Текст книги "Оллмп"

Автор книги: Меган Куин

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“I pass no judgement. I know what it’s like to be in a weak moment like that. It’s hard to see past what your heart wants. But I’m proud of you. You held strong. Now we can enjoy our Pop-Tarts and think about how we’re strong, confident women who don’t need Fireball to make us feel good.”

Cora gives me a side hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like the third wheel coming on this vacation. It seems as though everyone is hooked up with someone. Arlo and Greer, Gunner and Lindsay, Keiko and Kelvin—well, when he gets here. I assumed you’d be tied to Romeo the whole time.”

“Ha!” I let out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, no thank you. Trust me, there will be no tying myself to Romeo.”

We turn the corner and find the gift shop, which is still conveniently open. “The motherland of snacks,” Cora whispers. “Do you think they have Pop-Tarts?”

“Not sure, but if we put out good vibes, we might be able to manifest it.” I pause in our pursuit to the store and take a deep breath. “Dear Hawaii, please provide us with the sweet, sugary nectar from Kellogg’s.”

“Preferably blueberry nectar,” Cora adds.

“Blueberry, really? I never pictured you as a blueberry Pop-Tart girl. You’re more like a brown sugar.”

“What? How so?”

I loop my hand through her arm and continue to walk toward the store while divulging my logic. “You’re fancy. You have a posh upbringing. I’m not saying you’re the kind of girl who would frown upon a Pop-Tart, but you do have a more refined palate, and in my head, brown sugar is more refined than an artificial fruit flavoring.”

“They’re all artificially flavored, but I understand what you’re saying.” She gives it some thought. “You know, I am a brown sugar kind of girl. If I’m going to eat a Pop-Tart, by God, it will be fancy.”

We step into the store and we’re greeted by the attendant behind the register. “Aloha.”

“Aloha,” I say, diving right into the culture. Look at me. Mai Tais and alohas. Next thing you know, I’ll be firing up the pit for the luau. Is it called a pit? Hmm, something I need to look into. If I’m firing it up, I need to know the terminology.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Hands clasped together, Cora asks, “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”

The attendant smiles and points to the back of the store. “With the snacks.”

“Oh, thank God.” Cora bows and then says, “Mele Kalikimaka.”

“That means Merry Christmas, you nitwit,” I say, laughing.

Cora pauses while the attendant laughs as well. “It felt like a Mele Kalikimaka moment, didn’t it?”

“Thank God you didn’t have the Fireball,” I say while dragging her toward the back.

“I won’t see her at Christmas. Maybe I was wishing her Merry Christmas in advance. That’s just kind.”

“Is that what you were trying to do?”

She shakes her head. “No, I think I was going for God bless.”

“Exactly.” I move around a rack of kid souvenir shirts, and from the corner of my eye spot the familiar blue package. “Gasp,” I say. “There they are.”

“Where?” Cora whips around, looking frantic. “Do they have my fancy flavor?”

I direct her head toward the Pop-Tarts just as I hear, “Stella?”

My entire body freezes as the authoritarian voice I grew up with shakes me to my bones. Slowly, I turn around and come face to face with my dad. My dad, shirtless, wearing swim trunks and a straw hat.

I’m going to tell you right now—this isn’t normal.

Growing up, my dad was straitlaced. Rigid, almost. He woke up, worked out in the garage, ate breakfast with the family, and then went to work, where he did something like computer processing. Still not quite sure on the details. When he’d get home, Mom would have the food on the table, ready, and then he’d check over our homework while Mom cleaned the kitchen. If we were lucky and he was in a good mood, he’d play a round of cards with me and my sisters. He wore a button-up shirt until he had to take it off to go to bed, and his hair was always perfectly parted to the side and slicked down with gel. Not a hair out of place. Always a freshly shaven face.

That is not the man I’m looking at right now. Yes, he might have the same stern look in his deep chocolate eyes, but that’s as far as it goes when it comes to the man I know as my father.

“Dad?” I ask, still unsure if it’s him.

“Stelly, have you been drinking?”

My spine immediately stiffens, and I’m about to answer when Cora tumbles into me. “Oh yes. The Mai Tais are fantastic and we plan on procuring a long-lasting relationship with them while here, but don’t worry, Mr. Stella’s Dad, we stayed away from Fireball.” She taps her nose and then points at my dad. “We’re keeping it classy.”

