Hate to Fake It to You

Chapter 1

lovelillibet I love holidays as much as the next gal, but here’s my truth: it can be a struggle to put my personal stamp on a day defined by the expectations of others. Yes, I plan the menu, curate the tablescape, select the guests, and choose what to wear, but it’s never entirely about me.

Instead of constantly stifling my need for self-expression, I started to wonder what it would look like if I had a celebration that was a true reflection of me and my tastes, down to the smallest detail.

Don’t we all deserve a Me-mas once in a while?

This year, I invite you to join me in breaking free of the calendar and creating a new tradition. Pick your favorite season, a meaningful place, your best people. Or fly solo! You get to decide, because this is Me-mas, a tribute to the sacred me in each of us.

Own your joy. Honor yourself. Make it a Me-mas to remember.

Love, Lillibet

Image: Flickering votive candles and white orchids arranged in the shape of a heart on an antique mirror.

#songofmyself #memasmyselfandI #alwaysinseason #cultivatebliss

“My Me-mas morning,” Libby narrated as she typed. Her fingers froze before frantically hitting the backspace key. “Maximizing my Me-mas.” More deleting. “What Me-mas will mean for me is a time to Me-mas the crap out of—” she broke off with a groan.

If you repeated a word too many times, it started to sound fake. Not just odd ones like toboggan but the normal, everyday kind. Say “coffee” often enough and it turned into nonsense. Never mind something as inane as Me-mas.

It was too late to choose a different name for her made-up influencer’s fake holiday. Anyway, that was part of the joke. Why stop at self-esteem when you could catapult all the way to self-worship? A one-woman cult of personality. Also Me-day sounded too much like a distress signal, and (despite her roommate’s intense lobbying) My-ween was an obvious non-starter. Which left freaking Me-mas.

This was not the right headspace for what she needed to write. Think serenity. Unlimited free time. Smugness.

“Making the most of my Me-mas means starting the day with sunrise yoga, followed by a salt stone massage while Mr. L prepares a brunch of hibiscus Me-mosas and Crepes Lillibet. We’ll eat on the lanai, lulled by the gentle sound of waves, and— Are you kidding me, dickheads?”

Forget wind chimes and murmuring surf. The only thing Libby could hear was the Pukui brothers blasting Adele on repeat while they worked on their car. This was hour five. “Rolling in the Deep” had shaken her out of bed; she’d lost count of the number of times she’d been Hello-ed since then. Emoting and power tools: the soundtrack of her life.

The bathroom door cracked open, revealing a sliver of her roommate’s face: one dark eye and crimped black hair that skimmed her chin.

“Trouble in paradise?” Jean called over the sound of the faucet.

“I’m trying to finish this My Me-mas Is Better Than Yours caption.” Libby stood, arching her stiff back. Finding like-new kitchen chairs on the curb had seemed like a major score until they tried sitting in them, at which point they understood the previous owners’ decision to put them out with the trash.

Crossing to the window, she squinted at the grid of fences, clotheslines, and slivers of backyard. In her mind’s eye, she tried to replace the actual scene with an idealized version. What would Lillibet see? An ocean view, obviously. A lush yet manicured garden. The fleet of employees to take care of it all so she didn’t have to chip her perfect nails. She probably had a chef, too.

Maybe food would jump-start Libby’s brain. She yanked open the fridge. “Did you eat all the Spam musubi?”

There was a garbled affirmative from the bathroom. Frowning, Libby shoved aside a jar of olives, sending a lone pimiento bobbing to the surface. If she wanted to do mustard shots, she was set. Otherwise, she was looking at a foil-wrapped pita—probably old enough to use as a shiv—and whatever was in this white box. She closed the door with her hip as she peeled back the lid.

“Hey, can I finish your sandwich?”

The water turned off as Jean opened the door. “It’s not mine.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Somebody ordered bar service, but they left most of it.”

Libby stared at the teeth marks. Neither she nor Jean had ever been shy about bringing home free food from a job, but they usually drew the line at finishing things that had been inside a stranger’s mouth.

“I was going to use it in a still life,” Jean explained, joining Libby in the kitchen. Two narrow pink foam curlers wrapped her bangs to the hairline. “Old Master vibes but also kitsch.”

“What is Lillibet supposed to say about a half-eaten sandwich?”

“That’s the challenge, isn’t it? But I’ll find something else, if you’re starving.”

Libby hesitated. Desperate times and all. “Is it from last night?”

