Page 30 of Still See You Everywhere

I’ve lived with cockroaches, a feral cat, and, not too long ago, an absolutely adorable SAR dog that specialized in finding human remains. I refuse to be intimidated by a spider. Maybe.

“Here’s the deal,” I inform Wolfie. “Your side of the room. My side of the room. I won’t interfere with your insect consumption if you promise not to nest in my clothes or hide in my shoes. Capisce?”

The fist-sized black spider doesn’t move. I choose to take that for a yes.

Slowly, I sift through the small pile of my worldly goods. Now that I’m on the atoll, the whole Crocs thing makes more sense. Same with the shorts and microfiber shirts. I pull out my new and improved tropical gear, and with a last glance at the stationary wolf spider, I hit the showers.

I hadn’t been wrong before—the icy spray is a welcome respite from the heat and humidity. I have to forcefully remind myself of Navy rules. Wet hair. Shut off and lather. Rinse. Get out. It’s all way too brief, though refreshing.

Of course, by the time I wrestle on my clothes, I’m hot and bothered all over again.

Good news—there’s no chance to marinate in my pain and suffering as I’m already due back to the mess hall for dinner prep. I’m simultaneously exhausted and grateful, since the best solution to bone-deep fatigue is to work, work, and do more work.

Dinner theme is American night, which apparently involves a vat of homemade mac and cheese, accompanied by hamburgers and hot dogs. I get to work grating a copious amount of cheese for Ann’s signature dish, then slice up onions, tomatoes, and pickles for Trudy’s world-famous burgers. Along the way I throw together a spinach salad with bacon on the side to accommodate the vegetarians.

The entire three hours is an exercise in moving and not thinking. When people show up and start raving about the food, I almost know what’s going on. Mostly, I dish up my own plate and shovel in pasta on complete autopilot. Some piece of my brain registers the golden crushed-cracker topping. The rest of me would sell my soul to be asleep right now.

Trudy and Ann seem to understand, patting my shoulder as they bustle about.

“Tomorrow will be better.”

“Crepes! What are your thoughts on Nutella?”

I manage a display of semi-exhausted jazz hands to indicate enthusiasm. They laugh.

“We like you.”

“You chop fast.”

“You will work out.”

“Dishes now, then you’re done.”

“Congrats on surviving day one!”

“Looking forward to morning of day two.”

“Crepes!”

“Fresh fruit!”

“Whipped cream!”

I stare at them as if they are creatures from another planet. They giggle and move on.

As it was with the lunch rush, individuals file in after eating, depositing their dirty plates in the sink while dropping their utensils into a plastic bin filled with a cleaning solution. I recognize the modest-size commercial dishwasher from many of my bartending gigs. Basically, load dirty objects onto a plastic tray, buzz tray through a blistering eight-minute cycle, load next tray, and repeat.

Which doesn’t explain the gorgeous man standing in front of the sink, rinsing and stacking each plate in the dishwasher bin.

Ronin Katsumoto, the perfectly sculpted archaeologist who should be off making perfectly beautiful babies with Aolani Akamai.

“Isn’t that my job?” I venture at last, not sure what to do.

“Yes and no. We take turns assisting with dinner cleanup. It is our way of showing gratitude for the wonderful meals.”

“Oh.”

This witty response earns me nothing. Ronin slides the loaded tray into the dishwasher, hits start, pulls out a fresh, empty tray, and returns to the stacking process. Belatedly, I gather up prep bowls and serving dishes.

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