When I surface, Dad is pacing the shoreline. Looking for me.

I take my time paddling in. Today’s the first official day of tourist season—not that it ever really ends—and I’m on duty.

“You’ve got a line at the cantina already,” he hisses, motioning up the beach. “What, you didn’t surf enough during the meeting you skipped?”

“I got Luka to cover the cantina, Dad. It’s fine.” I wipe the salt from my face and pretend I couldn’t care less that he’s still glaring at me while I grab my bag.

He shakes his head and blinks a bunch of times, his signature “I’m so done with you” move. “I just don’t know what to do with you, Kai,” he mutters. “You used to be so helpful and now...it’s like you don’t care.”

I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t care.

I used to, though. Back when our family’s empire was small and manageable and actually fun, just a regular bed-and-breakfast kind of place, working for the family business was my dream job. I loved every second of it.

Now, though, I squint down the beach and see our new hotel, giant and looming. Hideous. I can’t believe Dad caved to the businessmen who approached him almost two years ago, talking about franchising and expansion, all the words I’d heard my father spew with contempt as, every year, the island turned more and more commercial.

He’s changed, too. I can tell he doesn’t love the business anymore: it’s turning his hair gray, keeping him up late. I can’t remember the last time he took Mom out on a date, or hit the waves with me and Luka.

Great. Now I feel guilty.

“I’ll go to the cantina now. Sorry.”

He nods and starts back towards the resort, the opposite direction from me, but I notice the way his eyes catch on the horizon. He’s watching the waves.

“Caught some good ones today,” I tell him. Startled, he snaps out of it and looks at me—at the board I’m now offering him. Really, I’m offering him a break. “If you want to paddle out for a few.”

For a second, I swear, he actually considers it: glances between the board and the ocean, one hand almost reaching.

Then, he stops.

“Just go to the cantina, son, all right?” He gives me another done-with-you move and turns on his heel, marching back to the crown jewel of his empire.

Now it’s my turn to sigh. I do it as a curse, one long and breathy, “Fuck.” The sun is so high as I trod to the little hut down the beach, I can’t even see my own shadow.

Luka’s playing video games when I get to the bar. “Hey,” he says, without looking up.

I knock the handheld out of his grip with one hand, catch it with the other. “You should be prepping.”

“You should be prepping. Last I checked, this isn’t my shift.”

I ignore this while I wash my hands and slice a couple limes. “You missed some good ones,” I tell him.

“Yeah?”

“Well, decent, at least. Would’ve been better down near Drew’s place.” I pile the lime slices into the container, then start on the pineapples. Already, my hands are sticky; the entire bar smells like fruit salad, sickly sweet. “Dad saw me.”

Luka nods at some passing tourists. “I figured. You wouldn’t be back here already if he hadn’t.”

“He told me there was a line.”

This makes him laugh. “Two people. And they didn’t even order, they just wanted to know where they could rent some bikes.”

Instead of laughing along, I shake my head and curse again.

“You know, you could at least pretend you care,” he adds, serious now. “For Dad’s sake.”

I stop carving the pineapple and look at him. He took the game back from the countertop when I wasn’t looking. “First of all,” I spit, “you’re sitting there playing a video game, trying to lecture me about caring? And second, I used to care. Back when we were actually running shit the right way instead of...this.” I spread my arms to the beach, encompassing the two miles that make up the resort property—four times as big and a hundred times more ridiculous than what we had before.

“I cared,” I add, stabbing the knife back into the pineapple, “when Dad decided to sign everything over, just like that, without even asking us. And it seemed like I was the only one who cared that everything changed.”

Luka looks up from his game. “I cared, dude.”

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. Not like he doesn’t know, but like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I pile the pineapple pieces into the container and slam the lid so hard, half wind up on the floor.

“There he is. Go for it.”

I nearly jump out of my skin when Tanya pushes against the small of my back, nudging me forward. She was gentle about it, but I’m too tense to handle even the softest touch. God help me if Damian tries to hold my hand or kiss me tonight.

Actually, God help me if he doesn’t.

I weave through the crowd like I work here, the way my friends have shown me a hundred times: chin up, shoulders back, every step like you’re wearing heels.

Damian’s at the bar beside the infinity pool, where the luau begins and stretches down the steps, onto another deck, and out to the beach. There are torches and leis, servers with bright pink drinks, and hula dancers on a small wooden stage, sporting coconut bras. I’d be really into all this touristy stuff, if I weren’t a woman on a mission.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound breezy as I take the seat beside him. “What are you drinking?”

He turns his glass in the fading sunlight. “I can’t remember the name,” he says, “but it has passionfruit juice in it. Want a sip?”