Yup . . . really classy.

My dad has never seen me drunk.

And the fear coursing through me of acting like a fool in front of him is real.

But to my shock, he says, “The Mai Tais just about took me down last night.”

Umm . . .

What?

Dad reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Donny.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Donny?

**EYES POP OUT**

DONNY?

Uh . . . never in my ENTIRE twenty-nine years has my dad EVER referred to himself as Donny. He’s always been Donald, and nothing else.

Donald Garcia with the pressed pants.

Donald Garcia with the sensible Volkswagen, which wasn’t allowed to be eaten in.

Donald Garcia who would polish his shoes at night as a relaxation technique.

Never once was he ever called Donny. My mom never called him Donny. She wouldn’t dare. Maybe that’s why they fell out of love—the inability to call each other nicknames.

No. I know why they divorced.

They never really loved each other. Thrown together by their parents, they married, had kids, raised them, and when we were all out of the house, they called it quits. They’re friendly with each other, but not friendly enough to call each other nicknames like Donny.

“Coraline, but everyone calls me Cora.” She shakes my dad’s hand. “Wow, what a surprise, finding your daughter in Hawaii, at the same resort. What are the odds?”

Yeah, what are the odds?

I’ll tell you. They’re slim, but that seems to be the kind of luck I have.

Perplexed and still trying to figure out if this is a side effect of the Mai Tais, I ask, “Dad, what, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

He rocks on his heels. “Oh, you know, just living the good life.”

Okay. This is definitely the Mai Tais. There’s no way in hell my dad would ever say something like living the good life. And here I thought I’d have a long-lasting relationship with the rum concoction.

Oh hell no. Not if it’s making me have strange conversations with my dad where he says things like living the good life.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I thought you said ‘living the good life.’ These Mai Tais must be hitting me really hard.”

“No, that’s what he said,” Cora says. “And I couldn’t agree more. Life is too short. We have to enjoy it when we can. By the way, love the board shorts. Men are so scared to wear the short ones, but, dare I say, great legs, Mr. Donny.”

“Why, thank you. Your friend is smart.” Dad looks at me and smiles before opening up his arms. “Where’s my hug, Stelly?”

Before I can even consider what it would be like to be pressed against my dad’s naked chest, he envelops me against him, and I’m caught up in the smell of sunscreen and beer as he snuggles me against his furry chest.

Curly hairs rub against my nose.

His pecs encase my cheek.

And I can honestly say, I’ve never been this intimate with my father.

“It’s good to see you. You’re always so busy, I never get to see you anymore.” When he pulls away, I try not to flinch as I feel the imprint of my dad’s gray chest hair against my cheek. Not sure I’ve ever seen him shirtless, let alone hugged the man when he’s running around topless.

This shop must be another dimension. Alternate reality. A threshold for what-the-fuck situations. I hate to say it, but I don’t think the Pop-Tarts are worth the trouble. And that’s saying a lot, coming from drunk me.

“Why aren’t you visiting with your dad?” Cora chastises me.

“What?” I blink, still trying to comprehend what’s going on. “Uh, I teach a lot.”

“Not during the summer.”

“I teach workout classes during the summer,” I say, dazed.

“What kind of workout classes?” a female voice asks to my right.

Now who the hell is that?

I turn to see who spoke up when my jaw nearly hits the ground.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“Stella Garcia, as I live and breathe.” Turning to my dad, she asks, “Donny, did you plan this?”

Dad rests his hand on his stomach and in a jolly tone says, “I had no idea she was here.”

Please excuse me while I brace myself against a clothing rack.

The cool fabric of the souvenir shirts, which have been hanging in the air-conditioned space, are a contrast to my heated skin.

What in the fresh hell is happening?

Ashley Broome, my high school nemesis, is standing in front of me. The girl who made my freshman and sophomore years on the volleyball team a living hell is standing . . . right . . . there . . . looking at me with those perfect blue eyes, long blonde hair and—oh, wow.

And she’s calling my dad Donny.

Swallowing back the bile that has risen in my throat, I say, “Ashley. Wow, what are you doing here?”

She laughs and pushes at my shoulder as if we’ve been friends for years. “Oh, always the joker.”

She steps toward my dad and, in absolute horror, I watch as she slips her hand into my dad’s.

