Today, I landed our most elusive affiliate.

I added another five percent to our projected earnings.

I’m in my favorite suit and I’ve got a team of executives literally lining up to shake my hand. And I haven’t even had my morning coffee yet.

So why is her flight schedule the only thing you can think about?

“...never seen numbers like this for a new exec. It’s beyond impressive.” Parker slaps my back. “Corporate’s freaking out.”

I graciously step away from the boardroom. He follows. “They’re just projections. Nothing to get excited over.”

“The affiliate is.”

With this, I can’t argue. We’ve been trying to land Kona Segway Rentals and Tours—abbreviated to “Kona Seg” by locals—for over a year.

Well: corporate has. The minute I stepped into the boardroom, the game changed. They couldn’t sign fast enough.

“I only have clout because of my dad. The Kalanis are friends with him.”

“Selling yourself short, man.” He holds out his fist. I tap it.

My phone buzzes. I excuse myself and duck into the elevator. It’s got to be a text from her, announcing that she just landed. Instead, it’s an email from somebody in corporate. Not congratulating me on the surge of future income or new affiliate, but telling me which potential affiliate they’d like me to speak with next.

It never ends.

I check her social media, which is a waste. She hasn’t posted anything new in over a year. Since the last time she was here.

It’s still her profile picture: the shot I took of her on top of South Point, the last day of her trip. The wind was crazy, that high up. It tangled her hair and lifted it away from her face as she laughed, half-scared and half-amazed at the sight of the glittering ocean underneath us.

“We could fall in!” she screamed. It was a happy, high one.

“Or jump,” I teased, just as I snapped the picture. And that was the look I got: her laughing at me, at my jokes she couldn’t tell were jokes or not. The wild dares we were always giving each other. Seeing who could be the bravest. Or, sometimes, the dumbest.

The elevator opens to the bottom floor. This is one of the employee ones, meant for executives to ride to the top, and maids and servers to discreetly shift from floor to floor. All of us have the same job: stay out of sight as much as possible. When a guest does spot you, smile. Serve. Maintain the illusion.

This isn’t the happiest place on earth, but we come damn close.

“Head’s up.”

I duck out of the way as I enter the main galley, where servers are already in the weeds for midday, still catching up from brunch. Our restaurant has designated meal windows, but they run together all day. After all, that’s part of the perfect vacation: awesome food, whenever the mood strikes.

It’s doubly true for drinks, so I’m not even fazed when P.J. and Jake cut off my path before I can make it to the deck.

“We’re out of tequila.” Jake runs his bottom teeth along his top lip and holds them there, panting and waiting for my solution. When I promoted him to head bartender in place of my brother, I gave him a two-hour speech about exactly this: handling the bar’s problems on his own.

It sounds shitty, but I really don’t have time for this.

But then again, we’re coming up on two years, and I still handle every issue he brings my way, so I’m partly to blame. The bar was my first big project to show the corporate guys—and my father—that I could handle this job. It’s hard to walk away.

“What’s the Drink of the Day?”

“It was the Melon Margarita. Now it’s nothing.”

I check my watch. “P.J., go see if Seaside will let us buy a case or two of their backstock, just to get us through to the next shipment. Here.” I hand him my car keys and a roll of twenties. He’s gone faster than any server in this place.

Jake pushes his hair off his forehead and sighs. “Two cases are not going to last us tonight.”

“It will if we make the drink of the day something without tequila.” I step around him and beeline for the liquor stockroom. “What do we have the most of?”

“Vodka.”

Sure enough, when I open the heavy metal door, I’m greeted with shelves upon shelves of vodka. “Lot of pineapple juice, too. There’s something there—figure it out.”

I could actually tell him exactly what Drink of the Day he should make. In my head, where there’s a constant carousel of what’s in stock, what’s plentiful, what’s low, and what’s possible, the recipe pops up instantly.

But Jake second-guesses himself way too much. If I show him I have faith he can do this, he will. I know what it’s like to feel limited by everyone else’s expectations. Or lack thereof.

“After you pick it,” I tell him, halfway across the kitchen to avoid more questions, “write it everywhere. Tell the servers to push it hard.” I stop, snapping my fingers at him. “Make it big.”

“Wh— The promotion, or the drink itself?”