For the first time in my life, I don’t hesitate to take someone up on the offer. “Huh,” I say, silently freaking out that my lips have touched the same spot as his, “not as sweet as I expected. In a good way.”

“Right? I was worried it’d be too sweet, too.”

This is going well, I tell myself, relaxing a little. I order a vodka and cranberry from our bartender, a local whose name tag reads Luka, and settle in.

Of course, it helps that I’m good and tipsy already, en route to drunk. Up in our hotel room after lunch, the girls convinced me to play drinking games we hadn’t thought about since sophomore year: Kings, Quarters, and what could only be described as “Malibu Pong,” all of which helped me feel a little less stupid and a lot more courageous as the luau, when we’d planned to meet back up with the boys, drew closer.

Now, I find a miracle unfolding before me. I’m witty. I’m funny. Damian and I begin to pass conversation back and forth like a game of tennis, just that easy.

“I’m so glad school’s over,” he says, ordering a round of shots for the two of us. He picks my favorite vodka. My stomach does cartwheels at the implication. “Senior year was so long. Like, I’ve felt ready since September. I gotta get out there. Know what I mean?”

I don’t. I still don’t feel ready to “get out there,” wherever that is. If I could afford to stay in school another year, just to avoid the decisions and pressure waiting for me, I would.

Still: we’re talking, and that’s something. We haven’t had a conversation this long since we met, before my crush could take on a life of its own. He’s slurring a little—which I’m sure I’m doing, too—and it’s so cute, I feel like I could kiss him right here, right now.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Totally.”

Across the crowd, I see Carrie chatting up Ted. They have a friends-with-benefits arrangement, and I’m sure she won’t be coming back to our room tonight. I remember her teasing from earlier, about Damian and me getting some alone time down by the waves. Suddenly, it sounds perfect.

“You want to walk on the beach for a while?” I ask, already getting up.

“Okay.” He drains the last of his drink and follows me, even taking my hand so he won’t lose me in the crowed. I’m thankful he can’t see the stupid grin on my face as his fingers wrap around mine.

The sand is cool and fine under our feet. We carry our shoes and shove each other towards the waves, our laughter ringing out into the sky. It’s been a few hours since the sun went down, but the sky still has a tinge of purple to it. Everything around us looks ethereally lilac because of it: a giant blacklight.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says. “It’ll be weird, not seeing you every day.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We had class together...what, three times a week, for the last four years? I only passed Hines’s class because of you, you know.”

I laugh. “Nah, you would’ve done fine. You’re going to be a great architect one day.”

“You, too.”

This, I’m not so sure of. But it’s nice to hear him say it.

My head swims with vodka. How much have I had? I try to count, but the pre-gaming alone is a blur. All I know right now is how badly I want him to kiss me.

Maybe that’s why, when he turns his head, I think that’s exactly what he’s doing. Why I close my eyes and lean in, lifting my face to meet his.

Why I stumble forward into his chest, instead, when he pulls his head away.

“Whoa,” he says. That one word sobers me up like a shot of espresso, just as burnt and bitter. He grabs my shoulders and holds me away from him. It’s gentle, but he might as well be throwing me down onto the sand, for how crushed I suddenly feel.

“I—I’m sorry,” I manage. “I thought....”

“No, no, it’s...it’s okay,” he says, taking a breath. In the moonlight, I see him try to smile. “Maybe it’s my fault, for coming down here with you, or....”

I shut my eyes as he trails off. “I’m so stupid.”

“Mollie, look at me.”

Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The purple glow of the night looks creepy and cold, now.

“Do you remember,” he says, rubbing his palm with his thumb, “that night sophomore year, after the homecoming game?”

“Of course.” How could I forget? It was the moment that solidified my crush on Damian, when he cornered me on my way back from the snack stand and just kissed me, out of nowhere. We made out for hours under the bleachers, like a couple of high schoolers. I’d even let him stick his hand down my pants for a little while, while I slid mine into his zipper and played with him through his boxers.

It was my first hookup since I’d lost the very last bit of weight. Fifty-eight pounds in all, sweated off in nightly gym sessions I guarded like a murder confession, and pined away during meals with friends who wolfed down fast food and Ramen, while I was still learning how to tell if an avocado was ripe.

Guys were noticing me more. They had already, but now I didn’t wonder if it was genuine or a cruel joke. When they called me pretty, I instantly believed it.

And when Damian said it that night at the football game, his fingers inside me and his mouth embroidering little pink chains along my neck, I felt it.

Tanya says that’s another problem of mine: I changed my body, but I didn’t change my head. “You were already beautiful,” she argues constantly. It was easy for her to say that. Calorie-counting, cardio, and confidence came naturally to some people. Others, like me, were still learning.

