Casey
Luau season was Hawaii's own kind of holiday, and my favorite weekend of the year.
Native drums had been thundering since two in the afternoon. The air over Kahala Beach was thick with roasting pork fat and the faint sweetness of coconut carried on the breeze, a smell that existed nowhere else. This place, after six years, was the only real "home" I'd ever had.
I gripped Tommy's pudgy hand tight, weaving through the crowd. He was wound up today, the crooked little straw hat on his head bobbing with every bounce.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look!" He jumped, pointing with his free hand.
The hula stage. A dozen young women in golden grass skirts, flower leis wrapped around their wrists and ankles, bodies rolling like waves, arms carving graceful arcs through the air. Sunlight hit their skin, making it glow.
"Their skirts are dancing!" Tommy's eyes sparkled. His head bobbed to the rhythm, nearly knocking his hat loose.
I crouched down to straighten it, planting a kiss on his soft cheek. "That's right, baby. It's the dance of the ocean. Hawaiians believe hula is a gift for the gods."
Tommy nodded like he understood, eyes still glued to the stage. One of the dancers noticed the little boy in the straw hat staring and winked at him. He immediately buried his face in my skirt.
My heart melted.
This was my whole world. My only salvation on this earth.
Across the way, Lina waved from a booth, wearing a bright orange tank that made her tan skin glow. "Ella! Get over here! I saved you fresh-cut pineapple!"
I started to answer, but my hand went empty.
"Shells! Mommy! Look at that shell!" Tommy yanked free and bolted toward a nearby stall hung with shell necklaces and handmade crafts.
"Tommy! Slow down!" My heart skipped. In crowds like this, losing your kid was every mother's worst fear. I didn't even look where I was going—just spun and chased after him.
I slammed into someone. A solid chest. The impact sent me stumbling backward, about to hit the sand.
Just before I fell, a scent wrapped around me. Cedar. Cool and steady. Paul's favorite cologne.
My breath stopped. For six years, I'd woken up in cold sweats, half-dreaming I smelled it. I froze, numb, and slowly lifted my head.
Paul stood in front of me.
Dark suit, tailored perfectly, collar open. Against this beachy backdrop, he looked absurdly sharp. Behind him stood several European men in similar suits—some kind of business tour. Hawaii had been pushing tourism development lately. The Vincent Family's real estate empire reaching the Pacific wasn't exactly shocking.
But what were the odds?
Six years ago, I'd fled Boston, picked the farthest, least-American place I could find. I thought I'd never see him again.
The moment our eyes met, all sound vanished. Drums, cheers, waves—gone. Just him. Those impossibly deep eyes.
In them I saw shock, disbelief, and something else—longing so intense it bordered on madness.
His throat worked. His lips trembled. A hoarse sound came out.
"Casey..."
That voice tore open a wound in my chest. The pain from six years ago, the humiliation, the hell I went through to escape him. It all came flooding back.
I wanted to cry. But more than that, I wanted to run.
Just as the emotion threatened to crush me, a memory flashed—him looking down at me in the Four Seasons.
"Casey, you have to understand."
