Two hours later the warm afternoon sun has shouldered out the lab fluorescents, and my skin finally has a nonzero chance of remembering what melanin is. Soren decides that if I picked up a tan I could pass as someone who’s spent more than a month here.
“You already have the light, tangled, curly hair,” she says.
“And the freckles—don’t forget the freckles,” Alana adds, sipping a passionfruit smoothie.
Maya snorts into her cup. “Sure, she could pass as local—as long as she doesn’t speak, or try public transit alone, or get let loose in a corner store.”
Soren and Alana stop. The latter turns, eyes bright. “What happens if we set you loose in a corner store?”
Maya groans. “Don’t get her started?—”
“You literally have ahi poke in your ABCs,” I say, pointing at the one half a block away, already glowing like a lighthouse. “And fresh fruit. And towels. And, like, twelve kinds of milk.”
They stare for a beat and then crack up.
Soren wipes tears, shoulders shaking. “Yeah, and?”
“Do you know how many different places I’d have to visit to get all of that back home? And those places close at five. Here you can buy chocolate-covered macadamia nuts at two in the morning like it’s an essential service.”
Alana slings an arm around my shoulders. “Maya, where did you find this weirdo? I love her. Can we keep her?”
Maya snorts again. “She found me. Weirdos always find me. Look at this roster.”
We do look like we were assembled by committee. Alana and Maya are tall, all curves and long muscles; Alana’s rich dark skin and riot of curls make my pale everything look like it missed the memo, and while Soren and I both have light eyes, her burgundy hair and the tattoos winding down her arms give her a different wavelength altogether.
Different, yes—but in the few weeks since I landed, here they’ve been ridiculous in the best way. Soren and Alana share a small apartment near Waikiki; they keep light class loads, work close to the strip, and Alana’s parents cover rent on the condition that groceries and everything else are on them. They still end up in our dorm more nights than not—sometimes to pry Maya toward a party, sometimes to attempt, and fail, to pry me there too. We’ve done coffee runs, early and late. When I bump into either of them without the others, they never pretend not to see me; they loop me into whatever conversation they’re in or walk with me until our paths split.
Between the three of them—and Kai, plus the occasional Theo sighting—I’m finally building a small circle that makes being this far from home feel less like an experiment in isolation. Honestly, I don’t even think I had this many genuinely kind friends back home.
We cut a few blocks inland to the food trucks Maya’s been hyping all week. When Maya wants something, the rest of us save time by agreeing, and frankly I am not immune to my own cravings either.
Orders fly. Maya claims al pastor tacos. Alana goes for a veggie rice bowl that smells like peppers and lime. Soren points at garlic shrimp without even reading the sign. I pick lumpia from the Filipino truck and burn my fingers on the first one because patience is a skill I practice but do not own. We grab a scarred wooden table. Maya drops her phone in the middle and hits play on something labeled Food Truck Park.
“You have a playlist for food trucks?” I ask.
“You should know by now that I have a playlist for everything, Coralie darling,” she says, already elbow-deep in taco number one.
I’m dipping a lumpia into sweet chili when Soren looks over. “So, tell us, how’s it going with Wilkes?”
I cough-laugh, swallow, and aim a glare at Maya that saysI know where you sleep.
She grins, unapologetic for spilling my secret. “They asked. I answered.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, which in my mouth sounds unconvincing even to me.
Alana lifts an eyebrow. “We’ve all seen him around at one point or another, girl. He’s stupid hot. Not even my usual type and I’m still annoyedabout it.”
Soren nods. “Not my lane either. Still, I have eyes.”
Which is fair. Holden has the kind of face that interferes with verbal processing and the quiet that reads like he knows what he’s doing. It feels borderline indecent that all of that arrives paired with a mind sharp enough to dissect a figure and spot the confound before I’ve even flipped to a clean page.
“And,” Soren adds, turning back to her shrimp, “Maya says he can’t stand you.”
“Maya,” I say, because her name deserves to be said in full, broad daylight with all the annoyance I can muster.
She pats my arm. “I love you, but he does seem allergic.”
“Fine,” I admit. “Yes. And I think I made it worse today.”
