Chapter 9
9
Ivy
December 21
Kauai, Hawaii
Ivy is satisfyingly weary after an afternoon spent exploring and sketching. The day before, she discovered Ines’s Secret Beach to be a true hideaway, empty of tourists when Ivy got there, sheltered by immense, palm-tree-lined sea cliffs and featuring a beach of shell pink sand softer than any mattress Ivy has ever slept on. She sat on a pillowy dune and sketched for hours before eating her picnic lunch, then making her way farther along the coast to Lumaha‘i.
There, she snapped a photo and sent it to Holly— The beach from “South Pacific”! Picture Mitzi Gaynor washing that man right outta her hair! —but decided against going swimming. The waves were high, and she had read online and been warned by Oliver that this beach recorded the highest number of drownings per year because people underestimated the pull of the tide and the power of the ocean.
Instead, she spent the rest of the afternoon at Lumaha‘i in the shade of a row of fragrant hibiscus, sketching contentedly before eventually taking a short nap on a beach blanket she had tucked into her backpack. She awoke feeling decadent, rested, sun-warm— happy . She’d shaded a drawing of the beach she had been working on before her nap, waited for the soft pastel to dry enough for her to slide it into her portfolio folder and then into her backpack, and prepared for the hike back to Hanalei, making sure to leave herself enough time so that she wouldn’t be walking in the dark.
As the scenery gets familiar, she cuts up from the beach path. Soon, she finds herself walking through the streets of the town as dusk begins to fall. There’s a buzz in the air, and many people about. She sees a sign for a juice bar up ahead and gets in line so she can buy a drink to quench her thirst after the long hike. Then she’ll find a good spot to get dinner, she decides.
She’s nearly at the front of the line when she hears an unwelcomely familiar voice behind her. Shit.
“Think they have any rum to put in this juice, Abby Bo-Babby?”
Matt. A delighted giggle—at least someone likes him. Ivy doesn’t catch Abby’s reply through the sudden angry rushing in her ears. They’re right behind her. She has the urge to duck out of her spot in line and hide somewhere—but it’s Matt who should be hiding and ashamed, not her! So she asks for a “santol-ade”—a drink made with the juice of ripe mangosteens—and pulls her Expos baseball cap lower over her face as she waits, the nauseating reminder of Matt’s betrayal of her best friend washing over Ivy like a pailful of dirty water. She considers for a moment what it would feel like to confront Matt, to call him out in front of Abby, the way he deserves.
But doing that would add yet another huge event she would have to keep from Holly. How was your day? Holly might ask her, and Ivy would have to leave out the fact that she dumped a santol-ade on Matt’s head in a tiny Hawaiian town.
“Ugh!” Ivy takes her drink and walks away, all happiness from her exhilarating, productive day gone. She skulks around the back of the juice stand and kicks at a boulder, and of course badly stubs her toe on it. “ Ow. Shithead!”
“Now, what did that rock ever do to you?”
Ivy turns to see Oliver, lanky and handsome in the khaki shorts and fitted black golf shirt of his bartending uniform.
“I saw you getting juice, but when I came over to say hi, you’d snuck around back here.”
“Matt is here,” Ivy mutters.
“I saw him. I figured that was why you took off. I see you decided to kick a rock.” Even his one-dimpled smile does nothing to cheer her.
“A big part of me wanted to just kick him in the shins and run away.”
Oliver laughs, then stops himself. “I’m sorry. This is not funny.”
“It’s not ,” Ivy says. “I’m lying to my best friend. I’m the worst . I’ve never felt so horrible, so dirty in my life.”
“Hey, Ivy?”
She looks up at him. “Yeah?”
“Sounds like what you need is a friend,” he says, all mirth gone from his eyes. “So, it’s good you ran into me. I think I know something that might cheer you up.”
“Nothing can cheer me up,” she says darkly.
“Tonight’s the Hanalei Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony. And I know, I know, you’re lukewarm on Christmas. But this is more than that. It’s really special. I promise you.”
“You were right about the beaches you recommended,” Ivy says. “They were great. But a parade?”
“It’s not a parade,” he specifies. “It’s a Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony.”
“Sorry, sorry, tree-lighting ceremony.”
