Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“H ere?” I ask Kimo dubiously, looking at the brick building in front of us.
Kimo seems uncharacteristically nervous as he continues to gesture, Vanna White–style, at the brownstone. “Did I forget to mention that the best pancakes in town happen to be made in my kitchen? By me?”
I fold my arms, determined not to be charmed. “That most definitely was not mentioned.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d be thrilled if a guy brought me back to his place to cook for me. I still may not know what “pancakes” is code for in dating terms, but I know what “cooking back at my place” is code for, and from my (limited) experience, almost no cooking actually happens.
But the situation with Kimo isn’t a normal circumstance. I happen to be very well-acquainted with the fact that he’s in a custody dispute over two young children who are currently living with him full-time. So unless he plans to keep them locked in their bedrooms, chances are very good that we’re going to be having pancakes with those two children.
It’s not that I don’t like kids. I tolerate well-behaved children who keep their hands to themselves and don’t shout or scream or cry. Or bite. If I remember correctly from the trial documents, Makoa is seven and Nalani is nine, so I’m guessing they’re out of the biting-and-crying phase. At least, I think? It’s been a long time since I was looking after Sasha and Alina at those ages, so it’s kind of hard to remember. It does make sense, though, why Kimo suggested pancakes. Children of any age love sugar—I remember that much.
“Are the children having pancakes with us?” I ask bluntly, deciding to cut to the chase.
Kimo runs a sheepish hand over his face. “Yeah. They sort of need to eat three times a day. At least. It’s pretty obnoxious.”
I don’t begrudge them for eating. What I don’t understand is why he wants me to be eating with them. “And you want me here because...?”
Kimo reaches for me, hooking his index fingers through the belt loops of my jeans and tugging me half a step closer. His eyes rove over my face and he smiles to himself, like he can’t help his reaction to me. I will not find it endearing. I will not! “I wanted to have dinner with you, but I want to make sure I’m spending good quality time with Makoa and Nalani, too. So...two birds, one stone.” He tugs me just a little bit closer. “Besides, they wanted to meet you.”
“Me?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“I told them how you karate chopped one of the kidnappers in the butt. You’re their new hero.”
I shift, surprised—and honestly, a little pleased—at this turn of events. It’s sort of cool to be known for beating up kidnappers. “Me? Really?”
“Yeah.” He releases my jeans and wraps an arm around my shoulders, drawing me toward the door. “You and JoJo Siwa.”
“Who?”
Kimo laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “Oh, boy. Get ready to find out...”
I let him guide me inside, where I hear giggling long before I see any children. The evidence of them is all over, though. Toys tucked away into various shelves and bins around the room, art supplies scattered across the coffee table, stickers on the wall. I’m surprised, too, to see how modestly Kimo lives, even if this property is just a short-term rental they’re using during the custody trial. Knowing his net worth, I expected to walk into a lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous type of house; instead, it’s nice but more on the comfy, cozy side. Then I remember what he told me, about not wanting to change his lifestyle too much after making his money. I guess I’d just chalked that comment up to being the kind of thing a guy says when he’s trying to get into a stranger’s pants, but maybe his modesty actually goes beyond his flip-flops-and-board-shorts wardrobe.
Before I can think about it much longer, two small humans pop up from behind the couch. “Boo!”
I’m genuinely startled–-I’m not used to people jumping out and screaming at me—but it seems to be par for the course for Kimo. He lets out an obviously staged scream, clutching at his chest and then dropping dramatically to the floor, like he’s passed out. I worry that might be too morbid for the children, but they shriek in delight and rush over to tackle his carcass. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” they chant triumphantly, pounding on his broad back.
Huh. Okay. I guess it’s not too morbid for the kids.
Then the girl—Nalani—notices me, and she straightens up. For a moment, I’m worried she’s going to tackle me to the floor, too, but she’s suddenly all shy, like she wasn’t just using her uncle’s limb like a club to beat him over the head two seconds before. “I’m Nalani. You’re pretty.”
“Oh.” Frankly, I’d probably be less flustered if she tried to beat me with my own arm, too. “Thank you.” I should probably return a compliment with a compliment, right? That’s true even with children. “I... like your necklace.”
Nalani is wearing a shell attached to a pearl chain around her neck. She twists it shyly. “‘Anakala made it for me.”
“‘Anakala?” I repeat, unsure of the word.
“It means uncle.” Kimo speaks up from the floor, still face-down in the carpet. “I found the shell at the beach near our house on the Big Island.”
“It had a snail inside of it,” Makoa tells me gleefully, still perched atop Kimo’s back. “But we didn’t know until it died , and ‘Anakala had to scoop it out with a chopstick!”
