A Not So Meet Cute(134)

“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.