“It starts at the pier, where everyone watches as they bring the town Christmas tree in on a barge—huge shipments come by steamer every year and get dispersed around the island since, obviously, Christmas trees don’t grow here. Then Santa and Mrs. Claus roll in on their outrigger canoe—”
“Santa and Mrs. Claus have an outrigger canoe?”
“In Hawaii they do. And it’s pulled by dolphins.” Her mouth drops open. “I told you. You have to see this.” He has a kid-at-Christmas look on his face, which has, of course, coaxed his cute dimple out again. She can’t help but smile now, his enthusiasm contagious. “Then everyone follows the tree, with the Clauses leading the way, of course.”
“That sounds a bit like a parade…”
He ignores her. “And then the ceremonial lighting happens in the middle of town.” His sea green eyes are dancing with true delight now. “It’s my favorite thing on this island, and I have very high standards for favorite things. The evergreen gets decorated and lit up, and all the palm trees in town that have been decorated in advance light up, too. It’s a sight to see, Ivy, I swear—guaranteed to soften even the hardest heart.”
“Hey, I do not have a hard heart,” Ivy says.
“I know that.” Oliver’s tone is thoughtful now, serious. He’s looking at her closely, the way he did when they first met—as if he’s trying to decode her, figure her out.
Ivy lifts her chin and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t go back out there. I have to avoid Matt.”
“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Oliver says. He rubs one hand over the golden stubble on his jaw, and his shirt rides up, but she manages to keep her eyes on his face and not his chiseled abs as she reminds herself of how very much she likes Larry. “Why does this guy get away with messing with your friend’s life and ruining your holiday? Why are you letting him?”
“I’m not letting him,” Ivy says, defensive now. “If I could avoid him completely, I would.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. If we see him, I’ll hide you.”
“What, are you going to magically turn into a giant hedge?”
He grins. “Maybe? You don’t know my superpowers yet, Ivy.” He reaches down and lowers the brim of her Expos cap so it covers more of her face. “There. You’re in disguise. I’ll be your invisibility cloak, okay? No one sees you unless you want them to. I’ve got you, Ivy.”
Ivy and Oliver fall into easy step, staying close beside each other in the crowded, bustling town.
“So, I think you’ll like this story,” Oliver says as they walk. “Today, Matt asked me for an island breeze, and I told him I was out of pineapple juice. He said he’d take it with orange juice, and I told him I was out of vodka. Then, when I happened to walk past him at the pool, I ‘accidentally’ spilled his blue lagoon all over his Tommy Bahama floral button-up.”
Ivy laughs. “Thank you for actively participating in a vendetta even though you barely know the parties involved. I appreciate it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I barely know you ,” he says. “And I know what he did to your friend.”
They’ve arrived at the beach. A group of children are already gathered on the sand, all of them abuzz with anticipation as the holiday tree comes into view, then makes its way across the bay on a barge towed by a catamaran. The tree is greeted on the shore by cheers and whistles, then hauled onto a flatbed by a waiting crew.
“Just wait,” Oliver whispers as the jubilant crowd turns back to the ocean. “Santa and his wife are a local couple,” he explains—his whispers in her ear sending tingles up and down the length of her body, no matter how hard she tries to fight the sensation. “They dress up in the costumes year after year, delighting the kids on the island as they’re drawn across the bay in the outrigger canoe. Santa rings a bell and yells ‘Ho ho ho,’ and the kids run into the surf to meet them.”
“Wow,” Ivy breathes. “They are getting pulled by dolphins.”
“You see? This is pure magic, isn’t it? I wish I’d brought my camera so I could take a photo of you right now.”
The idea of him taking her photo makes her heart do a treacherously excited cartwheel, but luckily, she’s distracted by Santa and Mrs. Claus climbing out of the canoe and wading to shore as the canoe and dolphins are driven back the way they came. They don’t seem to care that their festive outfits are now half soaked. They greet the children enthusiastically, delivering pats on heads and “Ho ho hos” and cries of “Have you been good this year?” as they lead the crowd through the town, following the path of the tree on the flatbed. The streets are loud with singing and laughter, but it’s a pleasant kind of loud that fills Ivy’s ears like the rushing noise inside a seashell.
In the center of town, the tree is lifted up onto its heavy stand by as many as are able to help, and strung with a cavalcade of lights in mere moments. Cheers rise up into the air again as a traditional Hawaiian band sets up on the platform beside the tree and starts playing carols. The crowd sings along in Hawaiian to familiar tunes like “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and “Deck the Halls.”
