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I crutched out of the air conditioning and back into the heat of the day. Not three steps away from the shop, my ankle throbbing and sweat slipping between my shoulder blades, I felt foolish for spending seventy-five dollars on the pendant under my shirt.
“I’ve been had,” I muttered.
But the shop owner had been right—I came here to heal and that’s what I was going to do, even if it killed me.
I spied a bright blue sign that readWishing Well Shave Iceabout a hundred yards up. A hundred yards roughly translated to ten miles in crutching distance. By the time I got in line (which was a dozen people long) my hair was stuck to my forehead in sweaty clumps, and my arms were shaking from the exertion.
Just ahead of me was a middle-aged couple in Bermudas and sun visors. The woman turned and gave me a once-over.
“Oh, honey. What happened to you?”
“The Ho’opi’i Falls,” I said, mustering a smile.
Her husband’s eyes widened. “Wait a sec. Did you get helicoptered out of there?”
My already hot cheeks reddened. “You saw that?”
The woman nodded in vigorous agreement. “That’s right! A few days ago. Yes, we saw the whole thing.”
I smiled wanly.This island is too damn small.
The woman frowned. “Are you here alone, dear?”
“Oh gosh, no,” I said. “My friends are…at the beach.”
“And they just left you?” Shehmphed.“Some friends.”
The hot sting of tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “I’m fine. I can manage one shave ice.”
And there was my “personal growth” in a nutshell. Pathetic.
The couple mercifully left me alone, and approximately ten years later, it was my turn to order. The guy in the window set down an enormous bowl of cherry shave ice on the high counter in front of me. Immediately, the flaw in my grand plan became apparent. I desperately needed to sit, but the shave ice stand had only two tables, both occupied. Across the street, the picnic tables on the grass were available, but they might as well have been a million miles away. I couldn’t crutch over there and carry my shave ice too.
Yes, I can!
I would not be defeated by a bowl of chopped ice and sugar syrup. I took the bowl and attempted to hold it along with the handle of my crutch like I had my coffee this morning. One hopping step later, the bowl slipped out of my grasp, hit the ground, and sprayed red in all directions. People in the blast radius gave little shouts of surprise as the shave ice splattered ankles and bags.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over, ready for the ground to swallow me up. I fought back tears while asking the guy behind the counter for some napkins. But cleaning the mess was beyond me. If I didn’t sit down soon, I was going to fall down.
“This wasn’t her fault,” came a low, rough voice in anger. “One of you could’ve helped.”
And there was Asher Mackey, hunkered down, picking up the bowl. I stared as a chaotic mess of emotions—relief, desire, irritation, and something deeper that was too foreign and unsettling to deal with—all came bubbling up, stealing my breath. My face flushed as red as the shave ice.
“You,” I said, breathing heavily.
“Me,” he said. He went to the guy in the window. “Hey, Chad. Can I get some napkins?”
“Sure thing, Ash.”
Asher mopped up the mess, not looking at me as he worked. “I thought you were leaving.”
“I am,” I said. “I’m done. I tried to stick it out on my own and failed…and now here you are again.” I shook my head. “No, no, no. You can’t be here. I put you away!”
He scowled and tossed the wad of napkins in the trash. “What does that even mean? Ilivehere.”
“One day,” I said, conscious that people—some still grumbling about cherry splatter—were watching. “I just wantedoneday to try to doonething on my own. One thing without you—or anyone else—swooping in to rescue me.”
“You think pushing yourself beyond your physical limits is self-improvement?”