“No, but definitely this week.” Jean’s dark eyes fixed on a spot near the ceiling. “I think. Did you smell it?”

“Exactly what you want to hear about a cheese sandwich.” Libby took a cautious sniff, immediately jerking her head away. She slapped the lid on and buried the box at the back of the refrigerator, closing the door to keep the stench from escaping.

The cherry on top of that moment of glam was the tickle of sensation that brushed Libby’s toes. Grabbing the rubber sandal next to the trash can, Libby pounded the linoleum. She was pretty sure the massive roach laughed at her as it slipped under the door to safety.

“Did you get it?” Jean yelled.

Libby grunted. The splat would have been worse than the skittering. “How do we still have bugs when there’s nothing to eat?”

“Maybe that’s why it ran away?” Jean strolled back into the kitchen with her brows filled in and her lips lacquered a deep red. That level of eye-hand coordination was a source of endless amazement to Libby, who struggled to draw a recognizable smiley face.

“We should leave the sandwich out. See what happens.”

“That would be cruel.”

“You were going to let me eat it,” Libby reminded her.

“It’s good to give your immune system a workout. Didn’t Lillibet say something about that once?”

It wasn’t impossible. Lillibet was fluent in the language of dubious health advice.

Jean yanked open the warped silverware drawer, digging under the plastic-wrapped bundles of take-out utensils. “Here.”

Libby accepted the generic granola bar with a defeated sigh, noting that the label didn’t say anything about chocolate. Which was probably why it was still hanging around.

“What do you have so far?” Jean was already waking up the laptop, hmming as she read. “This is impressive.” She looked up at Libby, whose entire body had gone on alert at the prospect of praise. “For a person who hates to be perceived three hundred and sixty days of the year, you are channeling some next-level narcissism.” Jean scrolled down. “And the product placement is totally on point. Love the casual mention of your bespoke silk nap dress.”

“I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.”

“It shows range. You don’t even own night pajamas, much less special daytime ones.”

“More like derangement. Can you imagine if someone was like that in real life? What a nightmare.” Libby winced as she took another bite of granola bar, feeling a molar with her tongue afterward to make sure she hadn’t chipped the tooth. “Am I eating plywood?”

“Questions Lillibet never has to ask herself.”

“Since her kitchen isn’t a wasteland.” Libby shuddered as she reached for the computer. “I need to wrap it up. A few words of wisdom.”

Jean must have seen the struggle on Libby’s face and decided to step in, as she sometimes did if Libby was taking too long to figure out what to order at a bar. A gin and tonic for my tall friend. It was possible Libby relied too much on Jean’s bottomless well of decisiveness. “Talk about skin care. Lillibet is a slippery bitch.”

“I kind of wanted to go deeper this time.”

“That’s what she said.”

Libby ignored the rim shot Jean was tapping out on an invisible drum kit. Maybe it was the Adele marathon, but she was feeling a little maudlin about the state of her life. Taking pictures for Love, Lillibet was a side gig for Jean, part of the smorgasbord of art projects she collected like refrigerator magnets. A commission here, a random installation there, pop-up shows at bars and bookstores when she was in the mood. Chaos and uncertainty seemed to feed her creative energy, whereas they left Libby feeling … uncertain.

“It’s pretty sad when the only thing you’re good at is being a garbage person.” She glanced at her roommate, not sure whether she wanted her to sympathize or disagree.

“You need to get some real food in you, Bitter Betty.” Jean jerked her head at the door. “Come on. Let’s go to Foodland.”

“Did you get paid?”

“The check is allegedly in the mail. The logo I did for that kayak place.”

“I should stay and finish this.” Even if it wasn’t her real name on the account, Libby wanted it to be good. Ridiculous, maybe, but still well written.

Jean handed Libby a reusable shopping bag. “Why deny yourself nice things? Channel your inner Lillibet.”

“No thanks,” Libby said, following her out the door.

* * *

The shortest route to the grocery store ran along Kamehameha Highway. The breeze that usually relieved the sticky warmth on this side of the island was no match for the asphalt and passing cars.

“It’s hot,” Libby complained, raising her voice so Jean could hear her above the hum of traffic.

“You gotta want it.”

Easy for her to say. Libby suspected Jean had ice water in her veins. That was the only logical explanation for her lack of pit sweat.

“Remember when we had a car?”

“Do you remember what it smelled like?” Jean yelled without turning. “Everyone thought we were high, even when we weren’t. Besides, it’s not like White Lightning had AC. You’d still be sweating balls.”

