Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(109)



“Makana’s up next,” Mom whispered, leaning over my little brother as he lit up the row of seats with his iPhone. Poor kid, Mom’s glare went right at him and he missed it.

“Brah, head’s up,” I told him when Mom continued to level that scowl his way.

“What?” Koa asked her then completely deflated when our father cleared his throat. That’s all it took for my nearly twelve year old kid brother to get his head right. Mom’s glare or Dad’s easy I-Will-Throttle-You throat rattle. That dramatic sigh of Koa’s was a little much and I laughed, grabbing his phone before he landed himself into any more trouble. “I was using that.”

“Yeah? And now you’re not.” He didn’t stop frowning at me until I nodded toward the stage. “Mack is up next. Pay attention to your little sister’s routine.”

“This is total sh…” Koa buttoned his mouth when I whipped my gaze to him. “It’s boring,” he said, sliding deeper into his seat with his elbow next to mine. “Why do I even have to be here? There are at least a hundred other dancers in this thing. Mack won’t notice me missing if I just run out to the car and…”

“Brah. She’s your sister,” I told him and when that scowl didn’t fade and the stupid pre-teen attitude threatened to surface again, I leaned my elbows on my knees and frowned at my kid brother. “Ohana.”

His expression softened just a little, though that annoying pubescent irritation stayed put. Still, Koa knew what this meant to our sister. He knew sometimes you did things for family even if that thing was boring and tedious. “Ohana,” Koa repeated through a long exhale.

The lights in the auditorium lowered and the small whisper of the audience buzzed a little too long until that rattle of drums and a double bass echoed through the speakers. I immediately grinned, recalling how excited my ten year old sister had been when she told me about the dance her instructor let her help teach to their class.

“We’re gonna have a fire dancer and everything, Ransom,” she’d said, her whole face lighting up against my computer screen a few months back. “Makua kane was so happy when I told him.”

“I bet he was.”

That Hale blood ran deep and strong in my siblings but none of us had embraced our heritage quite like Makana. She never wanted to leave the Big Island when our parents took us on family vacations to Hawaii and at ten she had already announced to our folks that she would attend UH or no college at all when she was old enough. She completely ignored me when I tried to explain how great the University of Miami was, how beautiful the weather in Florida was. Mack insisted she’d be a Rainbow Warrior and nothing else. There’s no arguing with a determined ten year old Riley-Hale woman. Kona had grinned like an idiot at Makana’s determination and I got why he would. He’d missed so much with me in the time he and Mom had spent apart. I saw what that absence had meant as my siblings grew up. Mack’s Hula 'Auana dance lessons, Koa’s struggle with learning the language, it was all important to our father. I’d missed all that culture, the indoctrination of our heritage growing up away from him in Nashville. I was happy that they were getting what I missed.

Still, I hadn’t expected that my little sister would be so damn good at hula or how detailed the routine would be. Leann would have loved teaching this and I inclined my head looking down the aisle, catching how wide our cousin’s eyes had grown when the curtain rose and the small hum of whispered voices in the auditorium silenced.

Mack stood center stage, decked out in a green pā?ū skirt and a pink and white flowered head piece or, leipo'o that matched the leis on her ankles and wrists, luna dance style with several girls sitting behind her, noho style. Then as the gourd and bass drums rumbled and the music picked up, Mack moved her hips, worked her footing, moving from a kaholo to a ka’o, hips swinging fast, hands mimicking the motion of the elements and then, the other dancers followed suit.

The stage crowded with dancers, like a kaleidoscope of movement and color, bustling with energy and sound, but Mack was still the focus and I slipped my gaze down to Koa, grinning when he moved his eyebrows up as though he couldn’t take his attention from the stage.

“ˋAe!” Dad shouted, then, “Nani!,” whistling as Mack stepped forward, still dancing, smile beautiful and bright and then a tall fire dancer, bare chested with a wrapped skirt and grass leis under both knees, joined her.

The light, the movement, the music all amped the crowd and before the routine was even half-way finished, everyone stood, clapping and awed by the spectacle. To my left, I watched my parents’ cheering along with the crowd and spotted the subtle swipe Kona made against his eye when Mack’s dance slowed to a triumphant stop.

My baby sister looked beautiful and seeing her bow and that barely recognizable blush on her dark complexion was worth the trip from Miami or a thousand of those Keira Glares. All around us the crowd clapped and cheered, even my bratty kid brother managed a smile and a lifted chin as though he was as proud of Mack as we all were. It was a good night for our sister. A proud night for our family and I thought nothing could make me happier than watching Mack taking her bows or my parents’ proud, pleased smiles.

And then, as that applause thinned and the congregation of dancers from all the routines crowded onto the stage, Aly King approached, took Mack’s had and kissed my little sister as she led the woman to the microphone center stage.

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