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That sounds a lot like a challenge.
I appreciate a challenge.
I’ve never backed down from one.
Challenge accepted.
10
Meg
Soooo…cute Hawaiian Kal, the non-stalker, may have been right about me.
I have no idea how to vacation.
I came to Hawaii ready to organize my photo app…
I won’t be telling him that—pretty sure I won’t be seeing those brown eyes again. But still, he’s got me thinking.
I like order. I like organization. I like rules. But I like fun too. I also don’t like everyone assuming I can’t ever vacation. My mother had been so certain I wouldn’t come. Kyle had called not just that first time with Kal, but again, later—believing me to have orchestrated my entire surroundings, including hiring a man to talk to him when he called.
I pointed out that I had no idea or control over his calling. He said I did, and it was all a scam on my end.
A scam.
Meg on vacation. Meg having fun. Meg letting loose. A scam?
I sat in that thought for about ten minutes before searching out the minibar in my room. I downed two spiked lemonades and a package of mini chocolate chip cookies.
Take that, world, Meg Miller is living it up.
The minibar led me to the portable speaker in my room. And the portable speaker led me to Taylor Swift and my sandy back porch. And what do you do on a sandy porch with T-Swift blasting? You dance of course.
Yes, my night had turned into If You Give a Pig a Pancake. And I am most definitely the pig.
I can’t remember the last time I danced. Did Kyle and I ever dance? Maybe it’s the lemonade or the magic of a good ol’ Taylor Swift song, but I’m good at dancing. My body is relaxed and alive, and I like it!
With the smallest of wobbles, I move a chair right next to the back porch table. I climb on up—turning the world into Jell-O as it jiggles every which way. But I’m no quitter—I keep going, up onto the table. The ocean will be watching me dancing any second now!
“Yes!” I bellow into the night air. “Meg Miller is on vacation, world!” I cry out, letting everyone in all of Hawaii know that I have arrived. It’s no scam.
Taylor ends and Elton John begins, and I’m not mad about it. Elton starts into “Bennie and the Jets,” and I move my body to the rhythm. My hips sway. My arms float. I feel the beat and words to my core. I am Bennie. I am the Jets. I am here for all to see. Meg Miller—no longer invisible.
“Yeah they’re weird and they’re wonderrrrful…” I sing—or slur, I’m not sure which. Sticking with my theme of gelatin goodness, the words are a bit Jell-O-ish in my ears.
Man, I’m craving something cold, cherry, and jiggly.
The sun sits on the horizon, and as I move, it moves with me. I scan down to a lone figure on the sand, just outside my closed-up porch and six-foot fence.
The darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen stare back at me. They could be black from this far away. Kal, the black-eyed Jell-O nugget.
“Hey,” I snarl. “You.” I fling out my arm, pointing to the figure, and all at once the setting sun, the waving ocean, and the jiggly Kal are whisked out of sight.
My back hits the chair by the table and its cushioned seat first. And then I roll, smacking into the sandy ground.
I flop onto my back, looking up at the dimming sky. There’s sand on my lips, and the air is temporarily pushed from my lungs.
“Whoa!” Kal cries.
