That night I dream that Leo leads me into a room I don’t know. It has a concrete floor. Shelves with sports equipment and cardboard boxes. A bicycle leaning against the wall.
It doesn’t make sense, but it’s a dream, so I don’t question it.
“Here,” Dream Leo says, and whips his arms to spread a red-plaid blanket on the floor next to a washing machine.
It’s a garage, I realize dimly as he reclines on the blanket and I slip down next to him.
His hand brushes my cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
I run a quick hand up my calf to check. My legs are smooth as a baby’s butt this time. This could actually work.
But then it happens exactly the way it did before. Kissing. Touching. His fingers on the button of my shorts. My breath seizing up in my chest. Sitting up.
Stopping us.
“Wait,” I gasp, and it’s so frustrating I feel this way that I want to cry. “Afton’s right. I can’t do this. I’m not ready.”
There’s the look on his face: the one I sketched before. The shuttered eyelids. The frown. And then the frown becomes a sneer.
“Oh, Ada,” Leo says. “Don’t be such a fucking square.”
I wake up in darkness, the kind of velvety black that makes me feel swallowed whole. For a few seconds I have no idea where I am, and I can hear the ocean, the shushing of waves. Then my eyes adjust. I remember I’m in Hawaii. It’s a clear night, the sky a deep blue outside the wall of windows, punctuated by the ebony shapes of the palm trees.
I turn to look at Afton in the bed next to mine, but she’s not there. After dinner she set out on her own and hadn’t come back by the time Mom put Abby to bed and closed the door between our rooms. I fumble for my phone and check the time: it’s not quite one in the morning.
I open the texts and stare at her last text conversation with me, all from before our fight. Most of our texts are silly: a string of emojis or funny remarks to show one another how brilliantly sarcastic we both are. I can’t shake the sense that everything’s going wrong. Leo. Mom and Pop. Afton, where she seems fine one minute, pissed off the next, and is now missing. She’s a big girl, I tell myself as my finger hovers over the screen of my phone, tempted to check up on her. Afton is fierce and fearless. She always has been. She can handle herself.
Plus, the words don’t be a fucking square are still stinging in my brain.
So I tell myself that I am not my sister’s keeper. And I roll over and try to go back to sleep.
The next morning Mom comes into our room predictably early, towing a sleepy-eyed Abby behind her. “I have to go now,” Mom says briskly.
I turn over to check for Afton. She’s there, in the bed next to mine, all that’s visible a long trail of wheat-colored hair sticking out from under the comforter.
“You’re in charge of the munchkin,” Mom says.
You would think it would fall on Afton, as the oldest, to be the caretaker of our younger sibling. But Afton made it clear from the very first day Mom and Pop brought Abby home from the hospital that she was not remotely interested in childcare, whereas I was super excited to hold the new baby and feed her and help change her diapers. And those roles just kind of stuck.
“Okay,” I mumble sleepily, because Mom is clearly talking to me.
“Don’t charge things to the room,” she reminds me. Mom likes to keep the room charges for business expenses only, which is a pain. Instead she lays a hundred-dollar bill on my nightstand, her standard allowance to cover my and Abby’s expenses for the day. Then she goes out the door of our room, leaving the door to the other room open so we can access Abby’s luggage.
Abby trundles onto my bed and curls up beside me, so warm that I quickly become too hot, but I don’t move her. She’s quiet for a few minutes, snuggling, but then she decides that she wants to watch cartoons. And then she decides she’s hungry. She bounces around making so much noise there isn’t really a choice but to get up. She even drags Afton out of bed. Eventually we all get dressed and wander down to the outdoor café on the ground floor, where Afton and I discover the joys of Kona coffee, feed muffin crumbs to the crowd of tiny birds that’s zipping in and out of the patio area, and watch the hotel guests run to catch the tram.
The entire time we’re eating I’m biting back the words Where were you? because it really is a mystery to me, what Afton could have been doing out so late, but to ask her would put me back into the fucking square category. So I don’t ask. And she doesn’t enlighten me.
“What should we do today?” I say instead, and dig around in my bag until I find the brochure with the hotel activities listed on it. I slide it across the table to Abby. I’m thinking something quiet and physical, some way to get a little exercise after the whole day of sitting and eating we had yesterday. Something preferably without much in the way of walking along beaches or swimming in pools.
Like paddleboarding. This single activity refuses to leave my brain. Paddleboarding. That’s when I’m going to truly feel better about everything.
“I want to do that.” Abby puts a tiny finger down on the brochure and then lifts it again so I can see what she’s referring to: a picture of a young Hawaiian woman hula dancing in front of a group of older ladies.
