secret handshakes? Ritual sacrifice of tourists?”
“Just be yourself,” Koa says with a casual tone that suggests he’s either supremely confident in my social skills or hasn’t considered how badly I handle pressure.
“That’s what people say right before their relatives start showing embarrassing baby photos and asking pointed questions about reproductive timelines.”
Have I mentioned he looks unfairly handsome tonight? There’s an old scar on his cheek I hadn’t noticed before, his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt in a way that feels deeply personal, and his face is set in that calm, focused way that feels unfair given the circumstances.
His jaw twitches in what might be suppressed laughter or early onset panic. “My mother might ask about your intentions.”
“My intentions? What is this, 1850? Should I prepare a dowry proposal and references from previous employers?” I’m only half-teasing.
“She’s direct.”
“Define direct.”
“She once measured my girlfriend’s hips.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“She said something about good childbearing structure. The relationship ended that night.”
My lips invert at the thought. I’m not sure our relationship could survive a tape measure either. Have I mentioned how much I love cinnamon rolls, the pineapple upside-downice cream we serve at the resort, and the malasadas I keep chasing around the island as if I were stalking fried confections? On second thought, my ample hips might put me on his mama’s nice list.
The Jeep hits another crater disguised as a road feature, and my attempt to look elegant and date-worthy takes on the characteristics of a crash test dummy experiencing technical difficulties.
I’ve donned a colorful sundress, complete with flowing, tropical flowers, designed to suggest effortless island sophistication, and I’ve put my luscious red locks, okay, deep fried locks, in a sophisticated updo which has just undone itself and now it’s dissolved into frizzy chaos, half-up and half-down—basicallyderanged mermaidmeetsI don’t own a brush.
“Tell me about your parents again,” I say, attempting to distract myself from the fact that we’re driving through a geological obstacle course designed by sadistic road engineers.
Koa’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, which in detective body language probably translates toprepare for emotional revelation requiring therapeutic intervention.
“My dad, Keoni, is full Hawaiian. He can fix anything with duct tape and determination—my brothers get their construction talent from him. My mom’s name is Linda. She’s from Nebraska originally. She’s practical as a Swiss Army knife and twice as sharp.” He ticks his head as he says it.
“Nebraska to Hawaii. Wow, that’s quite a cultural adjustment,”I say as the bright orange skies begin to give way to deep purples and blues.
“They met here when she was twenty-two, visiting her college roommate. Dad was working construction, and she was supposed to go home after two weeks. She stayed six months, married him, had three kids, then divorced when I was five.”
“Divorce in paradise. That’s either very tragic or extremely ironic.”
“Both. Mom took us back to Nebraska. She said the island was too isolated, too different from everything she knew. Dad stayed here, too stubborn to chase after a woman who’d already made her choice.”
The trade winds carry the scent of plumeria and sea salt through the partially opened windows, while roosters crow from roadside perches.
“Neither of them ever remarried,” Koa continues, and I wait with bated breath to hear more. “They both claimed they were too busy, too set in their ways, too whatever. Really, they never got over each other.”
“And you all moved back here?” I’m hoping, guessing, because well, they’re all here now.
“One by one. Loco first, then Shaka, then me. Something about this place gets in your blood. Of course, we spent our summers here and every chance in between that we could. Mom finally followed us back five years ago, supposedly just to visit.”
