“All right. Well. Thanks for the invite.”
“Thanks for coming,” she replied, matching my dry tone.
“Right…” I mumbled, tapping the door before closing it behind me.
I took my empty cookie container and left.
Three Bhanu
Flights were a favorite pastime, said no one ever. Especially on a Saturday. Too many people and lines and layover drama, but bless the fact that I had a direct flight with a TV screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me fully equipped with every new movie and TV show that one could want. I might as well have been sitting in first class with how fancy this felt. But in sweats. Naturally. And compression socks because it turned out that my legs plumped to the size of watermelons when flying.
I’d forced myself to leave my devices alone and focus on relaxing instead of checking for any updates on the interviews. Let’s be real—Google had probably ghosted me, and my company was taking their own sweet time on that PM position.
With the middle seat empty beside me, the hood of my sweatshirt over my brows, and my hands stuffed into my pockets, I shimmied into my seat to get nice and cozy for seven hours of Marvel movies. No one talked to me.
Complete bliss.
Before I knew it, we crested over turquoise waters and the shoreline where an AC-less hub of an airport waited. We’d arrived in charming, albeit hot as hell, Kona, Hawaii.
The beauty of the various shades of blue in the water speckled with various shades of green, the dusty shores and lush vegetation lined with black lava rocks got me every time.
There was a saying that whatever happened on island stayed on island. I always thought of that when landing, and promptly chuckled. Nothing that exciting ever happened to me.
I removed my sweatshirt and took my time shuffling through the plane and onto a ramp that led down to the runway of the tiny outdoor airport. A wall of hot, dry air hit me, my sweat glands going from icy cold to pouring. The sweats were perfect during cold flights, but I was eager to hit the restroom and change into shorts. Gym shorts. Don’t judge me.
Now changed into climate-appropriate attire with bags in hand, I waited on a bench for my ride. I took the chance to peel off my compression socks (listen, I wasn’t here for puffy feet or a blood clot) and exchanged my sneakers for sandals. I wiggled my toes. Ah. Much better.
A gentle breeze swept through, cooling the sweat beads on my forehead as I guzzled down ice-cold water and texted Diya. How she could live on this side of the island was beyond me. The Big Island had eight climate zones ranging from desert to tundra. Guess which part I was likely to be in for the entire week? Thank the gods I was spending most of my time in a really nice hotel chain that blasted AC like electricity didn’t cost an arm and a leg.
It was only a matter of minutes before Diya pulled up in her boyfriend’s Jeep. For a corporate girl wielding a master’s degree, she loved to go rugged. The island had changed her. She’d learned to live life by the day, slow down and be in the moment, and experience more of the amazing canvas the island had instead of being trapped indoors like most mainlanders. She’d lived on island for several years, so she was bound to learn to love the land and its people.
Which was ironic because she worked in tourism, a double-edged sword for the islands. But leave it to my little sister to take up arms on behalf of the employees, the majority of which were AAPI, including native Hawaiians. Every voice counted.
And speaking of voices, her high-pitched voice shrieked with excitement when she hopped out of the Jeep and ran toward me, arms out in the air, one holding a purple and pink plumeria lei.
“Bitch…you made it!” Diya attacked me with a hug as her boyfriend emerged flashing a giant grin.
“Oh my god.” I laughed into the swells of her curly hair.
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.