A reverent silence falls. Ivy watches as a woman dressed in red robes, a filmy yellow mantle across her shoulders, takes the stage. Her long, dark hair falls to the middle of her back. A leafy crown sits atop her head.
“That’s one of the Hanalei kahunas,” Oliver whispers, his breath warm in her ear. “Sort of like a town shaman, a healer.”
The kahuna raises her arms, and the tree illuminates as if she has conjured the light, all dazzling and golden. Across the town, palm trees strung with Christmas lights are lit up, too; the world is a kaleidoscope of color. Ivy oohs and aahs , along with everyone else, completely caught up in the moment.
“Be the light,” the kahuna says to the children below her, a sort of benediction.
Ivy stands still for a moment, letting it all wash over her. Oliver is watching her again, a huge smile on his face now.
She looks up at him. “That was awesome, Oliver. It really did cheer me up. Thank you.”
Just then, a family with three young children jostles past them, and she’s knocked closer to Oliver. He catches her by her waist so she doesn’t fall. Instead of letting her go, he gazes down at her.
“What?” she asks, self-conscious.
“You had fun,” he says. “Admit it.”
His hands are still on her hips. His touch feels warm, and she suddenly has the urge to reach down and hold his hands against her, feel how smooth his skin is.
She’s so intent on trying to brush these physical longings away, she hardly notices when there’s a crash of thunder overhead. But milliseconds later, rain begins to fall in sheets, and she is brought back to reality. Oliver drops his hands from her hips and grabs her hand. “Come on!”
They run toward an empty market stall to take shelter—but just before they reach it, Ivy grinds to a halt. It’s Matt and Abby, heading for the same shelter. “No,” she says. “We have to go somewhere else.”
Oliver sees them, too, and, taking his cue from Ivy’s stricken expression, grabs her by the waist, pulls her close, and stares into her eyes as if he’s about to kiss her. Ivy’s body feels electrified, by the suddenness of this action, she tells herself, but she knows that’s not all. The rain is falling so hard her clothes have soaked through, but all she can feel is the touch of his hands. Get a hold of yourself, Ivy. This is not some romantic, cinematic scene in a rainstorm. He’s just trying to hide you from someone you don’t feel like facing right now. And. He. Has. A. Girlfriend.
“Are they gone?” she manages.
“They’re under the shelter, and they’re not looking at us right now,” Oliver says, his lips so close to hers she can almost taste him: she imagines citrus and coconut, a little bit of mint. “They’ve turned in the other direction.” She stares at him through the rain. His pupils are dilated; she can only see slender green rings at the edges of his irises. They continue to stand perfectly still, staring into each other’s eyes—and now Ivy feels like she couldn’t move if she wanted to. He’s the one who steps back, running one hand through his soaking wet hair, releasing a shaky breath.
“I know somewhere we can dry off,” he finally says. “Larry’s bar.”
Right. Larry. His beautiful, incredibly kind girlfriend. Ivy forces herself back to a reality where she and Oliver are not, in fact, the only two people on the planet, the way it felt seconds before, and follows him.
“Here we are.” They’ve reached the Black Pearl. Its sign swings above their heads, a carved wooden oyster with a radiant black orb inside. Oliver pulls her through the front door, and they stand in the entrance dripping, laughing at themselves.
“Hey, come on in, let’s get you two dry!” Larry calls out. She reaches under the bar and comes up with a handful of towels. Crossing the room, she hands some to Ivy, then turns her attention to Oliver. She stands on her tiptoes and rubs his hair with her towel so it stands up wildly in all directions.
“Hey,” he says, patting it down. “You’re messing with the do.”
“Honey, the rain messed with the do. Nothing could make it worse. We’ve been friends a long time, so I feel I can be this honest with you.”
Ivy feels a twinge, watching them together. They seem to have that rare combination of deep friendship and romance that Ivy didn’t think existed until she met them. But as Oliver grabs a towel from Larry and snaps it as she dances lightly away, Ivy knows it does exist. “What am I going to do with you?” Larry says over her shoulder as she heads back behind the bar.