However much their car had sucked, not having one felt like a message from the universe. You’re going down! Saying no to gigs that weren’t on the bus line had quickly translated into fewer calls from the catering company, shrinking their paychecks even more.

Her thoughts full of tumbling dominoes and slippery slopes, Libby ignored the car pulling up alongside them until the familiar whine of the brakes tipped her off.

“What’s going on?” Keoki yelled over the soft rock blasting from the radio.

Libby held up the shopping bag. “Foodland.”

“You two are cooking?”

“Sure.” Jean poked at the air. “Beep, beep, ding.”

“Microwave,” Libby translated.

Keoki reached across the seat to open the door. “Get in. I’m going to Tutu’s house.”

Libby’s eyes met Jean’s for an instant before they lunged toward the car, shoving each other out of the way.

“Shotgun,” Jean grunted, throwing an elbow. Libby had the advantage of height, but her pocket-sized roommate wasn’t afraid to fight dirty.

“It’s my turn,” she reminded Jean.

“Snooze, you lose, loser.”

Behind them, someone honked. Libby gave in and climbed into the back.

“Careful,” Keoki warned, sliding a small red-and-white cooler out of the way.

Libby tracked it like a dog watching a squirrel. “What’s in there?”

“Profiteroles,” he said, pulling onto the road with a one-handed spin of the steering wheel.

Jean waited until he glanced at her to work the big eyes and pouty lips.

“Forget it. You’re not getting Tutu’s profiteroles.”

“You should be nice to us!” Jean folded her hands under her chin like a ceramic cherub. “We’re having a bad day.”

“Yeah, big bummer about Kalanikau’s.”

Libby leaned forward to poke Keoki in the shoulder. “What is?”

“You didn’t hear? Bought out. A mainland company. They’re going to make it a fancy place. Condos and all that.”

That was … not good. The old family-run hotel was the main venue for the banquets and business lunches that accounted for half the shifts she and Jean picked up in an average month. Libby fell back against the seat.

Keoki sent her a worried look in the rearview mirror. “Why? What else happened?”

“Our rent’s going up,” Jean said.

This was also news to Libby. “Uh, since when?”

“Today. I saw Mr. Akina by the mailboxes. He needs to fix the roof, so.” She pointed a finger upward.

“Dang,” Keoki said. “That’s rough.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Libby shoved the back of her roommate’s seat. “We can’t afford mini-quiches!”

“It’s like a last hurrah. At least we can eat something good while we’re looking for jobs. And probably a new place to live. Unless somebody wanted to give us something tasty. So we don’t starve to death. On the streets. Like trash pandas. Who also have rabies.”

“Okay.” Keoki sighed, defeated. “You can have profiteroles.”

“Can I also have some of your water?” Jean was already tipping the insulated bottle to her lips.

He held out his hand to make sure she didn’t drink it all.

“Do you know about peecycling?” Jean asked when he had a mouthful of water.

Keoki choked. Liquid sloshed down the front of his shirt as he slammed the bottle back in the cup holder. “Why?”

“Because of the fertilizer shortage, people are collecting their piss and pouring it on fields. It has all the right nutrients.”

“No,” Keoki said. Libby understood that he meant it as a blanket denial: No, we’re not doing that. No, I don’t want to hear more about it.

“I’m not saying we should pee in jugs.” Jean shook Keoki’s water bottle as a visual aid. “It’s for Lillibet. Doesn’t that seem like something she’d get into? My body, my garden, I’m so green, la la la.”

Libby needed to nip this in the bud. “I don’t think urine fits Lillibet’s brand.”

“That’s the genius of it.” Jean twisted sideways, going into full sales mode. “We keep pushing the line farther out there until people are, like, I guess it’s time to shove this polished rock up my vajayjay and call it self-care. Aren’t you curious to see how far we can go?”

“Not in a gynecological direction.” Libby paused. It was like wording wishes with a genie; you had to cut off all the loopholes. “Or anything pee-related.”

“And no poop,” Keoki added.

“You don’t understand what it means to be avant-garde,” Jean complained. “We’re doing something punk rock. In your face.”

“That’s not actually what avant-garde means.” Keoki had picked up a smattering of French phrases from his job at a fancy bistro in Waikiki, always delivered with zero attempt at an accent in his impossibly deep voice. Beurre blanc. Croque monsieur. Amuse-bouche. It sounded like he was talking about car parts. “And please don’t mention your lady parts in front of my grandmother.”