“Both. Fishbowl!” I point to a rack of the huge, bowl-like glasses we reserve for our fruitiest, most ridiculous drinks, usually meant to share between couples—but often enjoyed for social media worthiness and bragging rights by a single customer.

Outside, finally, I relax. It doesn’t last long.

“Luka, there you are.” Iona looks like she’s close to tears, which happens a lot. She’s a little sensitive, but very passionate, which made her the perfect choice for Head of Guest Experiences. In other words: one concierge to rule them all.

“The check-in computer is down.”

“The computer,” I clarify, as I start walking in the opposite direction I wanted to go, “or the system?”

“Uh....” She pulls out her phone and scrolls. “Ace said the computer.”

“Did you call IT?”

“They can’t get out here until two. All the suggestions they gave us didn’t work.”

“Here.” I dig out a key from my pocket and palm it to her. “Get Ace to help you grab one from the Business Center, then call IT back so they can start the system on that computer. I’m pretty sure they can do it remotely. And get Parker to order two new setups, for the love of God. It’s ridiculous we only have one.”

“Thank you,” she sighs gratefully, running ahead of me into the lobby. I notice Ace, our front desk frontman, already checking guests in with our emergency system: an old tablet, where the most rudimentary data is stored. Not nearly as fast as a computer, but at least the line is thinning. I pause to say hello to some guests, shake their hands, and welcome them to Paradise Port.

God, I hate that name.

It’s probably the one thing about the franchise I’ve lobbied to change completely, always shot down. I get it: Paradise Port is the franchise. They’ve been in business since the 1980s, constructing all-inclusive resorts on every tropical or slightly-warm beachfront they can. By now, people recognize the name as a mark of affordable and hassle-free luxury.

Technically, our resort is Paradise Port: Kona. I thought Port Kona had a nice ring to it, until I was chastised for shortening the name the first year we were under contract. “If you’re going to shorten it at all,” they warned me, “just drop ‘Kona.’”

The important thing here, after all, is Paradise. The rest is just gravy.

“Luka, one of the shuttles is broken. I think the engine overheated.” This small disaster hits me the very second I step out of the lobby.

I close my eyes, sigh, and remind Stefan to call the mechanic we keep on standby. “And we’ve got the other two shuttles, right? Make one run to the airport for pick-ups and drop-offs, then the other does tours. It’ll slow things down, but at least they’ll still be moving.”

He thanks me and vanishes back around the building. I take this rare moment of solitude to sprint down the main road, unbuttoning my jacket and draping it over my arm as I go, before someone else can spot me.

My schedule spins in my head. Home, lunch, enough coffee to not care I barely slept last night, then back into the office for a list of tasks so long, I can’t even remember it when I’m this hungry.

Halfway down the road to my parents’ house, I stop. Through the trees, as the wind blows and shifts the fronds, I see the water. Sunlight catches a wave way out near the horizon. A really good one.

I try not to, but I think about Noe as I walk.

“You can’t be afraid of it,” he told me, the day I got my ass kicked by a huge wave and came up puking seawater. “When you’re afraid, you hesitate and lean back. And when you lean back, you slow down. And—”

“And when I slow down,” I finished, spitting as I mounted my board, “the wave gets just enough time to change. I know.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help you. Getting out of a tube in time was hard for me too, when I was your age.”

“Me, too,” Kai added. “Well, actually, I was a little bit younger than you when I mastered it. But who’s counting?”

I flung a palm of water his way and we all laughed, the sunrise turning the tops of our heads orange: the one reminder that soon, Noe would get called to shore and start his shift at the lodge. Kai and I would straggle our way inside, eventually. He usually caught one more wave before he rushed to work. I would tempt fate with an hour, even two, gliding along the water. Waiting to see if anyone would notice or care I wasn’t there.

I was a kid, though. Of course I didn’t want to work.

Now, as I catch pieces of the beach through the trees, I spot two surfers in the center of a wave. It’s closing off fast at both ends. There’s no way they’ll make it.

I’m half-right: one doesn’t, but whether he falls in or just dives before the wave can knock him, I can’t tell. The other guy heads straight for the end. The curl closes like a ribbon in front of him; behind him, it’s all foam.

Then, at the last second, he angles his board and shoots out down the face. I watch him crouch and glide to a stop, then high-five his friend.