Whatever spark she felt earlier with Oliver was surely one-sided. He had promised to shield her from Matt, that was all. And Larry is an angel. Ivy will not allow herself to feel jealous, will not indulge a wish to steal her boyfriend. Ivy is not that person. She takes off her soaked baseball cap, gathering her long, sopping hair into a ponytail, which she attempts to wring out into the towel.
“Please, just wring it out onto the floor,” Larry calls out with a friendly smile. “Your hat, too. Go ahead, it’s fine. I’ll mop it all up in a sec.”
Once Ivy and Oliver are some approximation of dry, Larry runs a mop over the floor while telling them to take a seat at the bar. Ivy takes in her surroundings. Larry’s bar is quirky and inviting; the walls are papered with vintage postcards depicting scenes from the South Pacific and various Hawaiian vistas. Strings of lights shaped like pineapples, surfboards, and palm trees are strung haphazardly across the top of the bar and from the ceiling, too. A record player sits behind the bar, and there are shelves beside the bottles stocked with vinyl.
Larry is currently spinning Janis Joplin’s Pearl ; Janis is singing about a guy who fills her like mountains, fills her like the sea.
“You two drowned rats look like you could use a cocktail,” Larry says. “Bartender’s choice?”
“Sure,” Ivy says. She glances over at Oliver, who has a weird look on his face. “What?”
“Oh, you don’t know what you’re signing up for,” Oliver says as Larry pulls a jar of juice with a big red skull and crossbones on it out of the fridge. “You see?” Oliver declares. “Skull and crossbones.”
Ivy feels mildly alarmed. “What is that?”
“My special jalape?o-pineapple juice. Can you handle hot stuff, Ivy?”
“Of course,” Ivy says, and now Oliver’s sidelong glance seems to turn flirtatious.
“Yeah?” he says lightly, and she feels that one word zing like an electrical jolt that lands at the base of her pelvis, where heat begins to spread.
Maybe Holly is right. Maybe the idea of two weeks of sexual deprivation is too much for her libido—but she has to rein these feelings in, and now.
“I like spicy food,” Ivy says primly, turning away from him and focusing on the decor again as Larry stands before them, mixing up their drinks. There are framed photos behind the bar—some of Larry and Oliver, Ivy notices, both smiling and looking blissfully happy, and others of Larry, Oliver, and another woman, or just Larry and the woman.
“Great photos,” Ivy says. Larry’s smile grows wider.
“Aren’t they? We had just gotten engaged in that one.” Ivy hates that her heart plummets when Larry says this. They’re engaged? She hopes her expression isn’t betraying her, that her smile doesn’t look as pained as it feels. “After we’re married, we’ll finally live together full-time and not do this long-distance, all-over-the-place stuff.” She tilts her head. “Although we still haven’t quite figured out how that’s going to work.” Then she shrugs and smiles again, as Ivy thinks about what Oliver said to her when he was showing her the apartment—about how he only winters here in Hawaii, and has a serious case of wanderlust. “We will, though.” Larry mixes mezcal and Malibu rum with the spicy juice in a cocktail shaker. She’s more straightforward than Oliver is as a bartender; she doesn’t toss the shaker or showboat around behind the bar, just does her job steadily while singing Janis Joplin at the top of her lungs.
“When’s the wedding?” Ivy asks, directing the question at Oliver.
“Did you guys set an official date yet?” Oliver asks Larry, to Ivy’s confusion.
“Shira’s still waiting to hear from a venue in LA, but I’m hoping I can convince her to do it here, on the beach. Who knows, maybe we’ll just have two ceremonies?”
“Wait—who’s Shira?”
Larry pours the concoction into martini glasses, tops it all off with prosecco, and garnishes it with jalape?o rings, which float like little lifeboats in the sunny yellow cocktail.
“There you go. The Hawaiian bonfire. My jalape?o-infused pineapple juice will make you forget all about being caught in the rain. And what do you mean, who’s Shira?” She points at one of the photos, one with just Larry and the woman, who has a blunt blond bob, amber eyes, and a smile just as infectious as Larry’s. “She’s my fiancée.”
Ivy looks between Oliver and Larry. “But I thought…”
“You thought what ?” Oliver says, a slow smile stealing over his face.
“That you and Larry…” Ivy feels embarrassed now, and it doesn’t help that Oliver seems delighted by her mistake.
“That we were a couple? I thought I mentioned to you that Larry is my best friend.”
