“You seriously need to chill,” Quinn says with a cheek full of lollipop. “We’re in Hawaii! Nothing can go wrong now that we’re here.”
Rather than remind her that things very much can and have, I force my thoughts to the warm tacky air that lays against my skin like a weighted blanket. And even through the smell of jet fuel and car exhaust, there’s a salty sweet-something in the air, completely foreign to my olfactory.
I can’t believe I’m finally here.
My obsession with Hawaii started when I was twelve and stumbled across a 1983 National Geographic Magazine. Doug and Lindsay Porter owned the second-hand bookstore next to my family’s laundromat and they’d let me hang out on the nights my grandparents worked late. The article was about King Kamehameha, the Warrior King of Hawaii.
Raised by my grandparents, who never had the time or money for vacations, I learned to travel the world through photographs. With the turn of a page, I’d go from the Serengeti to the Amazon jungle, from the rocky shores of the Galapagos to the waterways of Venice. I wanted to travel the world and take the kind of photographs that inspired others the way the ones in the bookstore inspired me.
I made a vow that when I turned eighteen, I’d get out of South Dakota and go to all these places to experience them firsthand.
Little did I know then that life had a different plan.
Which is why my first flight on an airplane is at the ripe age of twenty-four.
But I did it. I’m finally here.
Without the most important component of the trip.
“What if my bag never shows up? This is supposed to be my Monolith!” My voice rises in pitch as my anxiety creeps back in.
Quinn’s expression pinches in confusion.
“The face of half dome,” I explain.
She shakes her head.
“Ansel Adams!” I bet he never let anyone take his camera equipment. Never trusted his beloved Korona in the hands of an airline steward with the face of an angel.
Quinn crunches on her candy. “The guy from Baby Driver?”
“Forget it.” I should’ve known she wouldn’t understand. Quinn is the manager at a Hot Topic so her expertise is in pop culture, metal bands, manga, and the dark arts. “There’s eight thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in that bag.”
She cringes. “Yeah, I get it. But this kind of thing happens all the time. Bags always show up, eventually.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Hush, now.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders in an overly cajoling way that makes me want to elbow her in the ribs. “It’ll turn up.”
I duck out of her arm. “And if it doesn’t?”
“It will.” She drags out the last word. “When have I ever been wrong?”
My feet slam to a halt. “When you told me painkillers and alcohol work best together.”
She stops and faces me, rolling her gaze. “I’m not a doctor.”
“When you told me you’re from a royal family.”
She stiffens her jaw. “My great-aunt used to work for the Queen of England!”
“Not the same.”
“I was high. That doesn’t count.”
“Okay, the time you swore your dreams told the future and warned me for weeks to avoid everything orange.”
She frowns. “Why are you bringing up old shit?”
“You said—”
“Shht!” She holds up a hand. “None of that matters. Do you know why?”
“Because you’re horrible at admitting when you’re wrong?”
She flicks my arm with the backs of her knuckles. “No, dummy. Because we’re in Hawaii!” She spins around and stomps away. “Let’s go.”
We finally make it to baggage claim, and I nearly drop to my knees in gratitude when I see our bags circling the on the conveyor belt.
My sad, faded, army green duffle stands out against Quinn’s three bright pink monstrosities, the contrast a perfect illustration of the differences between us. Her bright pink hair to my dull chestnut, her vibrant tattoos that wrap both her arms and half her back to my sickly pale olive skin. Her clothes worn to accentuate while my baggy pants and oversized t-shirt are not the least bit flattering.
I snag my duffle from the conveyer belt and help Quinn with hers. I probably should’ve packed more appropriately for our three-week-long stay, but I was more concerned about not forgetting any of my equipment than I was about packing enough clothes. Jokes on me.
“How long do we have to walk to get a cab?” Quinn puffs out her cheeks, flushed from the exhaustion of rolling her bags a few yards.
Hefting my duffle bag strap diagonally across my body, I grab her two smaller bags. “Come on, Princess.”
This is the third airport I’ve been in today, and although it doesn’t look all that different from the others, there’s an electricity in the air that feels far from home. Tall palm trees blow in the breeze and all the plant life, what little I can see, is bright green.
Thankfully the cab stand isn’t too far away. We settle our bags and wait our turn for a ride. Quinn’s nose is inches away from her phone screen and she’s wearing a grin I recognize.
“I thought you guys broke up?”
She shrugs one shoulder while her thumbs work quickly on the screen. “We did. But he just sent me a dick pic and told me not to forget about him.”
“Charming.”
Quinn and her boyfriend Pete have been together since high school. They break up every few months just to make each other jealous enough to get back together. She says it keeps their relationship fresh. Her dating life is a like a Taylor Swift album.
My dating life is more like a Burger King drive through. I pick easy, convenient, low commitment entanglements that leave me feeling a little nauseous. The thing is, I haven’t had a lot of time or energy to invest in another person. And I can’t bring myself to put effort into a relationship that I will eventually leave behind.
Quinn sighs heavily. “As much as I care about Pete, I do plan to fall in love with a sexy lifeguard while we’re here.”
Good, then he can keep her busy while I work. If I get my—no, when I get my camera back.
My blood is still hot and I’m working up a curse-filled rant about airline responsibility when the cab attendant waves us toward a beat up, lime-green cab.
“Aloha.” The driver, a middle-aged balding man with a wide smile and kind dark eyes loads our luggage as if it weighs nothing. “Welcome to Hawaii.” He pronounces it Ha-VAI-ee, accented in a way that tells me he’s a local not a transplant.
A thrill races through me. I’ve been landlocked all my life and now here I am, on the most isolated group of islands in the world, being exposed to a whole different kind of people and culture. Wanting to capture a visual reminder of this moment, I reach for my bellybutton where my camera would usually be hanging only to have my fingers grasp at nothing.
Fuck.
I follow Quinn into the stained beige interior of the cab that smells like Windex and what I imagine ocean breezes to smell like. I’ve never actually been to an ocean, never felt the sand between my toes or salt water on my skin. The anticipation makes me giddy.
“The Surf Supreme in Waikiki,” I tell our driver when he asks.