Chapter 5 #2
I nodded thoughtfully. “It’s only English names that people shorten, right? Or Māori ones too? Or is that offensive?”
Mike exhaled and leaned a hand on the bench. “Talking about cultural sensitivity feels like the kind of chat I shouldn’t be shirtless for.”
“Sorry.” I flushed. “You can?—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll give you the key bits, and if you want more, you’ll have to do some research.
You’re right, it’s important for Pākehā—that means white New Zealanders—and manuhiri, which is you, a visitor, to try to say te reo names and words correctly and in full.
It’s a mark of respect. Mispronouncing something is a reminder of the way the language and the lands were ripped away from Māori by my ancestors years ago.
Names matter. Language matters. There’s still plenty of old Pākehā here who don’t bother to say things right, whether because they’re stubborn or ignorant or racist, or all of the above.
But this language is a treasure, and everyone who calls Aotearoa home has a duty to protect it. You visitors can help too.”
The weight of this knowledge, which was hard won and drenched in all the hurts of history sat heavily with me. “Thank you for explaining,” I said eventually. It felt insufficient. But it was all I had. “I’ll try my best.”
Mike nodded. “No one here will give you a hard time if you say stuff wrong. Te reo is hard if your first language doesn’t have rolled R’s. But if someone teaches you how to say something, make sure you pay attention and try your best.”
“I’ve yet to hear a Kiwi pronounce any R at all.”
Mike barked a laugh. “Fair point, Princess. Fair point.”
Fayhhhhhh was how he said fair . The R’s at the starts of English words were audible in the New Zealand accent, but you could forget about hearing one in the middle or end. But a slow grin spread across my face as I realized I was getting better at decoding it.
“More water?” Mike asked abruptly.
It sounded like mohhh wadah ?
We both knew I hadn’t touched the bottle he’d filled.
Maybe he was trying to tell me to go away, but his Kiwi politeness was obscuring the message, and I couldn’t make my feet move.
When I shook my head, Mike shrugged and filled a glass for himself.
I knew he was using a glass on my account, as he hadn’t bothered before—same as he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt.
Belatedly, I realized I’d been so focused on the little he was wearing, I hadn’t thought about what I was. (Again, rare.)
I had on blue cotton panties and a cami that I’d painted dancing molar teeth all over. It was cute as hell but not exactly full-coverage. I folded my arms over my chest.
Mike lifted an arm and scratched at his neck absently, and I caught a peek of a dark tuft under his arm. It wasn’t sexy—underarm hair wasn’t sexy!
And yet.
There was something about the way Mike owned space, completely unselfconscious, that appealed to me.
If I was being honest, Mike appealed to me.
He had the subtlety of a wrecking ball, but after four years in fashion where people seemed nice but were actually mean, Mike’s straightforwardness was refreshing.
I should have been asking more questions about New Zealand, but I couldn’t think of any. Can I see your arm hair? didn’t count. That was off topic. And weird.
“All right, Lyssa.” Mike planted his empty glass firmly on the counter. “Time to quit eye fucking me and go to bed.”
I did not.
Okay, yes, this was Caroline’s brother, but she wasn’t here now.
And I knew from her stories that Mike slept with any woman with a pulse.
He definitely gave off the vibe that he knew how to show a girl a good time, and I wanted that.
I wanted to learn from his experience. When he’d lifted me up on the counter at Levitate, I’d felt flutters I’d never had before, and he’d done that without expending any effort at all.
Plus, it was late, he was hot, and we were all alone in his psychedelic house… no one would ever know…
I wanted him. And I wanted to be a woman who got what she wanted.
After a deep breath, I said, “Or...” and trailed off meaningfully.
His expression darkened. “Good night, Lyssa.”
He edged past me and disappeared down his hallway.
Humiliation felt like putting on a poorly-fitted dress from off the rack.
I was still awake and reliving this horror when I heard Mike’s alarm go off at four thirty a.m..
He didn’t turn on the overhead light in the hallway.
If this was an effort not to wake me, it was wasted.
Firstly, I was still on New York time, and secondly, when he tripped over something, he cursed loudly before he could stop himself.
There was no more attempting to sleep after that. I put my phone on airplane mode to resist the urge to doomscroll; and lay still in the early morning light, listening to the sounds of birds waking.
When it was light enough, I got up and started filming.
