She cleared her throat and we paused, giving each other a knowing and calm look. I slightly bowed my head, allowing Diya to drape the lei over my shoulders so that it lay down my back and chest, not touching my neck, before she kissed my cheek.

“Thank you,” I said, accepting her aloha.

“It’s pronounced ‘mahalo,’ ” she grunted.

“Hey, howzit?” Diya’s boyfriend, Kimo, asked as he came in for a bear hug. Everyone knew I wasn’t much of a hugger, including touchy-feely people at the office—god, we weren’t that close—but family was different, and Kimo was essentially a brother. Diya’s hugs were nostalgic. Kimo’s were like a cuddly teddy bear.

I laughed. “Good! How are you?”

“Can’t complain. You hungry?”

“Always. Also, ready for some AC.”

“Tourist,” Diya teased, but I knew she needed it, too.

Kimo placed my bags in the back, and we buckled in.

As I hugged the side of the car with the most shade, Kimo handed me a reusable water container and I gulped every last drop of icy water. I held out on a prayer that I’d make it to a restroom in time later, but for now, my Northwestern body, used to overcast and chill, needed the hydration.

“For you. Keep it. Refill it,” Kimo said.

“Thanks!” I eyed the dark pink container, turning it over in my hand. A laser-etched design of my name above a honu appeared. “Aw! Is this from your shop?”

“Yeah. Got some new designs. Honu is inspired from my tribal tats.”

“I love it. And I’m honored.”

We were pretty much family at this point. I eyed Diya, wondering if my little sister would be getting married before I even found a man. Not that I wanted, nor needed, one. I didn’t want anything crashing through my calm life and uprooting all that made me comfortable. Regardless, I was happy that my sister had found her happily ever after, and so quickly.

She’d met Kimo the first month she’d arrived on Big Island. She’d wandered into his laser-etching company storefront because she’d seen her coworker’s cute coffee tumbler with Kimo’s design. He etched everything from wood to metal, from plaques to flasks. She’d ordered a crimson water thermos with her name on it, and he’d talked about plastic waste reduction and protecting the land and ocean. It was love at first conservation conversation.

Diya came from prestigious degrees and international advisory boards. Kimo came from a deep connection to the land. Both balanced the other and each balanced the seemingly contradictory nature of their careers with their passions. But that was life, right?

Now, my sister, the general manager with an eye on VP of Operations for one of the world’s largest hotel conglomerates, spent most of her time between supporting employee rights and protecting the islands. She was an all-around total badass wrapped in a dainty body.

We’d taken a left on Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway, which the locals referred to as Queen K Highway, toward Waikoloa…one of the hottest parts of the island, but also one of the most luxurious resort spots. We passed the street for Costco on the right (because of course I knew where one of my favorite stores was located), the shopping centers and marina on the left, and then nothing for miles until a tour company appeared with its armada of metallic blue helicopters.

“Wanna try for an air tour?” Kimo asked, begrudgingly looking at one of too many tourist traps.

“I have better things to spend seven hundred dollars on,” I replied. Nothing about sitting in a loud, tiny helicopter hovering over volcanos made me easy. “Plus, didn’t one of their helicopters crash recently?”

Kimo clucked his tongue. “Decades of flawless flights marred by one tragedy.”

“I don’t want to die this time around. Not yet. There are other things to do.”

“Like eat ube?”

Typically, as the elder (per my family and seemingly per my culture), I paid for everything. It was an essentially simplistic and presumed thing. Papa paid whenever we were with him. But without parents around, the price of every meal and hotel room and excursion fell upon me. Which I was happy to do. I wasn’t here for freebies, although Diya’s gigantic hotel discounts might as well be considered freebies.

Without Papa, this always turned into a little fight with one sibling trying to grab their credit card before the other could pay. I’d resorted to pretending to use the restroom and slipping the waitress our card. Which, in turn, evolved into Diya slipping the waitress her card before we even ordered. Which evolved into me making reservations with my card on file. I wasn’t sure where we could go from there.

However, when it came to visiting the islands, it was the custom of the land to accept gifts. The lei was the first, embodying love and gratitude, and couldn’t be denied unless, of course, the one receiving wasn’t in the loving spirit. Diya made her own leis. She’d decided, once she moved here, that she would try to learn the culture. It wasn’t too long ago that the islands had been colonized, and she wanted to help preserve as much as possible, or at the least, not stamp it out. So she’d taken classes to learn the language and arts, went out of her way to make Hawaiian friends, and tried to stay on top of local news that disrupted the sanctity of the people. I’d never seen her mature faster than at this point in her life, to see her go from privileged American to someone wanting to protect everything about the place she lived in.

When Diya picked plumeria off the trees at her condo, much to the HOA’s dismay, and sewed them into a beautiful lei, she took it seriously. It was part of aloha, and the reciprocating part of aloha was graciously accepting. The same applied to other gifts from her while here.

But when it came to ube, I didn’t mind that my baby sister had assembled a list of all ube finds so she could feed me until my belly was hanging over my sweatpants.

I steepled my fingers on my lap like a kid waiting for her parents to hand her an ice cream. Except the ice cream was a fluffy, dark purple ball of fried dough covered in sanding sugar.

Kimo handed me a reusable bag with a box inside. I squealed, my mouth watering. “Diya, you better marry this man!”

He laughed. “You won’t say that when you see I’ve already eaten a few. Sorry.”

“I don’t even care. Thank you, Kimo!”

I bit into a sweet malasada with hints of…ya know, I could never quite explain the taste of ube. It fluctuated, depending on the dish. Ube was a sweet purple yam from the Philippines, which was often used in desserts ranging from ice cream to smoothies to cakes to turnovers to this version of a Portuguese donut. Everything I’d ever tried with ube was delicious. This was no different.

“Not that hard crap off the side of the road,” Kimo promised, as if he’d ever get me something meant to draw tourists. “Not even from KTA.”

“What! This tastes even better. Which bakery made this?”

“My mom made it for you.”

I gasped—such affection—and immediately almost choked on sanding sugar.

“Calm down,” Diya said. “His mom is thinking of starting a catering business and is giving out free food to everyone to get their thoughts.”

Once I’d regained my composure, I admitted, “This is menu-worthy.”

“I think so, too,” Kimo replied. “Her favorite is the li hing mui original, but I’m loving the ube and the lilikoi filled dusted with li hing.”

My mouth, despite being filled with perfect ube, was watering over the anticipation of tart passion fruit fried dough covered in sugary dried plum powder. “Tell your mom that she can use me as a test subject. I’m happily volunteering.”

He winked from his seat. “I’ll let her know. She wants to have you over while you’re here.”

“Mm-hmm!” I agreed around a bite. Who doesn’t love a mama’s home cooking?

We’d arrived at the hotel Diya worked for, which covered nearly a hundred acres and featured a large golf course, four lagoons, many beaches, and three main hotels called locations (Queen’s Land, King’s Land, and Homestead). Yes, they were all the same hotel chain, but each was a level more exquisite/expensive than the last.

By the time we’d pulled up to fountains featuring marigold and ivory koi, surrounded by palms and orchids, I’d devoured all three ube donuts. I was sure they were meant to last a couple of days, but Kimo knew me, right?

An attendant hauled my luggage out of the vehicle while Diya checked us in and Kimo rode off with a wave for me and a kiss for my sister.

“Wait until you see this,” Diya said beside a golf cart.

“Are we camping on the golf course under the stars? Sounds romantic.”

She wagged her brows. “You ain’t ready.”