Chapter 9
The next night, walking into Koa’s family dinner feels like heading into an exam I forgot to study for—except the subject is my entire personality.
The drive west takes us through sugar cane fields stretching toward the mountains, past red dirt roads that stain everything they touch, heading toward the rolling hills above and behind Hanapepe, where the Hale family has carved out their own piece of paradise.
“So,” I say, gripping the door handle as we hit another pothole that feels like it was personally excavated by angry spirits, “any family traditions I should know about? Secret handshakes? Ritual sacrifice of tourists?”
“Just be yourself,” Koa says with a casual tone that suggests he’s either supremely confident in my social skills or hasn’t considered how badly I handle pressure.
“That’s what people say right before their relatives start showing embarrassing baby photos and asking pointed questions about reproductive timelines.”
Have I mentioned he looks unfairly handsome tonight? There’s an old scar on his cheek I hadn’t noticed before, his biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt in a way that feels deeply personal, and his face is set in that calm, focused way that feels unfair given the circumstances.
His jaw twitches in what might be suppressed laughter or early onset panic. “My mother might ask about your intentions.”
“My intentions? What is this, 1850? Should I prepare a dowry proposal and references from previous employers?” I’m only half-teasing.
“She’s direct.”
“Define direct.”
“She once measured my girlfriend’s hips.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“She said something about good childbearing structure. The relationship ended that night.”
My lips invert at the thought. I’m not sure our relationship could survive a tape measure either.
Have I mentioned how much I love cinnamon rolls, the pineapple upside-down ice cream we serve at the resort, and the malasadas I keep chasing around the island as if I were stalking fried confections?
On second thought, my ample hips might put me on his mama’s nice list.
The Jeep hits another crater disguised as a road feature, and my attempt to look elegant and date-worthy takes on the characteristics of a crash test dummy experiencing technical difficulties.
I’ve donned a colorful sundress, complete with flowing, tropical flowers, designed to suggest effortless island sophistication, and I’ve put my luscious red locks, okay, deep fried locks, in a sophisticated updo which has just undone itself and now it’s dissolved into frizzy chaos, half-up and half-down—basically deranged mermaid meets I don’t own a brush.
“Tell me about your parents again,” I say, attempting to distract myself from the fact that we’re driving through a geological obstacle course designed by sadistic road engineers.
Koa’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, which in detective body language probably translates to prepare for emotional revelation requiring therapeutic intervention.
“My dad, Keoni, is full Hawaiian. He can fix anything with duct tape and determination—my brothers get their construction talent from him. My mom’s name is Linda. She’s from Nebraska originally. She’s practical as a Swiss Army knife and twice as sharp.” He ticks his head as he says it.
“Nebraska to Hawaii. Wow, that’s quite a cultural adjustment,” I say as the bright orange skies begin to give way to deep purples and blues.
“They met here when she was twenty-two, visiting her college roommate. Dad was working construction, and she was supposed to go home after two weeks. She stayed six months, married him, had three kids, then divorced when I was five.”
“Divorce in paradise. That’s either very tragic or extremely ironic.”
“Both. Mom took us back to Nebraska. She said the island was too isolated, too different from everything she knew. Dad stayed here, too stubborn to chase after a woman who’d already made her choice.”
The trade winds carry the scent of plumeria and sea salt through the partially opened windows, while roosters crow from roadside perches.
“Neither of them ever remarried,” Koa continues, and I wait with bated breath to hear more. “They both claimed they were too busy, too set in their ways, too whatever. Really, they never got over each other.”
“And you all moved back here?” I’m hoping, guessing, because well, they’re all here now.
“One by one. Loco first, then Shaka, then me. Something about this place gets in your blood. Of course, we spent our summers here and every chance in between that we could. Mom finally followed us back five years ago, supposedly just to visit.”
“Let me guess—your mother’s visit turned into something more permanent?” My heart flutters with relief just thinking about it. I can’t help it, I’m a die-hard romantic at heart.
He nods. “They remarried at sunset on Hanalei Beach with the whole island watching. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and also the most embarrassing because my parents were making out like teenagers while a rooster provided the wedding march.”
“That sounds like the Kauai I know,” I say, giving a spontaneous applause to the happy ending, I hoped was coming.
We turn onto a dirt road that winds upward through countryside that looks like some of Mother Nature’s best work here in paradise.
Rolling green hills dotted with cattle give way to views of the cobalt ocean that stretch toward infinity, while the scent of wild ginger mingles with the earthy smell of red dirt and the sweet perfume of tropical flowers that have never heard of restraint.
