Page 3 of Hula Girl

“I don’t think. I know. Take it for all it’s worth.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, my eyes still glued to the back of Mr. Miller’s silver-haired head as he moved across the room.

“Oh, and if he needs someone who speaks gay, bring me in!”

I’d laughed distractedly, still not believing what had happened.

* * *

It turnedout that he really did need my Spanish skills for the case, a class-action lawsuit involving minimum-wage custodial workers who were being cheated out of their rightful overtime pay. It was a rare pro bono case, making it all that much more meaningful to work on. I put in even longer hours, wanting both to do a good job and to prove myself.

We were several months into the case prep when one night everyone else happened to peel away, leaving me alone with Mr. Miller. It was then that my fatigue got to me and I wondered out loud whether the Dodgers were winning. We got to talking about baseball and I confessed that my father had taken me—in the nosebleed seats, of course—to as many games as he could when I was growing up. When he asked if my father still took me, I admitted he passed away when I was thirteen. It might have been that moment of vulnerability that led him to explain what had happened in his office on the day of my interview. He shared with me that a combination of the flu he’d been fighting and plain old low blood sugar had weakened him. He hadn’t wanted to admit to this because Kahn had been actively working to oust him and would have used this episode, no matter how temporary or innocuous, to argue to the board that he was incapable of remaining at the helm. It was then that he formally thanked me for the kindness—and the cover—I had given him. He’d beaten back both the illness and Kahn in part due to my help.

We got to be on a first-name basis after that. There was an unspoken trust and comfort level between us that led to him becoming both a mentor and a friend. We started having lunch together twice a month where we’d talk work and he’d help me navigate the politics of the firm as well as answer questions about the cases I worked on. He had me and my mom over to his house for dinners and other social affairs. Our lives became intertwined.

I know there are whispers around the firm that say I’ve risen in the ranks due to his favoritism, but I do my best to ignore all that and instead remember the countless hours of work I’ve put in.

Which brings me back to my current chore of counting the hours.

Not many people would consider going off the grid for a week in one of the world’s most beautiful destinations an imposition, but I’m just not a get away from it all type of girl.

So, now I’ve got five days to somehow pass here in Maui before I can get home and back to work.

2

Ava

It turns out that three days is my max for pure relaxation. I did it all in that time: sunrise yoga on the sand, snorkeling, a hike on a dormant volcano, a whale-watching boat tour, drinking mai tais and eating mahi-mahi for dinner, a massage at sunset, stargazing on the deserted beach in the still-warm night.

And all the while, I thought a lot about what “forced” me to be here. It was a combination of two mistakes I made: one personal and one professional.

The personal one was how rashly I broke up with my boyfriend of almost two years. Bryce was an attorney at a different firm, ten years older than me, and had already established himself professionally. We met at a California Lawyers Association event. After flirting while waiting in the long bar line, later that night, we went to bed together. There was a degree of convenience I think we both subconsciously understood right from the start. We had the same type of demanding career that we’d made our sole priority. But we still had needs. It was easy, if not romantic, to be together. We saw each other sparingly as each other’s date for job-related functions or evenings when we allowed ourselves time away from work. Those dates usually consisted of Netflix and chill.

Though our relationship seriously lacked romance, I still had feelings for him. He was entirely supportive of my work ambitions, for one. And … we both enjoyed fine wine. That counted as an area of commonality, I told myself, though it was a reach.

At the same time, a part of me understood that I was settling. We weren’treallyfriends. We were work confidants rather than emotional confidants. At best, we were a support system for one another. A convenient pairing. What I was doing, whether I consciously understood it or not, was creating the illusion of a connection instead of truly investing in one. It was safer than … truly letting down my guard. Still, I’d convinced myself that this was enough, that surely, we’d eventually take our relationship to the next step and could have a solid, if not entirely enviable, marriage one day.

But that all changed a few months ago when on Christmas Eve, I’d gone with him to his sister’s house. I’d only met his sister once before and we’d never spent the holidays together, especially not Christmas. It was a holiday I usually reserved for celebrating with my mom, but I knew I’d been especially unavailable in the weeks beforehand and thought it would be a good way to give a little.

It was a casual family affair—something I realized too late when I showed up in a form-fitting emerald-green cocktail dress and black heels—focused on a big meal, eggnog, and watching the kids parade around in their Christmas pajamas. As dessert was being prepared, Bryce took my hand and led me out onto the balcony.

His sister lived in a gorgeous modern house nestled into the hillside off of Mulholland Drive that offered stunning views of the city of Los Angeles spread out in glittering fashion. The temperature was in the sixties, so not too chilly, but I was glad for Bryce’s embrace as we stared at the lights of the houses, buildings, and traffic below us. I inhaled the comforting scent of fireplace smoke.

“They say,” Bryce said, “that Christmas is the most popular holiday for proposing.”

It felt like the temperature dropped twenty degrees because I was suddenly frozen in place. Was he really going to propose? Here at his sister’s house? I was still tucked under his arm, my body pressed against his side. This was an awkward way to pop the question.

Before I could respond, he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m under no illusion that marriage is something you want.”

“Oh?” I managed to say, my heart sinking in disappointment. I pulled away from him and took a step closer to the railing, trying to sort out his lack of sensitivity.

“It’s ridiculous, right?” he said, joining me. “I mean, I know you’re not the kind of woman who gets caught up in those kinds of societal expectations. And I’m actually happy that’s the way you are. You don’t feel the need to follow these silly cultural norms of scoring a big ring meant to symbolize the value a man has for a woman. Or having a flashy ceremony like so many women feel the need to have so they can show off like they’ve won some prize.”

“Well, I don’t know that aflashyceremony would be needed—”

“See? I was right. We have it figured out. We don’t need to change a thing, do we? Especially, with us not even having time to get together more than once or twice a week. Can you imagine taking the time to plan a wedding? And then what?You’dsidetrack your career for kids? We both know that’s never going to happen.”

He laughed again, shaking his head at the notion.

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