Page 83 of Hula Girl

I don’t get to an alternative thought-process whereby Ford is the one to give up everything and move here because my phone buzzes and I’m shocked by the text message that comes through.

It’s from Ford. He must have spent an hour keying in his message on that old flip phone of his.

I was wrong. You have let me know you. And you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. I love everything about you. I love the way you’ve shared your life with me. I love the way you put me in check. Seriously, everything. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.

I feel myself go warm with his words, with his presence, even if it’s only by text. I don’t play any games by waiting to write him back.

I’m sorry, too. I hate to leave things like this.

I want to add more. I want to tell him to think about moving to Los Angeles. To sort out a way where I don’t have to be the one to give up everything. But I don’t. Because I know that being back in LA wouldn’t make him happy. Not even if it was for us to be together. The Mauialoha spiritis his happiness.

Bfast? 9 am?

I laugh at his abbreviated invitation to breakfast. His phone is practically useless. I text him back quickly, suggesting a place in Santa Monica, over on his side of town. Maybe we can have a real talk then.

34

Ford

I’ve been up for hours by the time I get to Ava’s chosen spot for breakfast, The Penthouse restaurant in the Huntley Hotel. True to its namesake, the restaurant is on the top floor and offers sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean and the city of Santa Monica.

That’s the ocean I was in not long ago as I tried to find some waves. It felt good to be back in the water, though it didn’t offer the same warmth and clarity as back home.

Being here in Los Angeles again has been a reminder of all that I don’t need. I don’t need the hustle and bustle. I don’t need the traffic. I don’t need the palpable anxiety of how most people live as they strive to make themselves look better, get richer, or accumulate more things.

A year in Maui was enough to reset the easy-come, easy-go mind frame I had once known so well. Everything moves at a slower pace there, which can sometimes be frustrating, but that lifestyle forces you to focus on what’s really important. In my mind, what’s important is the quality of life you get when you drop all the ambition and truly live thealoha spirit. Los Angeles could do with some of that.

Looking around the restaurant, with its white leather club chairs and mini crystal chandeliers, I see a mixture of well-dressed tourists and locals, and I once more feel out of place. I’ve spent a lot of years struggling to fit in, first in Maui as a non-native white boy before Pika and Hiro befriended me, and then in my father’s world as a wild child who spoke before thinking. The thing is, Maui is the only place where I’ve ever really felt at home. It’s the place that makes the most sense for who I am and what I need. It’s why I blurted out that night at Ava’s Mom’s that she should move there. Because I don’t want this thing with her to end. But the only way I can see it continuing is if she’s able to come to me. To take that chance, like her mother said.

As if in tune with my thoughts, I see Ava making her way through the restaurant toward me. She’s wearing a short olive-green dress and brown sandals with her hair up in a high ponytail. I stand to greet her. She offers me her cheek.

“Hi,” she says as she pulls away.

I don’t let her go, pulling her back to me with my arm around her waist. “Missed you, Hula Girl,” I tell her.

She smiles and touches my cheek and then my still damp-from-the-shower hair. “Me too.”

“Me too, what?”

“Hmm?”

She’s playing dumb. She knows I want her to say the words. I want her to open herself up and tell me she missed me too. But I’m just glad she’s here. I won’t push her.

Releasing her, I pull her chair out for her and she sits. When I’ve joined her, our waitress arrives with the coffee and a basket of freshly baked banana poppy seed muffins I had ordered after I had been seated.

Once we’re alone, I tip just the right amount of milk into her mug and she smiles her thanks.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she says, taking in the view.

It’s sunny but a little hazy. Not bad, but it doesn’t compare to the views I have back home. “I was in that ocean this morning,” I tell her.

“Surfing?”

I nod. “Pretty good waves.”

“But not the same?” she guesses.

“Of course not. Nothing can match Maui.”

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