* * *
Woodville was a small country town and only had the bare essential businesses—however who had determined what constituted an essential needed to be studied.
There was a grocer’s, a few cafés, a bakery, a library, a school, and a church.
But also a tiny art gallery, a tapered candle shop (they only sold tapers), four antique shops, a bridal boutique, a bookstore, and two places dedicated to selling cheesecake.
For anything else, you had to drive twenty minutes to the slightly bigger town or an hour to the closest city.
Mike had left my keys on his dining table, on top of a copy of the New Zealand road code. I threw the book in my tote and walked ten minutes to Levitate.
Caroline and Mike’s dad, Kevin, lived in a house behind the café. Kev had a knee operation a few months ago, so I wasn’t sure if he would be at work, but when I arrived, his familiar face was the first thing I saw.
“Hello, Kev.”
His jaw fell open. “Lyssa? Caroline’s Lyssa?”
We’d been on enough Zoom calls that he knew me, but it was always weird when you saw someone out of context.
For example, in a country they didn’t live in.
Mike hadn’t gotten around to telling his dad I was here. He must have told Caroline, though, as when I took my phone off airplane mode, I had missed calls. I hadn’t listened to her voicemails yet.
Kevin Holliday always wore a plaid cotton shirt, like his son, but his was buttoned and tucked into a linen café apron that he wore wrapped around his waist. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, but it was pin straight and in need of a cut, so it spiked over his temples. He looked how a hug felt.
“That’s me,” I said, a bit sheepishly.
“What are you doing here?”
I answered honestly, “Hiding from the consequences of my actions.”
“Ah. That’s often why Caroline visits too.” Kevin surprised me by extending his hand over the counter.
When we shook hands, he clasped his other hand over the back of my palm and held it.
This confused me until I realized it was a gesture of extreme affection.
Maybe it was for all New Zealanders, or maybe this was a Kiwi dad thing.
Whatever it was, the sincerity of it surprised me, and my eyes dampened.
“Welcome to Woodville, Lyssa Luxe. Where are you staying?”
“Um.” I picked at my nails. The tartan press-ons complimented my sleeveless pumpkin turtleneck, distressed denim pencil skirt, trainers, and the bag I’d tied around my waist like a belt. I’d also put half my hair up with a red bandanna that flopped down onto my cheek if I turned my head too fast.
“My hotel fell through,” I answered. “So Mike’s letting me stay with him. In his spare room. Not his room. Obviously.”
I could have kicked myself for adding that.
Kev’s eyebrows went up. “Is he now? That’s interesting.” But he didn’t press the subject. “Can I get you a coffee, Lyssa?”
“Yes, please.”
“What do you want?”
Kev said that like it was one word, waderyuwunt .
I looked at the blackboard over his head. Flat white. Long black. Those were adjectives, not coffees. Some places in New York did this style of coffee, but I usually got a frappé, which was missing from the Levitate menu. The lack of coffeepot on the counter also threw me.
“Mike drinks tea with lemon,” Kev said conversationally. “But I need more caffeine than that. I’m partial to a flat white with almond milk. We do them with two shots of espresso. Want to try that?”
“Yes, please.”
Kevin waved off my money and started tinkering behind the big silver espresso machine.
“My niece Hannah didn’t tell me that cow’s milk gave her the shits until I’d been making them for her for ten years,” he said conversationally over the machine.
“I still feel bad about it. So if almond milk doesn’t agree with you, don’t be backward about coming forward, okay? ”
A laugh fell out of my mouth. “I promise to keep you informed of any critical bowel movements.”
“Top notch. Take a seat anywhere. I’ll be taking a break in ten if you’d like some company?”
“Yes, please, Kevin.”
“Call me Kev.”
While he chatted with a steady stream of customers, I studied my New Zealand road code and sipped my coffee, which was delicious. Nutty and rich but strong. I would have to be careful how many of these I had or I’d never get on a normal sleep schedule.
The road code was as expected.
Mike had been such a snob about my driving.
Sure, most New Yorkers don’t drive, but I’d grown up in Connecticut!
We drove all the time! Mike would know that if he’d ever watched one of my Come with Me to Thanksgiving in Connecticut videos, which I mostly filmed to have the barrier of a camera between my mother and I.
Still, I felt like I should make an effort with this little road rule book, seeing as Mike had gone to all the effort of finding it and laying it out for me before five a.m.