Reckless Girls(4)

I hate that it doesn’t sound like a joke.





THREE





The girls picked a tourist bar, because of course they did.

Pineapple Pete’s is too crowded, and I can smell that particularly noxious mix of sunscreen, beer, and duty-free perfume that always hovers over these kinds of places. With my luck, I’ll run into the Haleakala guests who got me fired today.

Nico had gone back to work after lunch, cleaning up and changing at the marina and leaving me to get ready back at the house. But since our roommates were also going out tonight, I had to fight for shower time and a space at the mirror, which means I’m running late and my hair is still wet in one spot in the back. I don’t know why I even made an effort to look nice—Nico will just be wearing the extra shorts and T-shirt he keeps in the bag he takes to work. It’s not like I care about impressing some rich college girls on vacation, but I still found myself pulling out my favorite dress, the yellow one with the halter neck and tiny embroidered birds along the hem, the one that swirled around my knees and always made Nico’s eyes linger a little longer on the curve of my hip, the hollow of my collarbone.

I’ve always loved when he looks at me like that. I’ve loved it from the first night I met him, in a bar not that different from Pineapple Pete’s in terms of low lighting and shitty beer, but a whole world away, otherwise. I’d been waitressing at a place near the beach in San Diego, and Nico had walked in one night. He’d just bought the Susannah, and was fixing it up, before sailing to Baja, then down the coast of Mexico, off into the Pacific, to who knew where. Hawaii, Tahiti, maybe even as far as Australia.

We’ll still get there, I tell myself as I weave through the crowd, searching for Nico. This is just a little hiccup, and then we’re on our way like he promised.

I see him standing near the back at one of the high tables that doesn’t have any chairs. He spots me and lifts a hand, already holding a beer, and the two girls standing across from him turn to look at me.

They’re not scowling, which I guess is a good start. In fact, their smiles seem genuine, not sugary sweet and fake as fuck. They also don’t look like most of the wealthy college girls we tend to see here. No floral prints, no shiny lip gloss. The one on the right has dark hair gathered up in a messy bun, and the one on the left, her hair several shades lighter, is wearing jeans and a tank top, her face bare of makeup.

Nico comes around the table and pulls me in for a kiss, his breath warm and smelling like the beer he was drinking. “There’s my girl,” he says, his hand briefly sliding down to squeeze my hip.

“Please tell me you’ve already ordered me a drink,” I reply, rising up on tiptoes to nip at his lower lip, and he grins, nuzzling his nose against mine.

“I can go grab you one now,” he says, and I glance at the girls, both of whom have turned away from us to talk to each other.

“I’ll come with,” I say, but Nico shakes his head, tugging me over to the table.

“No worries, babe,” he says, a phrase I hear so often I nearly mouth it along with him.

The girls at the table are watching me, and Nico nods at them in turn. “Brittany,” he says to the one with the bun, “and Amma,” the girl in jeans, “this is Lux. Lux, Brittany and Amma.” Another grin, this one slightly goofy. “I’m gonna grab a couple more beers.”

He disappears back into the crush of people, leaving me standing there at the edge of the table, looking at Brittany and Amma.

Brittany speaks first. “Lux,” she says. “Like The Virgin Suicides.”

I’m surprised—and more than a little pleased. No one has ever made that connection when they hear my name. Usually they just ask if it’s a nickname, or short for something. “Yeah,” I say. “My mom really loved that book.”

“Kind of a bummer of a character to be named after?” Brittany says, but she’s smiling as she tilts her bottle to her mouth.

“I know,” I reply. “When I finally read the book when I was thirteen, I was like, ‘Mom, what the fuck?’”

Brittany and Amma both burst out laughing, and I suddenly realize how long it’s been since I’ve talked to people who weren’t my coworkers or Nico’s. Even back in San Diego, I’d started losing touch with my friends as soon as my mom got sick.

Funny how fast that happened, how easy it was for people I saw every day to fade away, disappear, become nothing more than a bunch of Instagram accounts I still followed. And I didn’t blame them. My life had become sad and depressing, and no one knew what to say to the girl who was suddenly taking care of a sick parent instead of sitting next to them in sociology.

After Mom died, I’d thought about reenrolling, but everyone I’d once been close to was already at least two semesters ahead of me. It had felt too much like starting over again, and it had been easier to get a job, to just focus on putting one foot in front of the other—and making rent.

“So, Nico says you’ve been in Hawaii for almost a year?” Amma asks. Up close, I see that she’s not quite as pretty as Brittany, but she has full lips and high cheekbones. In the dim light of the bar, her eyes are dark and hypnotizing.

“Six months,” I say, then wonder if Nico had exaggerated to make himself seem more familiar with the waters around the island. I quickly add, “Nico had been to Hawaii many times before we moved here, though, and he’s done a lot of sailing in the area.”