Wow. Okay, so these kids really are into death. It’s kind of surprising, considering that their mother recently passed... but maybe it’s their way of coping with it, by trying to normalize it or something?
“Oh,” I say, when I realize both of them are watching me for my reaction. When they continue to blink at me, I realize they’re waiting for something more. I search for something comparable. “One time I found a dead mouse inside of my toaster.”
A beat. Then Makoa and Nalani look at each other before running into the kitchen shrieking in delight. “Check the toaster! Check the toaster!”
I stare after them, stunned in the wake of their chaos. Kimo looks up at me, grinning. “I have a feeling I know what they’re going to be doing every morning for the next week.”
We’re interrupted by another voice coming from the kitchen—a woman’s voice, sounding distinctly irritated. “What are you doing on my kitchen counter? Leave that toaster alone!”
If I’d paused to consider it, I probably would have realized that the children wouldn’t have been left here alone while Kimo picked me up from work and walked me back to his place. But beyond my own nerves at the unexpected situation, I hadn’t really thought about it much.
Now I do, and I piece it together quickly. With wide eyes, I stare at Kimo, willing myself to be wrong. “Please tell me that’s a babysitter.”
Kimo offers me another sheepish grin. “That would be Anela Kapono. My mother.”
* * *
Mrs. Kapono is a short woman, with a round frame and an open, pretty face. She has white-gray hair and wears a beautiful bright pink floral-print muumuu and house slippers. Everything about her looks soft and welcoming, like one of those little teddy bear creatures from that Star Wars movie. So in theory, she should seem completely approachable and adorable.
She is not. She is absolutely terrifying.
As soon as Kimo leads me into the kitchen, she sizes me up, making no effort to hide the fact that she is not impressed by what she sees. She purses her lips, folding her arms.
“Māmā,” Kimo says, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of warning in his tone—a reminder to play nice . “This is Matilda Markov. Matilda, my mother.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. I do not do mothers. I have hookup buddies and flings and one-night stands specifically to avoid mothers. My own didn’t want me; how am I possibly supposed to convince someone else’s to take me on?
If Kimo had told me she was going to be here, I never would have come. But I guess I’m here now, and although I might be socially inept, I’m not ever intentionally an asshole, so I have to make the best of things. I thrust out my hand, willing my voice not to crack like a teenage boy going through puberty. “Mrs. Kapono. Nice to meet you.”
Immediately by the way her nose wrinkles, I can tell I’ve somehow already said the wrong thing. “You can call her Aunty Anela,” Kimo supplies quickly.
“Aunty Kapono,” she corrects, then reluctantly takes my hand, shaking it limply. “So this is the haole girlfriend, huh?”
“Māmā,” Kimo says, not quite angry, but scolding, like she’s a naughty dog who’s chewed up his flip-flops again.
If I had time to think about it, I’d guess he’s reprimanding her for the haole comment. I’m not sure what that word means, but it does not sound complimentary. Instead, what my brain sticks on is the word that follows it, and I think his irritation must be caused by that.
“I’m not the girlfriend,” I blurt out quickly. I want to show him, and her, that I’m not expecting anything to come out of this. I know my place in everything. “I’m just a...friend,” I finish awkwardly. Because I probably shouldn’t say fuck buddy in front of his mom, right?
I didn’t think Aunty Kapono’s eyebrow could go any higher than it already was, but it does. She gives Kimo a long, meaningful look. “You hear that, Kimo? Just a friend.”
I’m confused now...Is she mad that I might be the girlfriend, or mad that I don’t want to be? Or both?
Kimo gives my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Okay, let’s make pancakes. Where did my keikis run off to?” He raises his voice to be heard. “Remember, anyone who doesn’t help make the pancakes doesn’t get to help eat them!”
The pantry door flies open and both children come spilling out, a chaotic tumble of laughing and shouting and arguing about who gets to crack the eggs. Despite the chaos, I brighten at the possibility of being put to work. At least I’ll know what to do with myself if I have a task to fulfill. “What can I do to help?”
“Sorry, Mattie, I can’t let you help. Then you might learn what the secret ingredient is.” Kimo winks at me, before leaning in to whisper, “It’s chocolate chips.” He gives my shoulders another squeeze, then motions me toward the dining room. “Why don’t you sit and have a little talk with Māmā? Give the two of you a chance to get to know each other better.”
I glance over at Aunty Kapono, who looks just about as thrilled by this suggestion as I feel.
“Uhhh,” I stall, before Kimo all but shoves me into the other room with his mom.