Chapter 15
lovelillibet Leisure doesn’t have to be lazy if you make your downtime work for you. Whether that means repurposing your favorite hobby as a business or bringing a spirit of fun to your day job, the right attitude can be a game-changer. Why settle for a day when you can seize the play instead?
Love, Lillibet
Image: A tennis net stretched across a grass court with red hibiscus blooms woven through the mesh.
#playtopay #merchantoffun #carpeallday #seizetheplay
It was amazing how much a mountain of sticky rice and shrimp drowning in garlicky butter could improve your mood. Libby licked the back of her hand, catching a trickle of sauce before it slid past her wrist. Delicious, even with the base note of skin.
Running away from Mr. L had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but in hindsight it felt like one of the few good choices she’d made lately, and not only because of the carbs. Escaping the Lillibet charade let her breathe freely for the first time all day. It reminded Libby of the time she and Jean had signed on to advertise a new burger joint, not realizing the job consisted of standing on a street corner in full-body foam costumes: a smiling milkshake for Libby, and an evil-looking sleeve of fries for Jean. Stripping off that sweaty food suit at the end of a shift had felt a lot like this—a weight off her back and the thrilling taste of freedom. Who knew wearing your own face could be such a rush?
It didn’t hurt that this was a regular hangout spot in their real lives, a roadside collection of food trucks where you could get a killer meal for cheap. There were plenty of shrimp shacks along the North Shore, and Keoki knew (or was related to) most of the people running them, but the one at the old sugar mill in Kahuku was their favorite. Sitting at a picnic table in the open-air pavilion while string lights swayed in the breeze was the essence of relaxation. No more worrying about your posture or saying the wrong thing to the rich, powerful strangers you were trying to bamboozle.
“So she sort of offered you a job but not exactly the one you wanted.” Keoki set down the tail of his last shrimp, wiping his mouth with a recycled paper napkin. “Did I miss anything else?”
“I mentioned the story I’m writing about Tutu.”
“Good one.” He had absolute faith in the quality of Libby’s work, even though he hadn’t been allowed to read it. “Did you give it to her?”
Libby shook her head. “It’s not done.”
“All that running around like the Hamburglar is distracting you,” Jean said, slamming down her can of coconut stout. “Why don’t you tell Mr. L okay, but you want a long engagement? And maybe a small cash advance?”
“Did he say anything about kids?” Keoki asked, frowning at Libby’s stomach.
“No, no, no, and no. A world of no.” Libby cupped a protective hand over her food baby—the only kind she was planning to have anytime soon. “But I did find an application in my room for nontraditional degree seekers at Kapi’olani.”
“Community college?” Jean frowned. “Make him shell out for UH.”
“Did you forget the part where I don’t want to be his mail-order bride?”
Jean sighed. “If this is about your future boss’s boyfriend, it’s not going to happen.”
“I know.” Was it necessary to rub Libby’s face in it? “You heard what Hildy said. They can’t stand two-faced people. It’s a matter of time before all this blows up in my face.”
“Good thing you have a spare.” Jean elbowed Keoki, who shook his head.
“Not funny,” Libby told her roommate. “It’s going to get ugly.”
“Ah, go on.” Jean burped into her fist. “Things are looking surprisingly good. Not for your doomed romance, but it’s not like that’s a big loss.”
Keoki frowned. “I like Jefferson. He’s solid.”
“You like everyone,” Jean reminded him. “It’s disturbing. You’re going to have to bring your children to me so I can help them wise up before they get taken in by the first scam artist who tries to steal their lunch money.”
“I’m going to pack their lunches.”
“Really not the point.” Jean reached across him to grab his water. “You can find guys like Jefferson anywhere. If slightly generic dudes do it for you.”
“Jefferson isn’t generic,” Libby said.
“Name one interesting thing about him.”
What wasn’t interesting about Jefferson? Libby found it hard not to hyper-focus on his physical presence: his voice, the planes of his face, the line of his shoulders, that slight frown tipping into quiet amusement. Libby was torn between relief that Jean didn’t feel the same pull and wanting to yell in her face, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
“Um, he hangs out with wolves and mountain lions? He saved someone’s life? He has wilderness survival skills?”
