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Rylie
I wakeup after a night filled with dreams of Ethan.
It’s totally ridiculous that my body unconsciously screams to him despite all my intentions to put that silly mistake behind me.
Ethan is not part of my new life here, and I need to get my subconscious on board with this fact.
It’s three in the morning, which means it’s not too late in Hawaii to call Alani. She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey Sista! How is it stay in Boston?” she says in her cute English. I still haven't become accustomed to the odd accent Boston accent.
“It’s okay,” I say, not convincingly.
“You lie.”
“You’re right. I’m miserable here.”
“So try get on a plane and come home,” she says as if it was just that simple.
“I can’t just leave.”
“Nah, you can. Just go online and buy one ticket. Pau already.”
'Pau' is Hawaiian for ‘the end’ or ‘done’ and I think of all the things that are finished with now, since I left. My work with turtles, my close relationship with my dad, and the paradise I loved. I also lost Ethan and Caden, but I remind myself that maybe they’re better off working things out with the little boys’ mother. I even miss that freckle-nosed serious little boy and his affectionate manner. None of that was my choice. Ethan made his decision and I will put him out of my mind.
“How’s your job?” I ask Alani.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Shit. You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“You aren’t happy,” she states like she’s become a therapist.
The problem is that she’s right. I’m not happy. I fell in love and with those along came dreams. Silly girly dreams of insta-happy family. Now, here I am, living my life based on my mother’s plans. “I can get happy again,” I protest. “I just need time and things will work out. It’s not so bad here.”
“I know you're lying to yourself.”
“You might be right,” I admit, “but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
We chat for another hour, gossiping and girl-talk, and it’s after four in the morning before I realize we've talked for so long that I’ve talked myself to exhaustion again. “I’d better go, Alani. It’s nearly dawn here.”
At breakfast, I must look like I’ve been on a three-day drunk.
“Darling,” my mom says, “your eyes are puffy. Are you not sleeping?”
“I had a rough night.”
“I’m making you an appointment.”
“For what? A sleep shrink.”
“Who said anything about a shrink,” she says, flipping open her phone, “I’m getting us into the club spa.”
“Noooo,” I groan.
“Hush, darling,” she says holding up her hand. “Yes, this is Mary Westfield. I need to make an appointment for two,” she speaks in her upper-class Bostonian accent that sounds foreign and just wrong to my ears.
I’m too tired to resist her force of will.