The road shifts under my feet and trips me, the asphalt uneven. I right myself before I can hit the ground and cross the street, away from the trees. Farther from the beach. There’s no time to surf today.

Actually, I can’t remember the last time I went. My rash guards are all at the back of my closet; the board hasn’t been waxed since...God, Christmas.

I promise myself I’ll go tomorrow. It’ll be my reward for the affiliate contract. I’ll shut my phone off. Better yet, I’ll leave it at home.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I have to check. Still no messages from her.

I pull up the text app and find her name. The wind blows again as I type. Even though I’m deliberately not looking, I can see the water to my left, shimmering and tumbling over itself.

“Hey, it’s me. U swimming here?”

Good: it’s a way of asking her ETA, and pointing out the fact she’s late, without being clingy or demanding. That’s not my style.

By the time I get to the house, she still hasn’t answered. I silence my phone while I eat, and don’t let myself check it until I’ve finished.

My arrangement with Luka used to be perfect.

First, the location. Hawaii’s my favorite place on this earth, ever since I went after college graduation with my friends. It’s a personal tradition for me, now.

Second: Luka is unbelievably sexy. Cut and tan, sports custom suits, with the kind of face you just know used to be baby-cute, but completely transformed when manhood hit. When he smiles, it’s sideways and sly, always. He runs his hand through his hair a lot.

Third: in bed, he’s incredible. The boy can draw out a single orgasm for minutes on end with nothing but his fingertips. He can get you dangerously close just by stating, in the lowest, most mellow voice, exactly what he’s going to do to you as soon as dinner ends.

And fourth, by far the most important aspect of the ideal side interest: he always wanted no more and no less than I did.

The first year we got together, we laid down ground rules. Don’t get attached. Don’t get jealous. Don’t ask; don’t tell.

Whatever happens, accept it.

We even shook on it.

Our first night together, he texted me to get a drink with him at the bar. It was my last night in Kona.

“Your friend left, huh?”

I nodded, a little sad as I stirred the drink he’d ordered for me. It was late: the bar was closing, and almost no guests remained on the deck. They were all either up in their rooms, drunk and happy, or walking it off along the beach. “I’m going to visit her and vice-versa, so it’s not that big a deal. But I do miss her. I mean, we were roommates for two years, and best friends all through college.”

“Oh, you’d be a terrible roommate.”

I laughed and kicked his leg, almost falling off my barstool. When he caught my elbow, that sideways grin emerging, I knew my last night in Hawaii was about to get very interesting.

“How would you know?”

Luka watched me sip my drink before finishing his gin. He drank it like I’d never seen: neat, with a single cherry speared into it.

“I bet,” he answered slowly, eyeing me, “you listen to really loud music whenever you’re upset. And when you’re happy. I bet you get random notions to repaint rooms without asking anyone, or cook huge, elaborate meals that just totally destroy the kitchen.”

“Very funny. Did Mollie tell Kai that, and he told you?”

“I’m good at reading people. My brother didn’t do anything expect give me your number.”

He took the toothpick with the cherry from his drink and held it out to me. I leaned closer, opened my mouth, and let him slide the fruit past my lips.

“Did you ask him for my number?” I raised my eyebrow while I chewed. The cherry was absurdly sweet, an orb of pure sugar, but followed with the tingling bitterness of gin.

Luka nodded and loosened his tie. “I did. When I saw you in that little red bikini...” His stare grew heavy-lidded, but focused. “...I just couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Whether things moved fast with us because that was just who we were or because they had to, it being my last night and all, I couldn’t tell. My personality was on the fast side, I knew that: I didn’t like mind games and three-day rules after dates, stupid timelines that made no sense. if I had a connection with someone, whether it was purely physical or something deeper, I wanted to seize that as soon as possible.

Of course, I didn’t know Luka’s personality yet. I didn’t know anything about him, other than what I’d heard from Mollie, who only knew Luka through his older brother’s filter. But as that night stretched on and the countdown to my flight grew smaller, I learned.

“Is it true you used to be a slacker?” I asked, on the way to my hotel room.

“Okay, now I know you talked to Kai.” He laughed and ran his hand down my back, cupping my ass gently while the elevator rose. “Yeah, I guess it’s sort of true. I didn’t care about the family business as much I could have. Not until it got signed to Port.”