I remember how his mouth tasted that night: bourbon and cola, a trace of cigarette smoke and strawberry gum. All these tastes I’d never associate with anyone but him, ever again.

He’s so quiet after I answer, I think for sure he’s going to kiss me this time. When he tilts his head down, just a little, I stand on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his before he can change his mind or protest. So hard he can’t just say “whoa” and stop me.

I’m drunk. I’m determined.

This time, he tastes like passionfruit sugar, suntan lotion, and that strawberry gum again, his favorite. I wonder if it’s just part of him now, always present.

Remember this, I will myself. For a minute, I thank God, I thank all of Hawaii, and I even thank Carrie for her teasing, wiser than she realized.

I take a step back, staring. Waiting. Damian bites his lip.

“Mollie,” he says, finally, “that night.... There’s a reason I never talked to you about it, or tried doing anything with you again.”

“I get it,” I sigh, eager to get the inevitable snub over with. “I know the drill, okay? You don’t like me the way I like you. You like me as a friend. I’ll meet the right person one of these days.” When I was fat, I heard every excuse and more. Usually the morning after a party, when the guy was sober and my curves suddenly mattered, illuminated in daylight.

“Mollie, it’s not you.”

“Right. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’” I heard this one a lot, too.

“It is me, though.” He glances over his shoulder at the luau. It’s just an orange blob in the distance, tiki torches blazing.

Damian looks back at me. “I’m gay.”

At first, I can’t make sense of what he’s said. It’s like he’s telling me we aren’t in Hawaii right now, or that there’s a secret semester of college left. It just doesn’t add up.

Then, slowly, it sinks in.

“Gay,” I repeat. “As in....”

“As in,” he says, inhaling sharply, “I like guys. Yeah.”

I’m drunk, but not enough. “So, wait. That night, behind the bleachers?”

“I was in this phase,” he explains, “where I thought, if I hooked up with girls often enough, I’d snap out of it.” Spreading his hands, he shrugs. “Obviously, that wasn’t the case.”

Obviously. Like it was written on a billboard, plain as day, and I should have seen it all along.

“Why me?” I hear myself asking. My voice is choked up, but I will myself not to cry in front of him.

Damian hesitates, kicking at the sand with his feet. “You were there,” he says, after a minute. “I was drunk, I saw you, and I knew—” He stops, cutting himself off.

“Knew, what?” I ask. I take a step towards him; he takes another one backwards.

His eyes close. “I knew you would let me.”

A hot wind bolts down the beach. Sand flicks at our legs; the salt air stings my razor burn, where I dry-shaved right before the flight.

I wish it would pick up. A sandstorm, sudden and clean, burying me right where I stand.

It doesn’t, of course. So instead, I tighten my grip on my shoes and walk away.

Damian calls after me, but doesn’t follow. Just the same, I start running, and then feel stupid for running, like some overdramatic kid.

But I don’t know what else to do, here. On campus, whenever I got stressed and wanted to eat, I trained myself to go hit the elliptical instead, or run in time to Paramore on my headphones. And right now, since I’m humiliated and furious and drunk as hell, I can either cry in my hotel room and get sick on room service desserts until dawn…or I can keep running.

“I’m gay.” Four years, wasted on someone I really never had a chance with, after all. I’m pathetic.

Even worse, though, is that through it all—the highs and lows of the crush, the fat semesters, the thin ones, the tongue-tied mistakes, the few but wonderful moments of witty banter, that night under the bleachers…I always believed that Damian was, at the very least, my friend.

“You were there.”

I’m over half a mile from the resort now. I can’t even hear the luau.

My sandals drop from my hand as I step towards the water. I want to wash this whole night away like a baptismal. The waves lap my ankles, then my knees, as I wade deeper.

“I was drunk, I saw you.”

The sand is even cooler under the surface, soft as cooked rice between my toes. I look up and stare at the moon, its lilac halo.

“I knew you would let me.”

When the water splashes against my chest, like a giant heartbeat communicating with mine, I point my arms overhead, take a breath, and dive under.

“Your turn,” Luka mutters, throwing me his dishtowel. I’m set to take over the end of his shift, as payback for him covering mine this morning. But suddenly, after two solid hours of teaching tourists to say “lilliko’i” properly—almost none of whom succeed—I’m beyond done.

“Dude,” I sigh, “not tonight. I’m ready to head home.”

“And I’m not?” He deflects the towel when I throw it back. “You owe me.”

I nod. He’s right.

But God, I’m so tired.

“How about this,” I offer, my last-ditch effort. “I’ll take your morning shift tomorrow at the cantina and any night shift you want next week.”

He runs his hand through his hair. It’s thick and black, like mine, but with a bit of curl, courtesy of Mom. Much as I hate to admit it, I look like our father spit me out.