My first mistake, I realize immediately, was asking the five-year-old what we should do.
“That looks fun, but what about this?” I point at a picture of the lagoon, where it shows a family in a four-person boat, and another couple in a kayak, and a girl standing on a paddleboard in the distance. “We might even get to see a sea turtle. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
“No,” Abby says. “I want to dance.”
I hold in a sigh. I can’t think of anything less fun than towering over a group of women all watching me try to move my nonexistent hips. “Well, that’s a class, isn’t it?” I try to redirect. “We probably had to sign up beforehand.”
Afton, who’s again been texting all through breakfast, suddenly picks up the brochure and inspects it. “There’s a hula class that starts at ten today—perfect timing, actually. It says walk-ins are welcome. And you get one class a day free with your stay.”
“Yay, we’re going to dance!” Abby exclaims.
I give my older sister a tight smile. “Thank you, Afton. You’re so helpful.” I turn to the younger one. “I don’t know, kid. Maybe we could try the hula class another day. . . .” Tomorrow we’re going to take a day trip to the other side of the island, but after that we’ll have some free time.
“I want to dance now,” Abby says, the edge of a whine I am all too familiar with creeping into her voice. “Please?”
“Okay,” I sigh. “But—”
“I could take her,” Afton says lightly.
I stare at her.
Afton slides her phone into her pocket, which signifies that she’s serious. “I wouldn’t mind moving my hips a little.”
“Really? You want to take Abby to hula class?”
“I want to dance,” repeats Abby.
Afton shrugs. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“O-kay,” I say slowly. “If you’re sure . . .”
“You’re not the only one who can take care of her, you know,” she says.
“Do I know that, though?” I ask sarcastically. Afton does babysit sometimes. But when she does, it’s always as a favor, to me, or to Mom or Pop. Whereas when I take care of Abby, it’s because it’s my unspoken responsibility.
“I take care of you,” Afton says, and that’s mostly true. While I’ve always taken care of Abby, Afton has always looked out for me. Until lately, anyway.
“I missed you last night,” I murmur. Asking, without technically asking, where she was.
Her face gives away nothing. “I was just wandering around. Thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Oh, you know. This and that.” She stands up. “We better get going. The tram’s about to leave. See you later.” She throws her cup and the empty acai bowls into the nearest trash, then grabs Abby’s hand, and the two of them run the fifty feet or so to the tram stop. I wave as they get in, but they aren’t watching me. The tram beeps its warning that it’s about to move, and then it whooshes away.
Just like that, I’m alone.
For a few minutes I sit there, clutching my lukewarm coffee, unsure of what to do. The reality of what’s just happened slowly sinks in. I am verifiably alone. Afton has given me a gift, and to make such a generous offer, to take Abby off my hands, she must be over her drama. That’s the best news of all.
I find myself smiling. Not that I don’t love my little sister, but it’s so rare to have time to myself. I still have that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket, crisp and promising. I can do whatever I want. I can go back to the room and sleep some more, although I suddenly don’t feel even a little bit tired. I can explore the resort without having to answer to anybody else.
I examine the brochure again. Then I text Mom (who ironically likes to be kept informed of what we’re doing during the day) that Abby and Afton have gone to a hula class, and I am going to try paddleboarding.
Don’t get burned, she texts back.
I am already picturing myself on the lagoon, not with Abby sitting on the board in front of me, making her little-kid observations and perpetually about to tip us over, always needing something, like a drink or her life jacket adjusted or for me to find the sunglasses that had been on her face two seconds ago, but alone, blessedly, sweetly alone. The water lapping at the board. The sun on my shoulders. The breeze in my hair.
Abruptly I realize that, in the magnificent paddleboarding scenario I’m creating in my head, I’m obviously wearing a swimsuit, and I still don’t have one.
I’m going to have to shop for a swimsuit.
My elation at being free from all of my responsibilities fades as quickly as it came. I dislike shopping. I flat-out hate shopping for a swimsuit. If there are circles in hell, I am sure one of them is made up entirely of an endless row of dressing rooms and three-way mirrors.
Suddenly hula dancing doesn’t seem like that terrible of an option.
“Do you know where I can buy a bathing suit?” I ask the girl working at the café.
She nods. “There’s a gift shop in each of the five buildings—this one’s right there, see it? And there are several different shops located at the Lagoon Tower.”
I thank her and trudge off toward the gift shop that’s closest, where the offering of women’s bathing suits turns out to be a single rack of two-pieces, which definitely won’t work. My bare stomach is no one else’s business but mine. My mind drifts back to Leo, his bedroom, Michael Phelps judging me from above, but I jerk my attention back to the business at hand. Focus. Shopping. None of these suits are in my size. I walk to the Palace Tower, the next building over, but it’s the same story there.
