Page 50 of The Seashell of ’Ohana

Ian opened his walk-in closet and brought out a beige bath towel and some other things on top of it.

“The sweatpants and the T-shirt should fit you.” He laid them on the bed. “I hope you don’t mind wearing some of my sister’s stuff. They’re new.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Then I’ll just buy her a new one.”

“It’s not necessary. She has plenty, so don’t worry about it. And behind you is the bathroom. I’m going to take a shower in the other room.” Ian halted by the door and turned, giving me that gorgeous smile. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Abby. Thanks for being a friend. It meant a lot to me. And I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

I didn’t know what to say. It had been a long time since I laughed so much that I had teared up. Maybe I didn’t need to make a big speech. Perhaps something simple would suffice.

“You’re welcome, Ian.” I gave him my best smile.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached inside his front pocket and pulled out the seashell. “I thought I lost it when we went under water.” He went to the table by his bed, set it by the lamp, and then shut the door behind him.

I smiled at the little angel wing seashell. Somehow the little trinket stood out from the room as if it was the most precious thing. After I grabbed the towel and change of clothes, I stepped onto the white marble floor. I stacked the clothes on a marble-topped vanity with a mirror that lit up in a circle.

The standalone porcelain bathtub had a gorgeous view of the beach. I imagined taking a bubble bath with a glass of wine, lighting candles around the tub, and enjoying the sunset.

After I stripped off my wet clothes, I stepped into the shower. My feet rested on slightly curved tiles that collectively created one big lavender orchid. There were two waterspouts from each end, and a place where you could sit. When I lathered up the soap, I smelled like Ian—musky, mixed with ocean breeze.

I shouldn’t smell like Ian. No, no, no. I should smell like Steve.

What did Steve smell like? I had forgotten. I couldn’t forget. This wasn’t right. Guilt tore through me. I had to remember. Had to … had to remember.

The warm water felt hotter as my pulse hammered. I planted a hand on the glass door and let the water pour over my body. Think. Think. Think. I shoved my palms to my face, nearly in tears.

Steve smelled … he smelled like … coffee. Yes. Coffee. He loved coffee.

I let out a strange laughing sound, happy to recall. So happy I hadn’t forgotten a simple memory. I couldn’t forget.

When Tyler and I got home, he lay on my bed next to me. I took in the rare, precious moment and counted my blessings.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” I asked.

Tyler shifted on his side and tucked his hands under the pillow. “I had so much fun. Ian, Isaac, and Lee are so cool. They’re like big kids.”

I snuggled closer. “Even adults need to have fun, too. And sometimes that requires acting like children.”

His grin widened. “I like it when they play video games with me.”

I stroked my son’s soft hair. Sometimes when he smiled, I could see my softer features in him.

“I bet you do.” I tapped his nose. “Did you finish your weekend homework?”

“I’m all done.” Tyler pinched his eyebrows to the center, seemingly deep in thought as the silence grew between us. He opened his mouth to talk but then shut it instead.

“Tyler. Do you want to tell me something?”

He squinted, scrunching his nose. He rolled to his back and gazed at the ceiling, his shoulders tense. The light from the lamp shadowed half his face, and it became harder to see his expression.

“Ty. What’s wrong, sweetheart? You know you can tell me anything.”

No matter how busy I was at work, I made an effort to talk to Tyler daily when we ate dinner together. I’d ask him how his day was, about his friends, and anything he was willing to share.

Being a parent—especially a single parent—was difficult and rewarding in almost equal measure. He used to chatter away about his friends or whatever childish thought occupied him. But the older Tyler got, the harder it was to get him to talk about his feelings or concerns. I had my sister to talk things through, and my parents, but Tyler had only me.

“I know, Mom. But this is …” He released a long sigh.

I propped up against the pillow and reached out to him, but he didn’t take my hand. “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt your feelings?”