“Or a condom,” Cora adds. “Fireball is too good for a condom. For any protection.”
“Fireball says FUCK condoms and then shoots its load on your back.” I gesture with my hand.
“And it’s a cinnamony load.”
“So much cinnamon.” I sigh and sit up. Turning to face Cora, I say, “I believe we’ve reached the threshold of loving Mai Tais or hating Mai Tais. If we drink one more, we’re going to regret our decisions, but if we stop here, we’ll remember how much Mai Tais make us feel valued and respected, unlike the shrewd Fireball.” I press my hand to hers and speak with my heart. “I want a long-term relationship with Mai Tais, a meaningful vacation fling that will mean something to me when I’m sixty and thinking about my younger years. I don’t want to be resentful and rigid when thinking about them . . . like how you feel about Fireball.”
She nods. “I hear you and I see you.” She drops her cherry stem to the counter and takes a deep breath. “I need a Pop-Tart.”
“Pop-Tarts by the ocean,” I say, the idea so grand in my head that I can’t imagine doing anything else. I can’t possibly fathom something bringing me more joy. I tap the bar top and say to the bartender, “Dear sir, we shall take two Pop-Tarts.”
The bartender, whose name we don’t know, turns to me and says, “Sorry, ladies, we don’t have Pop-Tarts here, but you could check the gift shop.”
“You’re a gem.” I smile at him. “We’d like to close our tab.”
He chuckles. “I have it on your room. Just need your signature.” He slips me a receipt attached to a board and I quickly sign across and up the paper, and then draw a palm tree after my name. I hand the receipt back to him and say, “The palm tree is a little treat for you.”
“That was very kind of you. Let us know if you need anything else . . . like a shot of Fireball,” he says with a smirk.
My eyes widen as Cora gasps next to me, hand to her chest. “How dare you bring up an ex-lover? You know we’re in a weakened state.”
“That’s why Fireball is the bad boy of liquor. It doesn’t care about your feelings; it just keeps you coming back for more.”
I stand from my chair as Cora reaches out her hand. “No,” I say into her ear. “You’re strong. You don’t need Fireball. It’s not good to you. It doesn’t care about your feelings.” I wrap my arm around her chest and slowly pull her away from the bar.
“It loves me.”
“It doesn’t,” I snap back and then calm my voice to a whisper. “It . . . doesn’t.”
Resigned, she nods, and I hold her hand, guiding her away from her toxic lover. Our flip-flops snap against the beige tile as we drunkenly navigate through the luxurious hotel. With a lack of walls, the entire lobby and dining area are open to the sea breeze and lit up by strategically placed tiki torches. Faint Hawaiian music plays in the background, and because the hotel isn’t crowded this weekend and is free of kids, it’s quiet. Serene. Just what I need.
Yes, I do believe I’ll have a love affair over the next two weeks. A love affair with Mai Tais, the sun, and the sand.
“Thank you for being there for me,” Cora says quietly. “What you just saw was a low point. Bottom of the barrel. I’m hoping it’s only up from here.”
“I pass no judgement. I know what it’s like to be in a weak moment like that. It’s hard to see past what your heart wants. But I’m proud of you. You held strong. Now we can enjoy our Pop-Tarts and think about how we’re strong, confident women who don’t need Fireball to make us feel good.”
Cora gives me a side hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like the third wheel coming on this vacation. It seems as though everyone is hooked up with someone. Arlo and Greer, Gunner and Lindsay, Keiko and Kelvin—well, when he gets here. I assumed you’d be tied to Romeo the whole time.”
“Ha!” I let out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, no thank you. Trust me, there will be no tying myself to Romeo.”
We turn the corner and find the gift shop, which is still conveniently open. “The motherland of snacks,” Cora whispers. “Do you think they have Pop-Tarts?”
“Not sure, but if we put out good vibes, we might be able to manifest it.” I pause in our pursuit to the store and take a deep breath. “Dear Hawaii, please provide us with the sweet, sugary nectar from Kellogg’s.”
“Preferably blueberry nectar,” Cora adds.
“Blueberry, really? I never pictured you as a blueberry Pop-Tart girl. You’re more like a brown sugar.”
“What? How so?”
I loop my hand through her arm and continue to walk toward the store while divulging my logic. “You’re fancy. You have a posh upbringing. I’m not saying you’re the kind of girl who would frown upon a Pop-Tart, but you do have a more refined palate, and in my head, brown sugar is more refined than an artificial fruit flavoring.”
“They’re all artificially flavored, but I understand what you’re saying.” She gives it some thought. “You know, I am a brown sugar kind of girl. If I’m going to eat a Pop-Tart, by God, it will be fancy.”
We step into the store and we’re greeted by the attendant behind the register. “Aloha.”
“Aloha,” I say, diving right into the culture. Look at me. Mai Tais and alohas. Next thing you know, I’ll be firing up the pit for the luau. Is it called a pit? Hmm, something I need to look into. If I’m firing it up, I need to know the terminology.
“Can I help you find anything?”
Hands clasped together, Cora asks, “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”
The attendant smiles and points to the back of the store. “With the snacks.”
“Oh, thank God.” Cora bows and then says, “Mele Kalikimaka.”
“That means Merry Christmas, you nitwit,” I say, laughing.
Cora pauses while the attendant laughs as well. “It felt like a Mele Kalikimaka moment, didn’t it?”
“Thank God you didn’t have the Fireball,” I say while dragging her toward the back.
“I won’t see her at Christmas. Maybe I was wishing her Merry Christmas in advance. That’s just kind.”
“Is that what you were trying to do?”
She shakes her head. “No, I think I was going for God bless.”
“Exactly.” I move around a rack of kid souvenir shirts, and from the corner of my eye spot the familiar blue package. “Gasp,” I say. “There they are.”
“Where?” Cora whips around, looking frantic. “Do they have my fancy flavor?”
I direct her head toward the Pop-Tarts just as I hear, “Stella?”
My entire body freezes as the authoritarian voice I grew up with shakes me to my bones. Slowly, I turn around and come face to face with my dad. My dad, shirtless, wearing swim trunks and a straw hat.
I’m going to tell you right now—this isn’t normal.
Growing up, my dad was straitlaced. Rigid, almost. He woke up, worked out in the garage, ate breakfast with the family, and then went to work, where he did something like computer processing. Still not quite sure on the details. When he’d get home, Mom would have the food on the table, ready, and then he’d check over our homework while Mom cleaned the kitchen. If we were lucky and he was in a good mood, he’d play a round of cards with me and my sisters. He wore a button-up shirt until he had to take it off to go to bed, and his hair was always perfectly parted to the side and slicked down with gel. Not a hair out of place. Always a freshly shaven face.
That is not the man I’m looking at right now. Yes, he might have the same stern look in his deep chocolate eyes, but that’s as far as it goes when it comes to the man I know as my father.
“Dad?” I ask, still unsure if it’s him.
“Stelly, have you been drinking?”
My spine immediately stiffens, and I’m about to answer when Cora tumbles into me. “Oh yes. The Mai Tais are fantastic and we plan on procuring a long-lasting relationship with them while here, but don’t worry, Mr. Stella’s Dad, we stayed away from Fireball.” She taps her nose and then points at my dad. “We’re keeping it classy.”
Yup . . . really classy.
My dad has never seen me drunk.
And the fear coursing through me of acting like a fool in front of him is real.