My eyes zero in on the connection. My vision begins to tunnel.

She’s holding on to him.

But not just like “oh no, I tripped on my ho-y sandals and I need to brace myself.”

No, she’s holding him as if—as if . . . she belongs to him.

As if they’re—I swallow bile—together.

What in the devil is happening?

“We’re here celebrating,” Ashley says.

Mouth dry, my heart pounding, ready to escape my chest, I say, “Celebrating what?”

She chuckles, and I watch as she takes her other hand and presses it against my dad’s naked chest, just where my cheek uncomfortably rested a few moments ago. She smiles up at him as if he’s her entire world, and that’s when my eyes see it.

The glint of a diamond.

The sparkle of promise.

The eternal commitment between two lovers.

No.

No fucking way.

There’s no fucking—

“We’re celebrating our engagement, of course.”

“Oh . . . shit,” Cora whispers next to me as I blink rapidly, attempting to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of me.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Ashley reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “I’m going to be your new mom.”

I . . .

There’s . . .

WHAT?

That’s it.

No more Mai Tais. Here I thought it was Fireball that was going to wreck us, that was going to swoop in with its wild ways and make us regret our decisions. We didn’t give Mai Tais credit where credit is due.

Can we cue up a slow clap for the rum concoction? Because, well done on the mindfuckery.

Well fucking done.

Boss-level mindfuckery.

Bringing a parent to an island in the middle of the ocean, changing his personality completely, and then attaching him to the girl—two years my senior—who used to torture me all throughout volleyball practice. Not just attaching, but marrying him.

Ha.

Oh, good one.

This is really freaking good.

“Why are you slow clapping?” Cora asks me.

I look down at my hands—they’re moving without my knowledge. I shake my head. “Can’t tell you, but I do think I’m having some sort of weird episode.” I clear my throat. “I think there was something in the Mai Tais that’s making me delusional.” I swallow, my saliva feeling like a boulder trying to squeeze down my throat. Clutching the back of my neck, I say, “You see, I thought I saw my dad in Hawaii and engaged to a girl two years older than me.”

“She’s two years older than you?” Surprised, Cora looks past me and asks, “What’s your skincare routine? Your skin is flawless.”

“Aw, thank you,” Ashley says, making me nearly jump out of my flip-flops. “But this is just me, nothing special. I just seem to be lucky.” She pushes my shoulder again. “But I do recall someone having a tremendous amount of acne in high school. Looks as though you’re all cleared up now, Stella. Good for you.”

Still uneasy, I face the sight in front of me, my dad looking jolly—yes, freaking jolly—holding Ashley Broome’s hand, her bosom high and large and in your face, a pink sarong wrapped around her stomach making her look like Hawaii Barbie.

This is real.

This is actually real and happening.

My dad is engaged to Ashley Broome, an absolute witch.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Ashley says to Cora.

Waving, Cora says, “I’m Coraline, but everyone except my brother calls me Cora. Arlo never took to the nickname.”

“Cora, nice to meet you. Are you Stella’s partner?”

“Partner?” Cora asks. “Ohhh, like her lover?” Cora starts giggling like a moron.

“No, she’s not,” I say.

“Oh, sorry. She just seemed like your type,” Ashley says offhandedly.

My dad clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware that you like women. Is this a new development?”

“What? No,” I nearly shout.

“We always thought she was into girls,” Ashley says.

“Who’s we?” I ask.

What is happening right now? Why is my sexual orientation a point of topic? And why is Ashley bringing it up? Not that it would be a bad thing to be gay. I envy lesbians at times, not having to deal with the disgusting intricacies of the male population. Is it too much to ask to wash your hands after you go to the bathroom? You touch your private parts to pee, therefore WASH YOUR HANDS. The amount of times I’ve seen male teachers come out of the teachers’ lounge bathroom with dry hands is—

“Kristin, Tiffany, and Madison,” Ashley answers, interrupting my thoughts. “We actually thought you and McKenna were a secret couple.”

“No.” I shake my head. “She was my best friend.”

“McKenna would spend the night often at our house,” Dad says, a raise to his brow.

“Because she was my best friend.”

“You’d giggle in the back of the bus on school trips.”