“Better get used to it, daddy-o. A couple months from now you’re going to be pulling a slimy baby out of Cici’s hoohah. It’s going to be vagina this, vagina that, all the livelong day.”

Keoki shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a smile. To say that he was excited about being a father was like calling the waves at Pounders a little rough. Five minutes after his girlfriend Cici found out she was pregnant, Keoki signed up for a class on prenatal massage and started researching car seats. He’d always given off major dad vibes, but until now it had largely been directed at keeping Libby and Jean out of trouble.

Libby figured she had a few more months to stamp out the tiny part of her that worried they were going to lose him completely to his new life. People grew up and had families. It was healthy and normal! Unless their development was stunted, and they wound up living like college students forever.

“I like hoohah.” Keoki’s deep voice made it sound like a cheer. “Think I can say that at Lamaze?”

“I will pay you money if you do.”

“You have money? Thought you two lolos were broke.” Keoki rubbed his fingers together. “Show me.”

“She might have money later,” Libby told him.

“Why are you both so literal?” Jean faced the window, as if she couldn’t bear to look at their annoying faces. “I’m surrounded by doubters.”

Gravel crunched under the tires as they turned onto Tutu Lua’s driveway. The house in which Libby had spent a sizable chunk of her childhood was solid and square. Whitewashed cement block walls surrounded the lanai, where a rotating array of half-wild cats could be found napping in patches of sun. Tutu Lua relied on them to keep the rodents away from her prize mango tree.

Before they’d taken more than a handful of steps, the screen door slammed.

“My baby,” Tutu Lua sang, holding her arms out to all six feet five inches and 350 pounds of Keoki. He and Libby were the tallest kids in their class all through elementary school, but where Libby was known as String Bean, Keoki had always been solid, like his Tongan and Samoan ancestors.

She stepped back, poking him in the belly. “Which one’s hapai, you or Cici?”

“Seriously, Tutu?” Keoki rubbed his stomach as his grandmother cackled.

“Can I have her cream puffs?” Jean whispered.

Tutu Lua grabbed the handle of the cooler, waving an admonishing finger as she headed back into the shade of the breezeway.

Libby detoured into the house to grab plates and forks. She could walk into this kitchen after twenty years away and still know where everything was stored. Not that she was likely to be going anywhere, if her current lack of momentum was any indication.

When everyone was seated around the outdoor table with a profiterole in front of them, Tutu Lua turned to Libby. “Still no boyfriend?”

“Since last weekend? No.” Unless you counted the guy who tried to tip her with his phone number while she was passing out sandwiches at a business lunch.

“You need a man to cook for you.” Tutu made it sound like a basic necessity, up there with a roof over your head.

“Hashtag goals,” Jean agreed, nudging her plate in Tutu’s direction. “How come you never ask me if I have a boyfriend?”

“Because I know you, Trouble. And Trouble makes its own bed.”

“See? Tutu understands me,” Jean told the other two.

“How’s the writing?” Tutu asked Libby, as Keoki got up to make coffee. “Almost done with my story?”

“I’m working on it.” She waved a fly away from her face. Maybe they were attracted to the scent of lies.

In some nebulous future when she wasn’t busing tables and inventing skin-care regimens, Libby aspired to be a serious journalist, the kind who crafted deep, incisive profiles that captured the story of a life in paper and ink. Tutu had volunteered to be a test subject, sitting for hours of “interviews” that bore a strong resemblance to her usual post-meal storytelling sessions.

It seemed like a good idea at the time—Tutu was a colorful character, and Libby had unlimited access—but the pressure of getting it right was even heavier when you knew and loved the person you were writing about.

“She’s working it to death,” Jean corrected. “It’s already great.”

Libby frowned at her. “You read it?”

“I figured you’d freak out if you knew, so I waited until you were in the shower.”

“Uh, thanks?” By Jean’s standards, that was surprisingly sensitive.

“You’re welcome. Now quit screwing around and send it off.”

Tutu nodded. “You need a push, baby girl. Can’t stand on the edge forever. Going to have to take that jump.”

Libby mentally supplied the crash-and-burn sound effects.

“It has to be perfect. I don’t want to blow it.” That probably sounded like an excuse, but trying to break into the industry as a freelancer with no connections and a résumé heavy on food service had made Libby an expert on rejection. “I want people to see the real you, Tutu.”

“Eh.” Tutu fanned herself. The breeze had died down, and the heat was clinging. “I know you’ll make me look good. Sunday version, with my lipstick on.”

“You always look good,” Keoki said, dodging the fly swatter Jean aimed at his head.