The walk to the Promenade takes longer. I could catch the tram, but it seems lazy to ride between buildings in one hotel, and by walking I’m less likely to run into anybody who knows me from the conference and get held up making awkward conversation.
At the Promenade there’s another small store off the front lobby, and this one has one-pieces, but only stocks smalls and mediums.
This is discrimination, I think, annoyed. I’m wasting all this beautiful time to myself on a quest that’s starting to feel impossible. What if I can’t find a swimsuit? Pop said it would be easy, but what if it’s only easy for men like Pop? What if nobody on this island has ever conceived of a female being a size large?
I could go in my underwear, like I did at Leo’s pool that day. I have a black bra and briefs that I might be able to get away with. But that would be like wearing a two-piece, which we’ve already established is a no-go, and besides, people would probably be able to tell. Mom definitely wouldn’t be too keen on the idea of me walking around in front of all of her esteemed colleagues in my bra and panties.
I could wear a shirt over it, I consider. And shorts. But regular clothes in the water would feel uncomfortable and gross.
Desperate now, I take the tram to the Lagoon Tower. When I get off the train there’s a large set of stairs leading down to the spa and the cultural center, a sign helpfully informs me. The cultural center is where Afton and Abby are learning hula. I check my phone; about thirty minutes have passed since I last saw my sisters. I don’t know how long the class is. I’m overcome by the panicky feeling that they’re going to come bounding up the stairs at any moment, and then Afton will dump Abby off on me and leave me exactly where I started.
I duck into a shop—the girl was right; there are several shops here. I don’t even really care which one.
“Can I help you?” asks a guy folding shirts in the corner.
“I need a swimsuit,” I mumble.
“Sure,” he says cheerfully. “Back wall.”
The entire back wall is stocked with bathing suits of many shapes and colors and styles, and, most importantly, sizes. I breathe in a sigh of relief when I discover a board shirt—like a wet suit top with short sleeves—which would cover my cavewoman shoulders and also extend down to cover my belly. It’s white with hibiscus flowers on it, it’s a size large, and I immediately love it.
On the next rack there’s a selection of separate tops and bottoms, also available in large.
I pick a bright green top like a sports bra (okay, a two-piece, but no one is ever going to see, on account of the board shirt) and a matching boy-shorts bottom. I bring all three items straight to the checkout counter and lay them out carefully in front of the guy who helped me earlier.
“Would you like to try these on first?” he asks. “We have a dressing room.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He rings me up. The total is ninety-two fifty. I slide the hundred-dollar bill across the counter.
In a minute I’m standing outside the store again, waiting for the tram. This time I am faced with more than the fear that my sisters are going to spontaneously appear before me and spoil my solitary fun. To get back on track with my paddleboarding plan, I’ll need to change and apply sunscreen and do something with my unruly hair. I also forgot my sunglasses.
I have to go to our room. Which is at the opposite end of the resort. Then I have to hurry and dress and prepare myself and make my way to the paddleboard rental place. Which is where I am now.
It’s going to eat into so much more of my precious time, but I don’t have a better option. I consider buying new sunscreen and sunglasses and getting dressed at the store after all, but then I remember I only have seven dollars and fifty cents.
So I do the only thing I can do: I get on the tram and go back to the room.
I don’t waste any time when I get there. I want to hurry, in case Afton and Abby come back soon. I feel mildly guilty about trying to avoid them, but I want my time alone to be more than just a shopping excursion. I want to freaking paddleboard. I grab my hairbrush and the tube of sunblock that’s sitting out on the dresser and turn to go into the walk-in closet, where I can get dressed and stand in front of the mirror to apply the sunscreen.
But then I hear the noise.
It’s a noise I’ve heard in R-rated movies and a couple of uncomfortable nights when Mom and Pop were in a certain kind of mood, since I unfortunately share a wall with their bedroom. That kind of noise.
Don’t be silly, I tell myself. It’s a hotel. There are bound to be occasional sexy times noises in a hotel. But it sounds . . . close. It almost sounds like it’s coming from Mom and Abby’s room.
I go to the door, which is open a crack, and I peer inside.
It’s dark in the room, the only light spilling in through a small wedge of window, the rest entirely blocked by curtains. But I can see well enough to make out a figure in the middle of my mother’s bed. A woman.
A woman with blond hair.
Wearing her new white robe with red-and-black flowers on it. Straddling a dark-haired man.
Her back is to me, but of course I know who it is.
My mother.