Chapter Twenty-One
After the emotional rush of cliff-jumping, Tyler and I both agree that we need something way more low stakes, which is when he asks me if I’m up for another drive. When I retort that we’re already doing that, he shoots me a playfully stern look.
“A little bit farther this time,” he explains, slipping on his sunglasses as we coast down the road after toweling off. “There’s a cool little market I want to take you to.”
As we drive, I can’t help but take in the gorgeous scenery around me.
Bordering the road are tall trees that Tyler explains are tropical pines that look like Christmas trees but a bit scragglier, their branches puffy with upright-standing needles.
They wave to us in the ocean air as we drive by, the sun gently pulsing through the open roof, its warmth mixing with the slight chill of the wind rushing into the car.
This place is beautiful, I think in awe as my eyes catch on the various stop-off points with lookouts peering out over the vast, glittering turquoise ocean.
I’d been on tropical vacations once or twice with Mom before, but the only places we’d ever gone were either in Florida or California—neither of which can hold a candle to the breathtaking beauty of Hawai?i.
It’s like a gorgeous tropical universe all its own, a shining gem in the middle of the Pacific.
I can totally see why Lucas and Ella love it here.
It’s well past lunchtime, dipping into late-afternoon territory, when Tyler and I show up at the little outdoor market on the northern shore of the island, which has noticeably less traffic and tourists milling around.
The wooden sign arching above the entryway reads Hukilau Marketplace.
All around us, there are tiny huts and some larger-scale buildings boasting different tourist memorabilia, clothes, snacks, and more.
“The North Shore is where more of the locals live, since downtown is so commercialized now,” Tyler explains as we start walking.
“And we’re actually not far from the Hukilau Cafe—that place from 50 First Dates.
You know, where Adam Sandler meets Drew Barrymore while she’s making those weird waffle houses?
It wasn’t actually filmed there—the physical diner in the movie was fake—but that place is where they got the name from. ”
“Really?” My heart soars excitedly at the thought, calling up the scene in my mind instantly. “We’ll have to drive past. That’s one of my favorite movies ever.”
Tyler smiles softly, almost to himself. “I know,” he says quietly. “I remember.” Which would make sense, since we watched it together no less than ten times.
We head toward the first stand, passing stalls of brightly colored fruit, leis, koa wood items, jewelry—you name it. But the stand we stop in front of has none of those things, only a bored-looking teenager and a soda machine, a menu propped up behind him.
“What’ll it be?” he asks in a monotone voice, so unlike the warm kindness of the other locals I’ve encountered so far that it throws me off guard. But I guess teenagers are teenagers, no matter where they are in the world.
Tyler steps forward and takes out his wallet, taking the liberty of ordering for the both of us.
Which is totally fine with me. It’s been a while since I jumped over that cliff, but I have a residual shakiness in all of my extremities, my heart still trembling from the impact.
On the bright side, the trip over here with the sunroof and windows open dried off my damp clothes, so I’m already feeling much better.
“Two large Pepsis, please,” Tyler requests, squinting at the menu.
“With vanilla and raspberry.” The teen nods wordlessly and spins around to grab the cups and get to work.
While we wait, I watch tourists weave in and out of the other huts, arms laden with memorabilia to bring home.
On their vacations without a care in the world.
Not nursing a broken heart because of a lousy, emotionally cheating ex.
Although, as I think about it, my heart is feeling less broken today and more just…bruised.
Focus, Olive.
“Vanilla and raspberry?” I can’t help but screw up my nose as Tyler pays and we grab our drinks, heading to a nearby picnic table and taking a tentative sniff. “That doesn’t sound like it would be a good combo.”
“You said the same thing about loco moco, but then you ended up eating so much of it that you felt sick.” Tyler is unfazed by my skepticism, already popping his straw into his drink and taking a generous sip, eyes fluttering closed dramatically with a moan, making my own insides twist with surprise. “God, that’s so freaking good.”
I place my own straw into my cup and study the little soda stand’s red-and-white logo.
Sodabomb. Deciding I have nothing left to lose (and yes, begrudgingly realizing Tyler does have a point about the loco moco thing), I take a tentative sip.
And once I do, an explosion of delicious flavor coats my taste buds.
“Wow,” I rasp, taken aback by how divine this drink tastes. “I have to hand it to you, Ty. You’ve been right about local cuisine twice in one day.”