“I heard Kai still lives at home.” I gave him a lingering once-over, pretending to reconsider. “Should I assume you do, too, since you’re following me to my room, instead of inviting me to your place?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, laughing again. “It’s not like that. I live at home to help out my folks with the business. I’m not mooching.”

“Sure, sure.”

“And where do you live?”

“An apartment.” My sadness crept in as I remembered the fact that, when I got back, half the place would be empty, Mollie’s stuff boxed up and shipped to her parents’ house in Hillford.

“Seriously,” he said, and seemed to actually get more serious, like it was important that I believe him, “I’m not a scrub. Well...anymore.”

I stepped back and took in the view, head to toe and back. His suit was ironed to perfection, and I could just see him in his bedroom, running over every crease to make sure he got this thing as crisp as possible.

“I believe you,” I assured him. He relaxed.

In the room, he shrugged off his jacket and poured each of us a generous glass of the wine he’d snuck from the bar. I guessed, actually, he couldn’t sneak or steal: this was all his, wasn’t it?

“Your flight leaves in seven hours.” He took a long sip and set the glass down before turning to me. We were on the sofa in the living room of the suite. I had my legs crossed pretty daintily for how drunk I was, and how little I was going to make him work for things tonight, but he didn’t push them open as he ran his hand over my skin. He barely skirted underneath the dress, in fact, even when his mouth found its way to my neck.

“Don’t remind me,” I sighed, and finished my wine over his head.

That night, we would set the pattern for every hookup that would ever follow between us: I finished my drink while he abandoned his and started to work his way through my clothes, so deftly I didn’t even notice until I was halfway naked. And I usually wasn’t clothed much to begin with: it was vacation, after all.

There was no “slow” with Luka, once he got things going. No buildup; no trickle. Just a full, huge wave, all at once.

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

Don’t get clingy, I remind myself. That’s not what Tanya’s about. It’s not what I’m about.

Work has just been stressing me out more than usual. Looking forward to our semi-annual hookup isn’t the same as getting clingy. And it’s not like I have to play it cool when she’s here—just the days in between.

When she’s in town, I pull out all the stops: fancy dinners, fun dates. Wild nights. So wondering when she’ll arrive isn’t that bad. Right?

“You all right? You look distracted.”

I turn. Dad’s in the doorway of the kitchen, jeans caked in mulch I can smell from here. He grabs a dishtowel off the stove and wipes his hands.

“Little bit. How’s the stand?”

He holds up his finger while he chugs a full glass of tap water, and half of a second. “Sold out of cucumbers already,” he breathes, when he’s finished. “Your mom sent me here to get more.”

I nod, mildly impressed by this. Mom’s garden, once just a six-by-six hobby in our yard, has since become yet another family business. Now the garden spreads down the hill and into our neighbor’s property—in exchange for free veggies, every week—and produces so much, my parents were able to set up a pretty lucrative farmer’s stand in Holualoa. I’m not sure Mom planned on taking her gardening to that level, but I do know it’s tamed Dad’s cabin fever since he retired.

It’s done more than that, actually: exchanging the Paradise Port rat race for a simpler business, successful in its own right, has given both of them the energy they had before we turned our family-owned hotel into a mega-resort. They even have date nights now, enjoying their empty nest the way they deserve.

Well—almost empty.

“Think I’m going to put an offer on that lot this week,” I tell him. “Off Cramer Street.” I get up and refill my coffee, but can feel him staring at my back.

“There’s a lot there?”

“Yeah. It’s up on the hill—you can see the whole resort from it.”

When I turn, he’s still studying me. I can’t figure out his expression.

“What?”

“Are you talking about where the Copper family lives?” He gets a travel mug out of the cabinet and fills it to the top, emptying the pot.

“Yeah. The house is in pre-foreclosure.”

Dad screws on the lid and nods, but I can tell I’ve got a roadblock coming my way. There’s something about the way his mouth is set, a thin line, that shows he isn’t as excited about this plan as I am.

“Didn’t realize Rochelle was in such a tight spot.”

His tone grates me. I get up and push in my chair a little too hard.

“Somebody’s going to get that property, one way or another. Might as well be me.”