“There,” Koa says, pointing toward a cluster of buildings nestled against the hillside like they grew from the landscape naturally. “That’s home.”
The Hale family compound spreads across several acres of ranchland with a casual abundance that suggests generations of people who understand how to live well without trying too hard.
The main house embraces plantation architecture—wide verandas designed for trade winds, steep roofs built to handle tropical rain, windows positioned to catch every possible breeze.
Three smaller cottages dot the property like satellite homes for adult children or tourists they might want to rent the place out to.
Pineapple fields stretch toward the mountains in geometric patterns that look like agricultural art, while mango trees heavy with fruit provide natural shade for chickens conducting their evening patrol.
An entire army of yellow and pink plumeria trees perfumes the air with fragrance so intense it should be bottled, and string lights twinkle between palm trees like tropical stars that fell to earth and decided to stay for the party.
And what a party it is.
There are throngs of people here, bodies everywhere you look—living, breathing ones, thankfully. And I’d like to keep them that way. The smoky scent of barbecue begins to infiltrate our senses, and the faint sound of ukulele music and laughter can be heard in the distance.
We pull into the long driveway, and to our left, we see a whole pig rotating slowly over a barbecue pit that’s clearly been the site of countless family celebrations, sending smoke signals that announce feast in progress to every hungry person within a five-mile radius.
Picnic tables are arranged under the criss-crossing twinkle lights, and those tables are already loaded with enough food to feed a small army, or one very enthusiastic Hawaiian family gathering.
“Oh, my word,” I breathe, taking in the scene that looks like a family reunion crossed with a luau designed by people who understand that happiness is directly proportional to food quantity.
Strangely, I feel like I’m home, like these are my people.
“Welcome to chaos,” Koa says, but he’s smiling when he says it.
“I love it already.”
We park in a sea of cars, and Koa walks us through the crowd, and I can’t help but note how many heads seem to be turning our way. The sky is full of stars, and the balmy breeze picks up just enough to wrap us in a warm island hug.
A woman emerging from the main house, carrying a tray that appears to require engineering support spots us and does a doubletake.
Her silver hair is cut in a practical bob, and her sun-weathered hands move with efficiency as she serves the crowd like she’s done this a thousand times.
She looks warm and friendly and not at all like someone who might banish me from Koa’s life forever on a whim.
“That’s my mother,” Koa says, though he didn’t need to—the woman approaching radiates maternal authority that makes every other person in the yard straighten unconsciously. I mean that in a good way.
Linda Hale wears a simple sundress and an apron that declares “Kiss the Cook” in both English and Hawaiian, which strikes me as either very confident or very dangerous, depending on your relationship to the kitchen.
She’s built like a woman who’s spent decades managing men, weather, and large family gatherings with equal competence.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” Koa says with a wave.
“Makoa!” she calls out, and the way she says his full name suggests I’m about to witness maternal love in its full tropical glory. “And you must be Jinx!”
Before I can respond with something appropriately charming, a rogue trade wind decides to provide its own introduction.
My carefully chosen sundress catches the breeze like a parachute, discovering it’s been deployed at exactly the wrong moment, flying up in dramatic betrayal of fabric that reveals my emergency underwear to the entire Hale family compound.
“GAH!” I scream, trying my best to hold down the fluttering fort, and looking like a panic-riddled rendition of Mariyln Monroe in the process. So. Not. Flattering.
I’m not just wearing any emergency underwear—I’m wearing the comfortable cotton ones that rise to my boobs with the word Tuesday printed across the back, except today is Wednesday, which means I’m not only flashing my undergarments but also advertising my complete inability to manage basic calendar coordination.
Once upon a time, I thought they were practical in a fairy tale sort of way. Apparently, my fairy tale involves getting pantsed by the trade winds in front of my boyfriend’s entire family. Very Brothers Grimm, zero Disney.
I grab frantically at the flying fabric while trying to maintain my balance, my dignity, and my grip on the plate of food that Linda somehow managed to load into my hands during the wardrobe malfunction.
The plate tilts with the inevitability of gravity, discovering a new victim, sending haupia flying in a graceful arc that lands squarely on the shoes of an older gentleman who is currently giving me the stink eye.
A chicken materializes from thin air, apparently summoned by the sight of coconut pudding, and begins pecking at the man’s feet while he stands there with a patient expression that lets me know he’s accustomed to livestock assistance during family gatherings.
I had a feeling this family dinner was going to be memorable. I just hadn’t expected it to involve my underwear, airborne pudding, and poultry intervention.