someone. I don’t think it’s you.”
“Wow.” He clutched his chest as if struck by a blow. “Ouch.”
“No, really. I’m on a blind date, and I’m meeting someone. It’s not you.” She felt her voice rise. She had to get rid of this jerk so she could meet the man three stools down.
He must have heard her, because he turned his head—and she recognized Mr. Tool Belt. His light brown eyes widened with recognition. She felt an electric something zing her like nothing she’d felt since that terrible crush on Mike Pennington back in high school.
Philip leaned in again and broke the connection between them. His face was congested with anger, and she realized how hurtful her words must have sounded.
“Bitch, really?” He pulled his wallet out, slapped down a bill. “Good luck with that.” Philip left, stomping through the restaurant and pushing the exit doors wide. They flapped dramatically in his wake.
Zoe gazed miserably into her drink. What a fiasco. She was terrified to look up.
The man from three stools down slid in beside her. “I’m sorry about that guy. I was a little late, or that never would have happened.” He smelled ever so faintly of surf wax, a subtle vanilla that her oversensitive nose picked up and immediately wanted more of.
She couldn’t look at him. She was afraid of what she’d see. What she wouldn’t see. Being wrong again. Being right. Her nipples tightened, and she thanked God she’d worn the bikini top.
“I forgot my rose,” she muttered into her drink.
“You can have mine.” He slid his rose over, and she glimpsed his hand, large and capable, a few dark hairs sprinkled across the wrist. The rose was multipetaled and old-fashioned; the variety she’d heard called “Hawaiian roses.” More magenta than red, it was round and the size of a small tangerine, with hundreds of tiny petals. It was so fresh that there was a pearly drop of moisture in the center. She picked it up, held it to her nose, and smelled cinnamon.
She closed her eyes, letting her hot cheeks cool, breathing it in. “ It’s beautiful.”
“Picked in my yard on the way here.”
“I can tell.”
Somehow she didn’t feel awkward; she felt instead as if, side by side, without seeing each other, they were moving into sync. She was still terrified to make eye contact, to feel that zing again, to feel her own falseness and her own longing.
The story. This was about the story. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t ready for anything, and she already knew she couldn’t “be true” like he’d said he wanted.
“I’m Zoe,” she said to the rose.
“I’m Adam.” His voice was low, and there was a cadence to it, the rhythm of the islands—a backbeat of what they called “pidgin,” though every word was perfect English.
“How crazy is this blind date thing?”
“Not so crazy. I saw your picture and liked it. I’m glad it’s you.”
She felt rather than saw him lift his beer glass, sip. She sneaked a glance, and it was, indeed, a wide, strong throat moving and a handsome profile. Almost-black hair, damp with comb marks, swept back from a high forehead. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. He turned his head, and her eyes glanced off his and away. He rubbed his chin; she heard the papery rasp.
“I meant to shave, but ran out of time. Today didn’t exactly go as planned.”
“What do you mean?” Zoe turned the rose in her fingers, and scent lifted from the bowlful of petals to tickle her nose with spicy scent.
“Oh, it just didn’t. Tough day.”
“Well, I’m new here on Maui. I can tell by this rose, you aren’t.” Stick with what she could truthfully say.
“You aren’t that new if you can tell that from this rose.”
“I’ve been here six months. These are antique roses descended from plants the missionaries brought over.”
“I nevah knew dat.” She heard the smile in his voice as he let a little pidgin out. “Pretty soon you going be one local girl.”
“I
“Wow.” He clutched his chest as if struck by a blow. “Ouch.”
“No, really. I’m on a blind date, and I’m meeting someone. It’s not you.” She felt her voice rise. She had to get rid of this jerk so she could meet the man three stools down.
He must have heard her, because he turned his head—and she recognized Mr. Tool Belt. His light brown eyes widened with recognition. She felt an electric something zing her like nothing she’d felt since that terrible crush on Mike Pennington back in high school.
Philip leaned in again and broke the connection between them. His face was congested with anger, and she realized how hurtful her words must have sounded.
“Bitch, really?” He pulled his wallet out, slapped down a bill. “Good luck with that.” Philip left, stomping through the restaurant and pushing the exit doors wide. They flapped dramatically in his wake.
Zoe gazed miserably into her drink. What a fiasco. She was terrified to look up.
The man from three stools down slid in beside her. “I’m sorry about that guy. I was a little late, or that never would have happened.” He smelled ever so faintly of surf wax, a subtle vanilla that her oversensitive nose picked up and immediately wanted more of.
She couldn’t look at him. She was afraid of what she’d see. What she wouldn’t see. Being wrong again. Being right. Her nipples tightened, and she thanked God she’d worn the bikini top.
“I forgot my rose,” she muttered into her drink.
“You can have mine.” He slid his rose over, and she glimpsed his hand, large and capable, a few dark hairs sprinkled across the wrist. The rose was multipetaled and old-fashioned; the variety she’d heard called “Hawaiian roses.” More magenta than red, it was round and the size of a small tangerine, with hundreds of tiny petals. It was so fresh that there was a pearly drop of moisture in the center. She picked it up, held it to her nose, and smelled cinnamon.
She closed her eyes, letting her hot cheeks cool, breathing it in. “ It’s beautiful.”
“Picked in my yard on the way here.”
“I can tell.”
Somehow she didn’t feel awkward; she felt instead as if, side by side, without seeing each other, they were moving into sync. She was still terrified to make eye contact, to feel that zing again, to feel her own falseness and her own longing.
The story. This was about the story. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t ready for anything, and she already knew she couldn’t “be true” like he’d said he wanted.
“I’m Zoe,” she said to the rose.
“I’m Adam.” His voice was low, and there was a cadence to it, the rhythm of the islands—a backbeat of what they called “pidgin,” though every word was perfect English.
“How crazy is this blind date thing?”
“Not so crazy. I saw your picture and liked it. I’m glad it’s you.”
She felt rather than saw him lift his beer glass, sip. She sneaked a glance, and it was, indeed, a wide, strong throat moving and a handsome profile. Almost-black hair, damp with comb marks, swept back from a high forehead. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. He turned his head, and her eyes glanced off his and away. He rubbed his chin; she heard the papery rasp.
“I meant to shave, but ran out of time. Today didn’t exactly go as planned.”
“What do you mean?” Zoe turned the rose in her fingers, and scent lifted from the bowlful of petals to tickle her nose with spicy scent.
“Oh, it just didn’t. Tough day.”
“Well, I’m new here on Maui. I can tell by this rose, you aren’t.” Stick with what she could truthfully say.
“You aren’t that new if you can tell that from this rose.”
“I’ve been here six months. These are antique roses descended from plants the missionaries brought over.”
“I nevah knew dat.” She heard the smile in his voice as he let a little pidgin out. “Pretty soon you going be one local girl.”
“I
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