“There are other lots, son.”

“Not like that one, there aren’t.” I set my mug in the sink, also too hard, and steady my resolve with a breath before turning to him. “Think I’m gonna stay at the resort tonight. Get some work done.” In reality, I’ll be sleeping in the suite I block off for Tanya whenever she’s in town, instead of working until dawn and catching a power nap on my office sofa.

Okay, we won’t exactly be sleeping. But no reason to tell him.

“So you and Mom will have the place to yourselves,” I add. I tap his shoulder with the back of my hand. “See, there’s one perk of me getting that lot—I’ll be out of here for good. You two will finally get some privacy, yeah?”

He’s studying the curtains over the sink with a vacant look, not listening. “I think I’ll stop by Rochelle’s place with your mom today,” he says. “See how she’s holding up.”

My phone rings, a bit of mercy in this avalanche of guilt he’s piling on me. I excuse myself, grab my keys, and step outside.

“Luka Williams,” I answer.

“Luk, they are pissed.”

A moped tears by on the street in front of our house. I cover my ear to hear Parker better. “Wait, what? Who?”

“Everybody. Corporate. You told Kona Seg they could think it over for twenty-four hours after they signed the deal? What the fuck?”

“Hey, hey, chill,” I tell him, even though my voice is rising too. I get an ache in my stomach, sharp, and have to sit on the porch step. “I know what I’m doing, here. Where’s Trixie? Or Garner, put one of them on. I’ll explain.”

“No, you’ve got to get back down here. I’m telling you, man, they’re out for blood.”

“I’m positive you’re exaggerating,” I sigh, even though the pain in my stomach is growing, just in case he isn’t, “but sure. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll come in and explain in-person. See you in five.”

“Hey, it’s me. U swimming here?”

I check the text in a flash inside my palm, shielding the screen from Oscar. He’s got his eyes trained like a laser on the luggage carousel.

“I know I put a green tag on it,” he mutters, for the twentieth time since we landed.

“Blue,” I remind him.

“No, no, it was...” His mouth shuts as his aluminum suitcase, from a brand I’ve never heard of—but definitely pricey—emerges from the rubber flaps. Its bright blue tag is glaringly visible, not to mention unnecessary: I’ve yet to see a single metal suitcase since we’ve been standing here.

“...blue,” he finishes. His blush reaches his ears as he gives me an apologetic kiss, then rushes to grab it.

I look at my phone again. Why is this twisting my stomach, making my palms slick? Just tell him.

I should’ve told Luka I wouldn’t be coming alone this year as soon as Oscar announced the trip, back in March. “I know you love Kona,” he said, grinning as I pulled the plane tickets from the envelope, “especially that Paradise Port thing. So this year, your trip is on me.”

The Paradise Port: Kona logo, swooping in neon colors on the front of the package description, made my head hurt.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” I kissed him and pasted on a smile.

I do love Kona. And as much shit as people give me for loving Paradise Port—one of those all-inclusive, super commercial places that seem to be everywhere—I love it there, too. Vacations are about relaxation, and places like that take care of every detail so I don’t have to. I get enough details at work. At least, I used to.

But the thought of going with Oscar? That, I didn’t love.

“Whoa.” He stops short when we get out to the sidewalk. “Is that you?”

I turn. There’s a car by the curb, with a uniformed driver holding a sign that reads, “Tanya King.”

Shit.

“Wow, honey!” I let go of his hand and and hurry towards the car. “You didn’t have to do this!”

“I didn’t,” he confesses, as the driver takes our luggage and loads it into the back. He slides into the seat after me. “Must be from the resort.”

“You did get the Platinum package,” I remind him. His confusion fades as he shrugs, accepting this possibility.

In reality, I know exactly why this car is here for me. Luka sent it.

He always does.

While the car rolls into the lush landscape, I get a weird flutter in the middle of my chest. Vacation excitement, mostly—but at least some of it is because, by now, my brain associates the palm trees and piercing blue sky with Luka. And this trip isn’t about that.

No romantic dinners. No surprise dates to volcanoes or cliffsides. No intense nights pressed up against him, as he touches me with the swooping gentleness of a breeze, and then the force of a tropical storm....

My phone pings. I shield the screen again, expecting it to be Luka. Instead, it’s Mollie.