After a minute, he looks at me again. “Tomorrow morning at the cantina and tomorrow evening here,” he says.

“You want my entire day off?”

“Take it or leave it. And don’t forget, you already agreed to take the next morning at the cantina, too. When I covered for you last Friday.”

Shit. I did forget.

“Okay.” I hold up my fingers and think. Our shift math gets complicated, to say the least. “I take your next three shifts, and we call tonight a wash. But,” I add quickly, “I get an IOU for another shift trade.”

“Sure. But no weekends.”

“Deal.”

We shake on it. His hand is sticky with lilliko’i juice. The entire bar smells like it, actually: nothing but passionfruit and liquor.

Finally, I’m free. Sure, I’ll have to wake up crazy early, but I can’t care about that right now. Something about the start of tourist season just takes it out of me, and I want nothing more than to go home and climb into bed, clothes and all.

I decide to take the beach home, instead of the back road from the resort. It takes almost twice as long, but I need some time to decompress, anyway.

The sky’s really beautiful tonight: a deep navy and purple kind of color. I stop when I’m about a half-mile from the resort and look out at the ocean. The waves scatter the moonlight like foil.

Like I always do this time of night, I think about Noe. Shaking me awake, hissing for me to grab my board and meet him on the beach. How even the tallest waves seemed softer, easier to tackle, when you were suspended in this kind of darkness, and the only thing between the sky and ocean was that strip of moonlight, glittering and breaking apart, then coming back together again.

I see something out at the horizon where the shimmers stop: a head bobbing. Only I know it’s not a head, because it’s just me out here. I’m seeing things.

Then, I notice a hand. A flash of skin, silver and shining.

“No way.” Not that I’d admit it to myself, but I’m scared—that grip of terror around your chest when you’re home alone and something creeps into your periphery. You know it’s nothing: a potted plant, some laundry. But you still have to check.

I squint and watch the spot.

This isn’t the first time I’ve imagined things out there. Flashes, ripples. It’s always nothing.

I turn around. Maybe the back road isn’t so bad, after all.

My feet catch on something in the sand. I topple, then instantly stumble upright, scrambling away from whatever tripped me. It’s idiotic, but I’m literally imagining a severed hand or decapitated head. Murder in Kona: the mystery series practically writes itself.

When I look back, I make out not one shape, but two.

It’s a girl’s flip-flops.

My head snaps up and I stare, once again, at that spot in the distance.

The water’s too still. It’s eerie, the way it suddenly flatlines.

Then I see it again: definitely a hand. Reaching up out of the water, grasping at air. Fighting.

I kick off my shoes and throw them behind me as I sprint into the water, hearing them land on the shore somewhere beside hers.

The water’s warm, like bathwater. I surface and lick my lips as I take a breath, savoring the salt of it, feeling it clean a paper cut on my palm I don’t remember getting.

“I saw you.”

I dive under again. My feet skim the bottom. I push to the surface and breathe. Over and over and over, until the tread of my arms grows dull and alcohol saturates every fiber of every muscle.

The moon is bright but tissue-delicate. When I squint and wipe the water from my eyes, I think I can make out the craters. It makes me think about The Truman Show and then, after my brain falls down an intoxicated rabbit hole, just how stupid I’ve been, all these years.

I take a breath and let myself sink below the surface. The waves carry me where they want and I feel okay, my heartbeat gym session-high, body cradled and small in something so much bigger than I am. Now, or ever.

It’s peaceful under here. Not the same as a bathtub, where you can hear your own pulse and the pipes creaking, the inner workings of the house around you: all I hear now is the low roar of the ocean, tiny air bubbles crackling around my ears.

“I knew you would let me.”

When my lungs start to burn, I push my legs out and feel for the bottom.

It’s gone.

My brain reminds me how to swim, each limb performing its mechanic exactly as it should. Don’t panic. Dad taught me to swim when I was seven, and I know staying calm is step one.

So I get calm, and I swim. But I can’t tell anymore if I’m moving up or sideways—if the light I see above me is the moon, or just a reflection.

My hand shoots out above my head. I don’t know what I’m reaching for. Nothing’s out here. No one but me.

The time for panic has arrived.

My lungs buckle; I can’t fight the urge to inhale anymore. The saltwater is caustic in my chest.

For a second, I think the moon is gone. Not out of my sight, but truly gone—drowned in darkness and wadded up into its true tissue-paper self.

The tide is choppier, or maybe I’m weaker: my body is a tangled ball of wire in the pull, compressed a little more with every pass.

A hand grabs my wrist.

Damian? I try to ask, but the water in my lungs won’t let me. Instead, I close my eyes and feel the tide pause. I untangle.

I let go.