Page 199 of Banter & Blushes

I grab the coral sundress I plan to wear and pop into the bathroom. After I’m dressed, I touch up my makeup and pin a white flower behind my ear. Now I look luau-ready.

Reid knocks on the door. “You about ready? We’re running late.”

“Coming,” I call, taking one last look in the mirror before joining him.

We make it downstairs and check in at the hostess stand, where soft ukulele music drifts through the open-air patio. The hostess wears a flower tucked behind one ear and a dress printed with plumeria blossoms, and she greets us with a warm “Aloha!” before leading us to our table.

It’s near the front, close to the stage, and I can already tell the view is going to be unforgettable.

“Help yourselves to the buffet,” she says, handing us woven lauhala menus. “And the tiki bar’s open all evening.”

I thank her, then nudge Reid. “This is incredible.”

Colorful lanterns hang overhead like floating stars, and long white linen-clad tables stretch across the sand. Tiki torches flicker in the breeze, lining the walkway all the way down to the ocean. On one side of the space, the tiki bar glows like a beacon, bartenders shaking drinks into tall glasses layered with fruit and paper umbrellas.

And then I spot the buffet.

“Is that a pig?” I whisper, pointing to the center of the table.

Sure enough, a whole roast pig—apple in its mouth and everything—rests on a carved wooden frame above banana leaves and trays of grilled pineapple, coconut rice, and teriyaki-glazed everything.

Reid chuckles beside me. “It appears to be.”

We fill our plates with a little bit of everything—kalua pork, lomilomi salmon, purple taro rolls, and poke that looks almost too pretty to eat. Back at our table, we sit quickly because the emcee announces that the show is beginning.

A group of female hula dancers sway onto the stage, their grass skirts moving in rhythm to the beat of the drums. Their hands tell stories with every motion—graceful, elegant, mesmerizing. Hula is definitely an art form. Behind them, the sun begins its slow descent over the water, casting everything in golden light.

Then the male dancers take the stage, bare-chested with tribal tattoos spiraling over their shoulders and down their backs, their movements are sharp and powerful in contrast to the women’s softer ones. They chant as they stomp, their feet kicking up small bursts of sand. The crowd cheers when the fire dancers follow, spinning torches that blaze orange and red as they leap and twist with breathtaking precision.

I can’t take my eyes off them.

It’s like watching magic.

“Better than watching it in a movie?” Reid leans in and asks.

I nod my head, unable to make the words come.

As the night moves on, a band takes the stage playing lively music. Couples are moving to a makeshift dance floor where they are swaying to the rhythm.

Reid and I sit close, our knees brushing under the table. Every time he laughs at something I say, he leans just a little bit closer. And every time he does, I feel it—this ache in my chest that’s getting harder to ignore.

His hand drifts toward mine once, hesitating like he’s not sure if he should. Like he wants to, but doesn’t know what will happen if he does.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I can’t. Instead I look out over the dance floor, at the couples who look so in love and comfortable swaying in each other’s arms.

Without meaning to, I start swaying too—just slightly. Barely noticeable.

But Reid notices. His knee presses gently against mine.

And neither of us pulls away. The silence between us feels louder than ever.

I want to believe it means something.

But I’ve known him for years. And if I’m wrong—if I’ve misread all of this—what happens to everything we’ve built?

I sit perfectly still, heart pounding in my ears, trying to hold on to the dream a little longer.

Later that night,when we get back to the room, we both hover just inside the door, standing in the soft glow of the bedside lamp like neither of us knows what to do next.

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