“I thought you were one of those smug couples who says you’re also best friends,” Ivy mutters, and Oliver laughs, then clinks his glass against Ivy’s, takes a sip, sputters dramatically. “Whoa, this is your hottest batch ever, Lar.”
“Shira is a film director and lives in LA, but she’ll be here for Christmas. She gets here tomorrow.” Larry hops up and down now. “I’m so excited. And no, Oliver is not my boyfriend.”
Ivy takes a sip of her own drink to cover up how flustered she is. She tries to ignore what she suspects is relief coursing through her body at the fact that Oliver and Larry aren’t a pair. No flings on art holidays , she reminds herself, but her inner voice is already growing weak.
Larry is wiping the counter and singing along to the Janis Joplin record again. “Hey, Lar, you’re a great singer and all, but it’s the holiday season!” Oliver says. “Tonight was the tree lighting! Don’t you think you should be playing carols?”
Larry looks at Ivy and rolls her eyes. “Honestly, he’s like a child this time of year, right? No, I do not think I should be playing bland Christmas carols, thank you very much. Me, Janis, and Bobby McGee here are perfectly fine.”
“Agreed,” Ivy says, and she finds herself smiling as Larry starts singing again—because her joy is infectious, but Ivy knows there’s something else behind her own happiness. Now Oliver leans his head close.
“Hey,” he says as Larry goes off to serve a small group of patrons who have come through the door, as rain-soaked as they were. She turns her gaze toward him, feeling that electrical zing again, this time causing a tantalizing throb between her legs. If all he has to do to make her feel that way is look at her, Ivy can’t help but wonder what sort of magic would happen if they actually touched.
But no. No. She will not.
“Did it bother you, when you thought Larry and I were a couple? Were you disappointed, by any chance?”
“You think highly of yourself, don’t you?” Ivy says, taking a large sip of the spicy drink, grateful that the hot sensation on her lips and in her mouth gives her something else to focus on other than him.
He shrugs, flashes his dimple at her. “I guess I’m just trying to think about how I would feel, seeing you with a guy I thought you were with. I think I’d be a little jealous. I like you, Ivy.”
This must be how he does it, Ivy thinks. He’s probably getting laid left, right, and center, with his good looks and extreme confidence. Who just comes out and says, I like you, Ivy ?
Exactly the kind of guy you’re most attracted to. The sexy, self-assured kind. The kind who would probably, if you gave him the go-ahead, push you against this bar and kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.
He had spoken the final words close to her ear, and the soft rumble of his voice sends another shiver through her body. What the hell, Ivy? He’s just a guy. Get a hold of yourself. “I like you, too,” Ivy says, her voice schoolmarm-prim, somehow, when it could just as easily be full of the desire she can’t seem to get control of. She takes another fortifying sip of the spicy cocktail, while Oliver raises his eyebrow, making her feel like he can read her mind and knows exactly what she wishes they could do, possibly right against this bar. “But these two weeks every year are sacred to me. I don’t have room for anyone or anything other than my art.”
He leans back and nods. “Right. You only make those gorgeous pastel landscapes once a year, for some reason.”
She looks away from him and back at the photos behind the bar. Beside the personal ones of Larry, Oliver, and Shira, there are other, professional-looking photos, all framed, all very similar to the photographs of ocean waves at the apartment. “Those are spectacular photos,” she says, hoping a change of subject will make her feel less powerless against her attraction. “I saw some like that at the apartment. Who’s the photographer?”
Now, all at once, Oliver’s expression changes. And Ivy knows that sort of look. “Wait a minute,” she says. She raises herself on her barstool, leans over, and squints at the images in the framed photo, and, all at once, sees the tiny silver signature at the base of each one: “Oliver Donohue.” She turns to him. “ You took those.”
He waves a hand as if it’s nothing that he’s so talented.
“Oliver, come on, these are great. Like, good enough to be in National Geographic or something. I’ve never seen waves and water captured like that. It feels like they could come right off the paper. The movement, yet the stillness. They’re perfect.”
He looks even more bashful now. “Well, actually, my photos have been in Nat Geo a few times. I’m working on a photo-essay for them right now. That’s what I was doing this morning.”
So he isn’t just a bartender-surfer. He’s a bartender-surfer-photographer. Which, unfortunately, means her attraction to him is now in overdrive. “The amount of patience it must take to catch the waves like that,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything like these.” Maybe if she can keep the talk centered around art, she’ll be okay.