“Thank you, baby.” His grandmother patted his cheek, frowning as she pulled her hand away. “You’re sweating.”

“I had two fans on last night and I still couldn’t sleep. Me and Cici had to get up and eat ice cream.”

“Ew.” Jean stuck her tongue out at him. “TMI.”

Keoki shook his head while his grandmother belly-laughed.

“Don’t worry,” Tutu Lua told him, wiping her eyes. “Cold front’s coming. They got a big blizzard on the mainland. I saw it on the Weather Channel.”

That probably meant the daily high would drop from eighty-two to seventy-eight. Still, it was strange to think that a phenomenon as foreign as a snowstorm—in May!—could touch Libby’s life.

Jean stacked the plates with the efficiency of a person who’d started waiting tables before she could drive, toeing the door open on her way into the house. Libby shifted to peel her thighs off the seat, angling her arms away from her body to reduce the sweat. Maybe they could walk over to the beach after this, to wash away the funk of the day.

“Uh, Libby,” Jean called from inside. “Can you come here a second?”

In the living room, her roommate was staring at the television, where a reporter in a fur-lined parka strained to make himself heard over howling winds, against a backdrop of pure white.

“The girl they’re talking about.” Jean’s voice was tight. “What did they say her name is?”

Libby squinted at the headlines crawling across the bottom of the screen. ROAD TO NOWHERE: EYEWITNESS DESCRIBES “TERRIFYING” WHITEOUT. SORORITY CAR WASH SUPPORTS MISSING COED: PICTURES AT 11. HAVE YOU SEEN HILDY? CALL THE 24-HOUR TIPLINE!

And finally: MEDIA HEIRESS HILDY JOHNSON MISSING IN WYOMING SNOWSTORM.

“Hildy Johnson,” Libby said. “I take it she’s one of the Johnsons?”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“Johnson Media? Yeah. I live on a rock, not under one.”

“So they’re a big deal?”

“One of the biggest.” Maybe not a household name unless you were an aspiring journalist, in which case their presence was inescapable. The parent company owned outlets in hundreds of markets: print, TV, online, probably soon-to-be beaming directly into people’s brains.

Jean grabbed the remote, turning up the volume as a series of still photos filled the screen: a young woman with corkscrew curls in a strapless velvet gown; wearing sunglasses on the deck of a yacht; standing on a trail with crumbling stone ruins in the background. The broadcast cut back to the guy in the heavy coat, who was waving his arms as he described how very terribly horrible the conditions were. Zero visibility, horizontal winds, a rate of accumulation that meant nothing to Libby until she imagined it as the kind of rain that would flood the low-lying streets.

“I have chills.” Jean stuck out her arm as evidence. “Hildy Johnson is a real person.”

“Yes,” Libby said slowly. “She’s a human being, like you and me.” She and Keoki did their best to encourage Jean’s occasional twinges of empathy.

Jean blew out a long breath. “I think I might have messed up.”

“Unless you have some power over the weather I don’t know about, I’m pretty sure this isn’t your fault?”

On-screen, News Man was going full apocalyptic. Darkness! Falling temperatures! Hypothermia! That was the problem with breaking news: the pressure to sensationalize. How else were you supposed to churn out headlines when there was nothing new to tell? At least with Lillibet, there was a bottomless pit of self-obsessed-but-pretending-not-to-be babble to be mined.

Jean grimaced. “I hope she didn’t lose her phone.”

“Probably not the worst-case scenario here.” Libby watched her roommate frantically tap out a text. “What are you doing?”

“Might have something cooking.”

“Food?”

“No, one-track mind. A job.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I’ll let you know if it pans out.” Jean shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Let’s ask K if he’ll drive us to the Laundromat. If this comes together, you’re going to need clean undies.”

“How did you know I’m out of underwear?”

“Because you’re wearing them inside out.”

“Maybe I put them on wrong.”

“Yeah. Two days ago.”

Rude, but sadly not untrue. “I wonder what it would be like to have actual privacy.”

“You can ask Blizzard Girl. If she survives her alone time.”

“Okay, Grim Reaper. I’ll give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear from me.”

Jean elbowed her, hard. “You could interview her!”

“Because they’ll definitely give that story to a rando from Oahu whose biggest byline is from a free community newspaper.”

“Want to bet?”

Libby ignored her roommate’s outstretched hand. “No way, no how.”

And not only because Jean was a notorious cheat. Why gamble when you had zero chance of winning?