“Hey! Any updates?”

My throat is filled with fiberglass as I type back, “Nope. I’ll keep you posted.” We haven’t talked since yesterday morning. When I got fired.

“I’ve been here two years, John.” My heels caught on the carpet of the editor’s office as he got up from his desk, hands filled with memos and other distractions, and paced in a circle around me.

“I know, I know. But I told you months ago, the paper’s downsizing. By Christmas, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re merged with the Trib and thirty more of us are out of a job.”

“You told me—months ago—that my job was safe.” I strode closer, hemming him into the corner against his filing cabinet. “You promised.”

Finally, he dared to make eye contact, but only for a second. “I’m sorry, Tanya.”

“For what,” I hissed, “firing me, or lying that you’d safeguard my job if I fucked you?”

Now I’d done it. John was kind of a scrawny guy, but scrappy, like a lap dog that bared its teeth when you forced it to defend itself.

“Don’t threaten me.” He brought his eyes back to mine. “I know you think I’m some smalltime editor, but I’ve got more connections than you in this game. So maybe you should think twice before you burn a bridge, huh?”

It killed me that I was crying. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t weak. I was enraged.

“John,” I whispered, stepping aside so he could move around me, “I need this job. Please, don’t do this to me.”

“You’ll find something else, Tanya. You’re young, you’re beautiful—go try the local news again.” He plunked down in his desk chair with a long exhale. “Print is getting tight, that’s all. You know it’s not just us. Every publication is getting leaner, all the time. We’ve got to cut what we can, and...your numbers just aren’t where they need to be.”

“I’ve only been a journalist eight months,” I reminded him, getting desperate as I noticed coworkers peering through the blinds of his office. Discreetly, I flipped off two interns. They scattered.

“Look.” I righted the chair across from him, which I’d knocked over in my slight hysteria, and sat. “I was Cecily’s assistant for over a year before you gave me a shot with something serious. Do you remember what you said to me that day?”

John pulled an electronic cigarette from his desk and inhaled. It was one of the big ones, creating obnoxious plumes of vapor that smelled like mango and filled a room in seconds. I wasn’t sure it was legal to vape in our building, but no one ever stopped him. No one ever stopped him from doing a lot of shit.

“Yes. I said you were talented, which was why I gave you the assignment.”

“You said I took initiative, which is why I asked for the assignment.” I wiped a tear that had slipped down to my chin, pretending it was an itch I had to scratch. “And now I’m taking initiative again by asking you to give me a chance. Let me prove I’m not expendable.”

“It’s not up to just me.” John’s sympathy dropped; I was officially on his last nerve. “Come on, Tanya. Have some dignity. This is small shit—not worth fighting for. You’ll find something better.”

“Thanks a lot.” I bolted to my feet, this time knocking over the fake tree he kept by the fish tank. “Let me know when they fire you for playing grab-ass with every girl in this place.”

John laughed as I opened his door. “See you around.”

I tried to fight my tears while I packed up my desk, but couldn’t. And since everyone was already staring at me, I figured I might as well make it worth their while. So I let the tears and cursing fly, while coworkers watched and comforted me with a mix of sadness for my loss—and relief that it wasn’t theirs.

Immediately, I called Mollie. We might have been on entirely different coasts, days’ worth of mileage between us, but she always knew how to make me look on the bright side. Even if I didn’t want to.

“You hated it there,” she reminded me, as soon as I sobbed my way through the story. “Now you can find a job you really love.”

“There’s no ‘job I really love,’ Moll. I love whatever job will pay me. I love not being broke. I love paying rent and putting gas in my tank, that’s what I love.”

“It’ll be okay,” she assured me. “If you need anything—”

“I know, I know.” I paused. “Thanks.”

When we hung up, I checked my bank balance. Not much, since I’d just bought a condo two months earlier—but enough to get me through a couple months before things would get serious. Talk about getting leaner.

I dried my tears again and thought about Mollie’s long-standing offer of moving to California with her and Kai. It didn’t sound too bad of a deal: getting to live with Mollie again, just like our college days, and lounge on the beach whenever I wanted, instead of once or twice a year.

But it was still charity. Despite what John thought while I begged for my job—or seven months ago, when I got drunk and spent the night with him in exchange for that promise he wasn’t man enough to keep—I did have dignity. Plenty.