“So he’s a Boy Scout. That’s like the white bread of men.” Jean turned to Keoki before he could interrupt. “I know, you like white bread, too.”
Keoki shook his head. “Not just white. All kinds of bread. The essence of bread is goodness.”
“But you have to admit some are better than others,” Jean persisted. “They have more flavor. Texture. A nice firm crust.”
“For the record,” Libby cut in, raising a hand, “I don’t want to date anyone with a crust.”
“You know what I mean.” Jean groaned, like Libby was the difficult one. “Sharpness. Grooves and ridges. Edge.”
“So I should be looking for someone from a biker gang?”
“They could be crusty,” Keoki said.
Jean tossed a blob of rice at him. “I’m just saying, what if there’s no there there? He’s a blank slate. Reasonably handsome, has all his teeth, probably pays his taxes on time. You can project whatever fantasy you want onto him. I think you need someone a lot less normal, Libs.”
“Because I’m such a weirdo?”
“Totally.” The reply came without an instant’s hesitation.
“Uh, thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” It probably was a compliment, in Jean’s mind. Her filing system for people relied less on good vs. bad than the bizarre-to-snoozeville spectrum. “That’s why we’re soul sisters. The wilding is just buried a little deeper in your case. Like an ingrown hair.”
“Aw, geez.” Keoki shoved his tray away. “I asked you not to talk about hairs when I’m eating.”
“You’re totally done.” Jean gestured at his empty plate.
“I might have dessert.”
Libby perked up, leaning sideways to see if the smoothie truck was still open.
“No time,” Jean informed them, checking her phone. “You need to give me a ride to Dolphin Bay. I’m covering the overnight shift.”
“When are you getting another car?” Keoki asked.
“When our ship comes in.” Jean tipped her head at Libby, like she was a walking lottery ticket.
“Mopeds are cheap,” he grumbled.
“Sorry.” Libby didn’t even have enough cash to offer him gas money.
“It’s okay. I need to get home for Cici’s foot rub.”
“Wait, neither of you are coming back to the house?” Libby swallowed a bubble of panic. Was she really equipped to run this shell game on her own?
“Don’t worry, Mr. L will be crashed. He asked me to make the mushroom soup for dinner.”
Libby nodded. That stuff was at least half brandy—to the point you had to be careful around open flames.
“That doesn’t mean you can run wild, missy.” Jean kicked Libby under the table. “Solo showers only.”
“Haha,” Libby said as they stood and threaded their way through the grid of picnic tables. “Actually, I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jean fired back.
Libby ignored her. “Our lives aren’t that bad. When you look at the big picture. We have all this.” It would have been more convincing if she hadn’t waited until they were standing in front of the industrial-sized garbage cans to make her expansive arm-flinging gesture.
“You feeling okay there, Mary Sunshine?” Jean tried to put her shrimpy garlic hand on Libby’s forehead.
“What if we didn’t go back?” Libby stepped out of range. “We could cut our losses and disappear right now.”
“Except my restaurant,” Keoki reminded her.
“And we’ll be living under a bridge by next week.” Jean rubbed her fingers together. “Since we have no cash monies.”
These were valid points. Not to mention the part about never seeing Jefferson again. “You’re right.”
“Of course we are. No walking away from your dream job,” Jean said.
Keoki slung an arm around Libby’s shoulders, squeezing her to his side. “That’s kind of exciting, Libs! Right?”
She shrugged. It was certainly one possible outcome.
“You know what else?” Jean said with sudden gravity, grabbing Libby’s hand.
Libby leaned closer, eager for words of comfort. Normally Jean expressed affection through sarcasm, interspersed with threats of violence against anyone who did Libby wrong, making these occasional glimpses of sentiment that much more precious.
Rising onto her tiptoes, Jean whispered, “I call shotgun.” And then she was off, laughing as she sprinted toward the truck.
“It’s okay, Libs. It’ll be your turn one of these days,” Keoki said.
But when? And for what?