He leans over the bar and points at the top one, a photograph of a wave curled tight like the top of an intricately carved violin. “You’re right that it takes patience. It usually takes me at least five or six hours to get just one perfect shot of a wave. That one, I think, took about ten. My entire body was a prune.” He settles back down onto his stool. “I also take a hell of a lot of pounding and have been almost concussed more than once. The ocean is the boss, and you’d think I’d know better by now, but I get taken for a ride every single time.”
“I can tell from the way you’re talking about it that you love it, though.”
His grin widens. “ Adore it. That moment I know I’ve got the shot—and I always know, even before I look at it—it’s the absolute best feeling. Nothing like it in the world.”
“I get that, in a way,” says Ivy. “I mean, I’m not getting my head pounded into the sand of a beach, but I have to be patient when I’m doing my landscapes, wait for the light to be just right. I know I could take a photograph and draw from that—and I do, sometimes. I did that with the tree, for example. But there’s nothing like being immersed in the perfect, most beautiful, natural moment—and creating it on a page at the same time. I feel one with it, if that makes sense? One with my entire life.”
“Makes perfect sense,” he says. During their conversation, he’s moved his stool closer, and their arms aren’t touching, but almost. She can feel the now familiar sensation of the hairs on her arms standing up, almost as if they’re straining to reach out and touch him. “I feel it, too. That I’m one with the wave, maybe even the whole ocean. That it has a message, and I’m the conduit. I chase that feeling.” She notices that this close, and in this light, his ocean green eyes have a ring of indigo outlining the iris, and that at night they look more green-gray than green-blue. She thinks of the shades in her favorite box of soft oil pastels. Maybe transparent blue mixed with light gray. No, English gray and charcoal blue.
He tilts his head, quizzical. “Is there something in my eye?”
“I’m sorry—I do this a lot. Sort of forget I’m in the real world and start trying to figure out the colors I’d use to draw things. My best friend is used to it, but for other people, it takes a little time.”
“What are you thinking about drawing?”
Her throat goes dry and her pulse speeds up. “You,” she says, trying to make it sound like she says this sort of thing to people all the time. “Your eyes, specifically.”
The sexy smile dimple has made an appearance. “You’d want to draw me?”
It feels like it takes far too much effort to drag her gaze away this time. “Sure, why not?” she says. “Something tells me you’re a bit like a wave, though. Might be hard to get you to sit still for long.”
“I’d sit still for you,” he says. “For as long as you wanted me to.”
Ivy breaks his gaze, puts down her drink, and decides to be frank. “I can’t do this,” she says.
Oliver looks confused. “Do what?”
“I can’t keep flirting like this. I’m sure if we got together we’d have a lot of fun. But I’m sort of an all-or-nothing person. I can get very focused. And I can’t spend a night with you”—as she says those words, she feels that pulse between her legs again, so intense this time it almost makes her squirm in her seat—“because, as I said, I’ve made a commitment to myself and to my art. I have to focus.”
Now his eyes are lit up with blue-green fire. “What makes you think it would just be a onetime thing?” he says.
“Isn’t that what you do?” she asks him. “One-night stands with tourists?”
He frowns and stays silent. Larry is approaching again, and Ivy doesn’t tell her not to when she starts preparing her a refill.
“Hey, you know, Larry,” she says, turning her attention as firmly as she can away from Oliver. “I think a case can be made for Janis Joplin’s ‘Mercedes Benz’ actually being a Christmas song, right?”
Larry laughs as she adds the final touch of prosecco to Ivy’s cocktail glass, then mixes Oliver another drink, too. “You’re absolutely right. It’s like a Christmas wish list. A new car, a color TV, a night on the town—it’s positively festive. Hey, are you guys hungry? All I have here are bar snacks, but I’m starved. Ollie, would you go across to the Manapua Man truck and get us some dumplings? Pretty please?”
Oliver hops off his stool. “One of my Oliver’s Tourism Board highlights. Come on,” he says to Ivy. “You can help me pick.”
The food truck is a Westfalia van, parked across the street, with a sign on top that says “Manapua Man.” The savory smells emanating from the van’s window make Ivy’s mouth water immediately. She forgot how hungry she was.