“Because she was my FRIEND!” I shout, drawing attention from the shop attendant.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Ashley waves me off. “I was just confused because your dad was telling me you’ve never been in a relationship, so I figured you were just hiding yourself.” Ashley touches me again on the arm and I swear if she does it again, I’ll– “It’s okay to be open with me. I’m going to be a big part of your life. I’m quite maternal. If you want to come out to me—”

“I have a boyfriend,” I shout, surprising Cora and myself.

“What? Since when?” Cora asks, taking a step back to look me up and down.

Christ, if only she could read a room.

Jaw clenched, I say, “Uh, we’ve been keeping it secret.”

“Oh my God, who is it?” Cora asks, completely oblivious.

I try to communicate to her without talking but we’re both too wasted to have any sort of mindreading communication translated so I say, “Uh, he’s, uh . . .” Think. Think, Stella. Who’s your boyfriend?

Chris Pine.

Chris Evans.

Chris Hemsworth.

No, no, no. Why is Chris in my head right now?

Think of a name.

Any name.

A man’s name . . .

“Romeo,” I say before I can stop myself.

Oh no.

“Shut . . . UP,” Cora shouts. “God, I knew it. I freaking knew it. I told Greer the other day you two were totally together and putting on a front.” She parades around the small space in the back of the store, fist-pumping the air with certainty. “I can’t wait to tell Greer and shove it in her face. This is fantastic. And he’s here, in Maui. Oh my God, are you two sneaking off to be with each other?”

“Uh, no, it’s not—”

“He’s here?” Ashley asks, jumping up and down, her boobs bobbing with her. “Oh my God, Donny, we need to meet him. Tomorrow night, let’s have dinner together.”

And this is why you don’t say a name people know.

Damn you, Mai Tais, we’re done.

You had your chance, and you didn’t play your cards right. It’s over between us.

“You know, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, so you’re not really together then?” Ashley asks, a challenging glint in her eye.

And that right there, that one look, pushes me over the edge.

Something in me snaps.

Maybe it’s the athlete in me.

Maybe it’s the Mai Tais.

Maybe it’s my jealous breasts who wish they were as perky and nice as Ashley’s, but I up the ante on the delusional situation I seem to be in.

“Oh, we’re together. We, uh . . . we’re actually engaged too but we’re not saying anything since we’re here on our friends’ wedding trip.”

“You’re ENGAGED?” Cora brings her hands to her head in utter shock.

Ugh, how could I forget she was still here?

Ignoring Cora, I say, “So, yeah, happy and in love.”

“Stelly, I’m so happy for you,” Dad says in a warm tone as he scoops me up into a hug and presses a kiss to the top of my head like he used to when I was growing up. “This calls for celebration.” He holds my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “Tomorrow night, dinner. You, me, Ashley, and Romeo. I’ll text you the details.”

Ashley smiles at me. “I can’t wait.” And then she comes up to me and pulls me into a hug. “We’re going to have the best mother-daughter relationship.” When she lets go of me, she pinches my cheek and then steps away. Giving me a small once-over, she says, “And maybe while you’re here we can go shopping together, get you something more . . . modern?”

“That would make me very happy, seeing you two spend some time together.”

Over my dead and Mai Tai’d body.

Dad tips my chin up. “See you tomorrow.” And then with his hand to Ashley’s lower back, he guides her out of the souvenir shop.

Leaning against the wall with an open Pop-Tart package—when did she grab that?—Cora says, “Wow, just wow. Family reunion, two secret engagements, and no Fireball to skew our thoughts. What a night.”

I swat the Pop-Tart away and watch it hit the floor before looking into Cora’s eyes. “We’re not engaged, nor are we in a relationship, nor have we ever come close to touching each other. I just said that to save face.”

“What?” Cora whines. “Ugh, come on. You literally just peed all over my parade.”

“Ugh, you just had to escalate it with your oohing and ahhing.”

“I didn’t ooh and ahh, and why are you lying, anyway?”

“Uh, did you not happen to notice that my dad is engaged to a woman two years older than me? Or better yet, to a woman who was my archenemy in high school?”

Cora gasps. “Noooooo, really? Ooo, plot twist.”

“No, not plot twist. This is my life.”

Cora starts to giggle. Then snorts. Loudly. “How do you suppose you’re going to get the Master of Sneer to attend dinner with you?”

Shit.

Things I didn’t think through.

Ugh . . . crap.

Keep reading Earn Your Extra Credit HERE

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