He snickers as he slurps his drink, winking at me over our cups.
My belly does another nervous flip. “Second trip’s the charm, I guess.
I’m practically a local.” That earns him a playful punch on the arm, and we enjoy the rest of our drinks in silence, listening to the wind and the birds before we stroll through the market and explore.
I even find a hand-painted ceramic mug with gorgeous plumeria blossoms dotted all over it, Hawai?i carved into the center, and decide it’s the perfect gift for Mom to add to her collection.
After shopping around for a little longer, we decide to keep the sweet-tooth run going and Tyler drives us to Leonard’s, a famous bakery on the island.
By the time we park the car and walk up to the front door to push through the crowds, he’s already given me a full rundown of the place.
It’s a vintage-looking bakery—one of the oldest in Honolulu, apparently—with a line snaking out the door, people eagerly waiting for the sugar-dusted treats inside.
There’s a red-and-white-striped awning stretching over the building’s face, a glowing neon sign with flashbulbs pointing a bright yellow arrow toward the door.
“Okay, so what Leonard’s is most known for is their malasadas,” he explains as we step inside, the yeasty-sweet smells of sugar and dough wrapping me in a warm hug that I practically sink into. “They’re these Portuguese doughnuts that they fill with all sorts of custards and stuff.”
I have to wipe the drool off my chin as I stare at the Nutella-stuffed doughnuts in the glass case by the register and the customers leaving with pink bakery boxes dotted with bright blue script boasting the bakery’s name. “Oh my god, they smell incredible.”
Tyler beams proudly as we walk up to the register.
“They taste even better than they smell,” he assures me as he orders for us—one Nutella malasada and one stuffed with a coconut pudding called haupia.
“Ella told me that she and Lucas like to pick up a dozen for barbeques and stuff with friends. Talk about the ultimate hostess gift.”
“Agreed.” I can already picture an alternate universe where I’m the one who lives here, jotting down barbeque plans in a shiny planner and making a note to pick up some malasadas for guests before I go.
Probably with a little doughnut sticker next to it, because I doubt they make malasada stickers and it’s the closest thing, unless I ordered them custom…
I’m practically vibrating with excitement when we step back outside, the warm air mingling with the powdery scent of the doughnuts in our bag. We take them to the car, where Tyler rolls the windows down and we idle there, each grabbing our treats and taking a bite.
“Oh my god,” I moan around a mouthful of sweet, Nutella-soaked dough. “And to think that I used to believe Dunkin’ made the best doughnuts.”
Tyler swallows and looks at me proudly. “I told you, nothing else compares. You can’t come to Hawai?i without having at least one malasada, Olive. It would be a literal crime. I heard you have to do at least two years’ jail time for it.”
I salute him with the paltry remains of my doughnut. “Well, it’s a good thing you helped me avoid that sentence, then.”
We eat the remaining few bites in contented silence, sighing with full bellies after the treat. “Thanks for that,” I say to Tyler, lolling my head to the side to look at him. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again, though.”
He quirks up one eyebrow. “Not even another malasada?”
Which is how I reconsider my statement and we wind up back on line to order two more, the original and cinnamon sugar varieties, which are both equally—if not even more—delicious.
This time, we sit on one of the vacated benches outside and watch the palm trees sway in the late-afternoon sun, a few streaks of bright, puffy clouds coasting across the never-ending blue.
Eventually, the sun sinks lower in the sky and Tyler checks his phone as we head to the car. He looks up at me with a strange expression on his face when he speaks. “Think you have time for one more stop?”
I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me, and I throw my hands up in the air, a little bit sugar-drunk.
“Trust me, I have nothing but time. I’m supposed to be hanging out at the University of Hawai?i with a boy who claims to love me, but clearly that’s out of the question.
The bigger issue is whether you’ll be able to roll me out of the car now that I’m stuffed full of all these malasadas. ”
Still, I force myself to focus on the positives, thinking back to the day we shared together.
“Thanks for the adventure today, Ty. I had a really good time.” And it’s the truth.
This trip may have started out shitty, but Tyler managed to turn it around so that for most of the day, Jack was the furthest thing from my mind.
Makes you think.
Tyler’s voice brings me back to the present as he responds to my compliment, lip tilting up in that playful way of his. “No need to thank me, Olive. With us, it’ll always be good.”