“Hey, Noa.” Oliver greets the man leaning his head out the window, wearing a red hat that says “Manapua Man” in yellow writing, with a hibiscus flower beside it.
He glances at Ivy. “What do you feel like?”
“Tell me what’s good.”
“Three four-packs of faux char siu steamed, and three of veggie baked, please.”
The big, fluffy dumplings are ready quickly, nestled in compostable cardboard boxes. Ivy takes three of the six boxes and they cross the street again, but just outside the door of the bar, Oliver turns to Ivy and looks down at her. “Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was being really forward in there. I get the importance of keeping your creative time sacred. I really do. I won’t do that again, okay? Friend zone from here on out. I meant what I said—I like you—and I’d still like to hang out while you’re here. Cool with you?”
“Of course,” Ivy says. “I am living in the same house as you, so it’s going to be pretty impossible to avoid each other.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And why would we want to?”
That thump of desire hits her again, but she’s almost sure it’s fainter than it was before. Or maybe she’s just getting used to it.
Back at the bar top, Ivy takes a bite of one of the faux char siu dumplings. It’s delicious, the filling a silky fermented bean curd bathed in sweet-salty sauce. “ Mmmm. ” She finishes it in two bites.
“I take it you like them?”
“Love them,” Ivy says, eating her way through the rest of the box and starting on the baked veggie. During a lull in bar patrons, Larry takes a break and eats with them, and says, “Okay, as a thank-you for dinner, I will put on a Christmas album for you, Ollie.”
His face lights up like one of the light-strung palms outside. “Really?” He turns to Ivy. “This is huge. She never lets me listen to Christmas music. I don’t even know what to pick, but think I have to go with the festive classic Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas , right?”
Ivy laughs and shrugs. Larry puts on the album and goes to serve some new customers as Bing Crosby begins to gently croon “Silent Night.”
“I’m almost sure I’ve never met anyone as into Christmas as you are,” Ivy says. “Why is that? Did you have the most excellent celebrations when you were a kid?”
All the joy suddenly leaves his expression, as if she’s snuffed out a candle. “Not exactly,” he says. “But I always knew what I wanted my Christmases to look like when I got older. I’m more about making my own traditions than looking back at the past.”
She can tell she’s inadvertently hit a nerve. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I touched something raw there.”
“No, no, it’s really okay. I didn’t have the best childhood, but I’ve moved past it. My dad was kind of the worst. But I’m okay. Really. I have the therapy receipts to prove it.”
Larry approaches with a tray of shot glasses. “Those women in the corner asked for snowballs and I accidentally made polar bears. You two game?”
“Sure,” Ivy says, accepting a shot and clinking her glass against Larry’s and Oliver’s before downing the chocolaty-minty concoction. “Honestly, Larry, you are the best bartender ever.”
“Hey,” Oliver says, feigning hurt feelings.
“Come on, Ollie, you can’t have everything. You get to be the best photographer, let me keep my class A bartending skills,” Larry says. She also pours them pints of water, and crosses the room to serve a new table.
Oliver is staring at Ivy again—intently, at her lips. “Hey,” Ivy says, swatting at him.
“You have some crushed candy cane on your lips, from the side of the glass. That’s all.” He points to her cupid’s bow.
She licks the bit of candy cane off and hops down from her stool. Her resolve is wavering. She needs to put some space between them again. “You know what? This album is actually pretty catchy.” Bing is now singing about Santa Claus coming to town, and Ivy shakes her hips. “Makes me want to dance.”
He watches her for a moment, his expression inscrutable, before hopping off his chair, too. “Finally,” he says. “It just took festive cocktails to get you in the spirit. But I’ll take it.” He grabs her hips, sending a shower of sparks up and down her skin, and they dance together for a moment while she tells herself she can handle this—she can have fun with a guy she’s this attracted to, be friends with him. It doesn’t have to go any further.
His one-dimpled smile is full of mischief now. “Come on, let’s see how mad Larry gets if we dance on the bar. She should know better anyway—Christmas music always gets me way too excited.” Ivy laughs and follows him as he shimmies onto the bar top, while Larry shrieks at them good-naturedly from across the room and fake threatens to kick them out. No harm is being done here, Ivy tells herself. She’s having a great time. She’ll get back to work tomorrow. For now, it’s perfectly okay to be in the moment, dancing on a bar, laughing up at the light-strung ceiling.