Lana(2)

She sighed, as though in great relief, and fingered the identical flower over her own ear. “Much better. Go on.”

I stopped at the door, a sudden thought stopping me. “Is Akira…?”

She just gave me wide eyes. “Last I heard, he was off at some business meeting.”

I sighed in relief. I just wasn’t prepared to see him yet. I nodded and opened the door.

Tutu gave me the same treatment, shrieking like a crazy woman and running to me like she was far younger than her years. She had to be in her sixties by now, I knew.

I hugged her back tightly. She was a tiny woman, her Japanese heritage showing much more strongly in her than her Hawaiian half, both in her body and face. She had pale skin, and pitch-black hair. I fingered it, and we touched the flowers in each other’s hair with warm smiles.

“You’re home,” she breathed.

I took a deep breath, because for some strange reason, I wanted to cry. I was brought out of my moment of weakness by a series of framed photos on the wall of the café. It was set up as a sort of collage of magazine covers and editorial pictures. I laughed at the thoroughness of it. My short, unimpressive modeling career was pretty well represented on that large expanse of wall. Tutu followed my gaze, smiling proudly. “I tell everyone about how you grew up here.”

I shook my head, a little embarrassed. Modeling was something I’d often said I’d never do as a young teen. My mother had been an iconic model of the eighties, and I’d known that, although I took after her looks strongly, I could never match her career. And I hadn’t. The worst part of it was, as short as my modeling career had been, I’d still suspected that every job I ever got was because of who my mother was, and not anything to do with my modeling ‘talent’.

But the pictures on the wall did look nice enough, I supposed. Some of them were high fashion, but even more were bikini shots. I had been a skinny kid, but gotten very voluptuous around the time I’d also gotten awkwardly tall. It made me much more suited to swimsuit modeling, I had quickly found. A lot of designers absolutely despised boobs.

I had only modeled for one memorable year when I was just eighteen, before settling down to get a business degree, and then to work for the family business of owning and running a worldwide hotel chain. But I still got sighted by strangers from the modeling. I supposed I should have been flattered and not so embarrassed about the whole thing. I had apparently left some kind of impression.

“Akira has become well-known for threatening anyone who says anything the slightest bit dirty about those bikini pictures. He threw a fit, at first, when I put them up, but I stood firm. I’m proud of my Lana, I told him. Her unmatched modeling career will not be forgotten by me, I told him!”

I had to laugh at her description of my short career. Even I didn’t dare argue with her about defending me, though. She was a formidable, if tiny, woman. I stroked her hair affectionately. She still hadn’t let go of me, and I didn’t mind.

I stiffened as a familiar figure strode through the doors that adjoined the bar to the café. Tutu patted my back, but finally relinquished her impressively firm hold on me, moving to the woman who had just entered. “What do you need?” she asked the other woman. It was downright rude, for Tutu.

Milena didn’t answer her. Her shocked gaze was glued to mine. She was a tall woman, a few inches shorter than me, but still tall. She had a trim, toned figure, with large, gravity defying br**sts that were shown off to perfection in an island half shirt, ‘Kalua’s Bar’ stretched tight over that ample chest. Her skin was golden and perfect everywhere. She had a mixed heritage as well, though I didn’t know the exact mix. But her genetics were stellar, wherever their origins. Her face was pretty, her pouty mouth positively sinful. I had always wanted to be her. She had everything I wanted. I hated her, as I always had.

I nodded at her politely. “Milena. Long time, no see.” It was the most civil thing I could manage to say to her.

She just huffed, not even trying to return the civility. I really didn’t care. I hated her so much that I would have been a little stung if she didn’t hate me back, at least a little. She didn’t even stay to get whatever she had come for, just leaving with a whispered, “haole,” under her breath.

The word didn’t offend me. Being raised on the island, I had heard it often enough, and long ago become immune to the insult.

“She’s still sweet as ever,” I told Tutu with a forced smile.

She cackled. “I still hate her. Thank god Akira never married the bitch.”

My heart stopped, just stopped, in my chest. I hadn’t known that. No one had told me. Mari and Tutu were always so careful not to mention anything Akira related anymore. Last I had heard, about six years ago they had gotten engaged. I’d asked them not to mention him anymore, after that. Oh, yeah, and I’d cried for an entire week about it, not even getting out of bed. And when I had gotten out of bed, and become a productive human being again, I’d still cried myself to sleep at night for at least a month. But I had slowly made myself get over it. Akira only ever saw you as a little sister, I had told myself. I was the one who had forced the issue, again and again, until I’d ruined everything, and been cast out of paradise. To this day, it was still so painful that, even though I loved Akira with every fiber of my being, I still couldn’t have even a friendship with him. I was too weak, and it just hurt so much.