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I sit on the bed, letting Meg’s long fingers slip from mine, watching as she circles the space, taking it all in.
“First at regionals,” she says, lifting the small medal I received as a senior in high school for swim. “Impressive.”
“Yep. And second at state. No one remembers first at regionals. I mean—except for Tina.”
She hums out a laugh and keeps examining. I watch her as she looks over all of the things I’ve never shared with another woman. This is my home, my family, my childhood. It’s sacred. I’ve never wanted to share it with anyone before.
“And this?” Meg lifts the tattered, gray bear from on top of my dresser.
I clear my throat. “That’s what my dad brought to the hospital when I was born.”
She smiles down at the old thing, dabbing its nose with her finger. She sets it back in place and walks over to me, standing in front of me.
I loop my fingers through the belt loops at each of her hips. “Hey,” I say. It’s such a weird day. Her last day. I knew she’d leave. She’d leave and my life would return to normal. But it came so quickly. And I’ve grown attached.
Meg’s eyes examine me. She leans down, her soft hands cupping my jaw, her lips press to mine, soft and gentle.
“You heard what Tina said,” I tease, my lips brushing hers with each word.
“Kalani.” My name is a laugh and a groan all at once. She pushes me back at the shoulders, but my fingers are firmly locked in those belt loops and she comes down with me.
She falls down next to me, laughter spilling from her sweet lips. Twisting, she snuggles up to my side, laying one hand on my chest. “Is it just me, or was this week lightning fast?”
“The fastest ever.”
Her head tilts, and she peers up to me, and I down at her.
For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to utter those words—the words I don’t say, except to my mother. I feel them to my core. I feel them so differently than ever before, so electric. Something I’ve never experienced in my thirty-one years.
I love her.
But I don’t say those words. What would they change? She’s leaving tomorrow, I’m staying, and those words would only complicate the best week of my life.
26
Meg
Kal’s arms cup around me like they could be a hammock made specifically for my body. I doze in and out of sleep on this lazy Hawaiian day and somehow, it’s more perfect than ziplining or hiking or sailing—just lying here with Kal on this twin-sized bed, in his childhood home.
I don’t know how long it’s been—I have no desire to move, except that my bladder is a total jerk. It’s not cooperating at all with my never-leave-Kal’s-side-until-the-plane-is-ready-for-take-off mission. If only I had refused that Diet Coke Alana offered me. But then, who can refuse a Diet Coke? It’s un-American to do so.
A small pinch in my bladder reminds me that I’d much rather leave the comfiest spot in all the world than pee all over Kal’s childhood bed.
I peek up at him, but his eyes are closed, and his breaths are even. I can sneak away, do my business, and be back in no time.
We passed the bathroom to get to this room. I don’t have to wander around, bug Alana, or take much time as it’s right next to Kal’s bedroom.
I slip away, tiptoe off to the bathroom, and do my thing.
I’m all finished up—my bladder thanking me—when my phone pings.
Autumn: What time does your flight get in? I’m still picking you up, right? Lunch at Bernie’s Diner and then we’ll head home! I can’t wait to hear about your trip. Please tell me you at least tried that bikini on.
I stare at my phone. Rereading her words.
Two. My flight gets in at two. I know this. I’m well aware of all my travel plans. And yet, I can’t write that word. That lame, three-letter, learned-in-kindergarten word. I can’t write anything.
I switch over to my photos and scroll through a week’s worth of touring and traveling and adventure—all scenic. I’ve been so careful to not take any photos of Kal, to leave him in Hawaii when I go.