The office park was crowded with people taking early lunches and punching in late. I didn’t see anyone else with a box in their hands and the sour smell of failure clinging to them, like me, but I stayed a little longer to make sure.

When Oscar arrived that night to pick me up, I was in sweats and a messy bun. Not cute-messy—actually messy, tangled into a hair tie and falling out in snarls around my face. I hid the drink in my hand behind my back as he stepped inside.

“Did you forget?” he asked sweetly. Oscar was always sweet. Too sweet.

“Forget what?” I waited until he turned to set my drink behind the sound system. “Oh, God, the dinner. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, we still have time. Unless...you don’t want to go.” He bent down to kiss me, and I knew he tasted the alcohol. It wasn’t like Oscar disapproved of my drinking, but I didn’t want to explain why I was drinking an exceptionally strong screwdriver at the exact moment I should have been just getting in from work.

“No, no, we can go. Just let me shower.” I knew he’d had this reservation for weeks, a big, fancy dinner to celebrate our six-month anniversary. Not worth celebrating, for most people, but it was to us: Oscar, because that’s just the kind of guy he was. Caring, sentimental, and all about grand gestures.

And me? This was the longest relationship I’d ever had. That kind of personal growth probably did deserve some celebration.

“When you get out of there,” he called through the bathroom door, “there’s a surprise for you, in the bedroom.”

“Really,” I mused. It was hard to sound curious or playful, because I knew it wouldn’t be a sexy surprise—he wouldn’t be naked on my bed, or holding a new toy to try out. Most likely, based on his short yet consistent track record, it would be....

“A new dress.” I smiled and lifted the fabric from my bed where he’d arranged it. Predictable or not, it was gorgeous: cut high in the front, long in the back, with a plunging neckline to my navel, all covered in sheer black mesh.

“It’s beautiful.” I slipped into it and admired myself in the mirror. He stepped behind me and zipped it, kissing my bare shoulder blade and smiling at my reflection.

Next to Oscar, and wearing a dress like this, I didn’t look like an unemployed journalist. I looked...well, rich as hell.

“You’re beautiful,” he corrected. His hands skated down to my hips. “Happy six months.”

“You, too.” I turned and kissed him. I pushed all thoughts of the newspaper from my head, at least for the next few minutes, and just focused on the image I’d seen and memorized in the mirror.

At dinner, he was fidgety. It wasn’t like him: he got shy, but rarely anxious.

“I, uh...I have something to...well.” He laughed, all his nervous energy transferring straight into me. “It’s pretty huge.”

My heart thundered. Oscar was reliable and predictable, pretty vanilla compared to most guys I dated—but he did like those big, movie-worthy surprises.

Still: no way would he propose, only six months in. Right?

His hand crept across the tablecloth to mine. The restaurant’s quiet chatter turned to a roar, like a turbine in my head.

“I got promoted, today.”

On some other plane of consciousness, I realized my mouth was open. I shut it, clearing my throat. “You did?”

“Remember I told you about Bob leaving? They’ve been trying to fill his spot for weeks, so I threw in my resume—I mean, everyone was applying, so why not—and they called me in, today. I got it.”

He stared at me. Waited for my smile to match his.

“That’s...that’s great, babe,” I sputtered. My smile felt weak and fake, because it was. He didn’t notice.

“Thank you. I’m really excited.” He freed my hand (my left one, I realized vaguely), and sipped his wine. “I mean, my position isn’t called ‘vice president,’ but that’s basically what I am. I’m in charge of the new accounts coming in and everyone in that department, now. And I get a new office, a big raise....”

I nodded along numbly as he spoke. I wanted so, so badly to be happy for him. For us.

But all I could think of was this morning, the way my stomach felt like it dropped out of my body when John told me I was fired.

And then, I thought of Luka.

“You don’t know what it’s like, having to claw up a ladder.” It was last summer, an entire year ago. He’d taken me to dinner at a burger place across the island; our table overlooked the ocean. I had chills, even though the air was warm.

“Why?” he retorted, giving that sideways smile of his. “Because I’m a man?”

“That certainly helps,” I nodded, “but I was talking about the whole family-business thing. You’re a legacy.”

“A legacy.”

“Yeah, you know, like when a guy gets into Harvard or Yale or whatever, because his dad and grandpa and great-grandpa attended. It’s the same thing: your dad built a business from the ground up, got all that ladder-climbing out of the way, and so you were born, like, halfway up, already.”

Luka’s smile blinked out, fast. “I work really hard running Port Kona.”

“I didn’t say anything about how hard you do or don’t work.” I finished my drink; he immediately nodded to the waitress for another. “I’m just saying, you had a big advantage over people like me. Or your parents. We start from the bottom.”

“Okay.” He rested his forearm on the table and raised his eyebrow. We did this a lot when I visited: became embroiled in heated discussions, mild arguments, and a tense back-and-forth that, inevitably, led to some crazy makeup sex. It was easy to smooth over an argument when you knew, at the end of the week, the slate would be wiped clean again, anyway.

“Hypothetically,” he said, “let’s say you’re right. Guy gets into Harvard. But he’s an idiot. Lazy. Just the worst student possible. Even his legacy wouldn’t save him, then.”

“True,” I conceded.

“So he’s got to have the work ethic and smarts to back up his advantage.”

“Or the money.”

Luka took a long blink, ignoring me. “Point is, a guy’s got to offer something valuable once he gets to the top, or else he’s going to fall to the bottom.” He sat back in his seat and motioned to himself. “I might have gotten the chance I did because of luck and legacy—but I’ve stayed there and kept climbing because of myself. The work I put in, the ideas I come up with. A chance is just that: a chance. You’ve still got to prove yourself.”

“Fair enough. But,” I added, taking a deep gulp of the fresh cocktail the waitress handed me, “you did get that chance. Most of us don’t. That’s what I meant about clawing up the ladder, and how hard I’ve been busting ass at that paper, just to get Cecily or John to give me one shot. One. I can prove myself, too—but first I’ve got to get someone to give me that chance.” I set down my glass. “And that, you don’t understand.”

Luka studied me carefully. “You’re wrong,” he said, after a minute.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re wrong.” His voice was louder now, sharper. “Don’t pretend you know me like that, okay? I know exactly what it’s like when someone won’t give you a shot—when they think you’re a fuck-up before you’ve even tried.”

I shrank back a little. “Fine. Sorry.”

He was right: I didn’t know him like that. He didn’t know me like that. That was the entire point.

So while Oscar went on and on about his awesome new job, I remembered that night with Luka and admitted to myself that sure, I could’ve been wrong about him. But that didn’t mean I was wrong about everyone else.

Oscar didn’t work half as hard as I did. Much as I hated begrudging him for it, it was impossible to keep smiling when I knew for a fact he spent most of his workdays playing Solitaire on his computer, grabbing lunch or a quick game of golf with coworkers, and kissing his bosses’ asses.

And to top it off, he got paid five times as much as me for all of it. His father landed him his job and, just like that, he had it made. Now he’d climb that ladder even higher, while I plummeted down to the bottom.

“Tanya? Did you hear me?”

I blinked at him. “Hmm?”

Oscar motioned to my dessert. It was a slice of chocolate cake with ganache inside, a strawberry rose on top, and a sheet of crystallized sugar propped against it.

“This job’s going to be big for both of us,” he went on, as I picked up my fork and dug in. His fidgeting had resumed. God, I got it—he was excited. Did he have to talk about it all through dinner, rubbing my nose in it?

I scolded myself. He didn’t know I’d been fired. He deserved to be happy.

My fork hit something solid. I felt my brow furrow and tried to slice through the section again, but it clunked against the mystery object a second time. Definitely not a chocolate chip.

“There’s something in here,” I grumbled. I used my fork to pry the sections apart and figure it out, too bitter and wrapped up in myself to realize this was the most clichéd thing in the world, or to notice that Oscar was now getting up from his chair.

It wasn’t until he knelt in front of me and took my hand, just as I was about to curse this stupid cake into oblivion, that I pieced everything together.

“Tanya,” he said, as all around us, the restaurant grew even more hushed. I set down my fork while my mouth cramped from sugar and my heart threatened to explode out of me. In the candlelight and dainty chandelier glimmers, I saw the ring buried in the center of the cake, sticky with chocolate, as Oscar asked, “Will you marry me?”