Page 11 of Broken Hearts

As soon as I pull the sheets and duvet up, I smell it. It’s the sweet smell of blueberries, and it hits me like a ton of bricks.

It’s the wax my dad used on his surfboards. The smell permeates everything around me, wrapping me in something that feels comforting, something I remember from childhood.

Before I know it, I’m crying, and not just crying, sobbing into the sheets on my dad’s bed. I’m being eaten alive by guilt, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do to change that.

I wake the next morning to the sun streaming in through the curtain-less windows, blinding me with its brightness and heat. The apartment doesn’t seem to have any air conditioning, and I’m absolutely sweating. How the hell does someone live in a tropical climate without air? I live in New York, and that shit goes on the second the temperatures reach above seventy.

I wander over to the glass doors, squinting against the bright glow as I pull them open, letting in the smell of the salty sea air. As much as I miss my little apartment in New York, the sound of the waves and the smell of the ocean is something I could get used to. I will be here for three weeks after all, so it’s going to become my normal.

I check my phone on the nightstand, seeing it’s only a quarter to six in the morning, but as I calculate it, it’s six hours later in New York. No wonder I’m awake; it’s the middle of the damn day there.

I rifle through my suitcase, pulling out my toiletry bag and my makeup, setting them on the sink in the bathroom. Might as well make myself at home, but when I look in the mirror, I nearly gasp out loud.

My eyes are so swollen from the crying I did last night, I look more like I spent the night with a bottle of vodka.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my eyes like that’s going to help. Nothing is going to help other than maybe going back to sleep. I contemplate it for a few minutes but scrap the idea and instead, I brush my teeth.

I get dressed, pulling on a pair of shorts and a tank. I decide to head outside and walk along the beach. Even though Nate said he’s up early, I don’t want to bother him, especially looking like I do. I don’t want to have to explain to him that I fell asleep crying in my dad’s bed that smelled like blueberry surf wax.

Heading toward the water, I take in the view of the ocean in front of me and the mountains behind me. I don’t remember the island being this beautiful, but I was also twelve and the idea of seeing the beauty in the landscape was lost on me.

There are a few surfers out on the water, the waves bigger than anything I’ve ever seen in the Atlantic, and I watch them for a few minutes.

I never learned to surf while I was here. My dad begged me to let him teach me, but I was stubborn and annoyed, ignoring his requests. Now, I’d give anything to go back to then and accept his offer. It would be something I could have held onto, a memory that held something positive.

A man exits the water, walking toward me, a surfboard tucked under his arm, his tan glistening under the gleam of the sun.

It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s Nate, and he gives me a wave. Waving back, I find myself smiling as he gets closer. Despite our earlier interaction, seeing him today relaxes me, making me feel a small connection to my father.

“Good morning,” Nate says when he’s within a few feet of me. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah, jet lag, time change, no curtains,” I reply, shrugging.

Nate lets out a low laugh, shaking his head, his wet hair moving with him as water droplets pepper my skin. “Mitch was up with the sun. Never saw a need for curtains in his house.”

“I see a need for them,” I mutter, my head a little foggy and aching, and I can’t tell if it’s from the crying or the lack of sleep. It’s probably a little of both.

“You doing okay?” Nate now asks, taking in my face. There’s no way he misses how swollen and bloodshot my eyes are.

“Yeah, just tired,” I reply, and a silence falls between us. Nate hoists the surfboard up a little higher under his arm and begins walking back toward the shop.

“Come on,” he calls, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll show you where to get some of the best coffee on the island.”

Nate and I walk into a little building just a short walk from The Pipe Dream. It’s cute and painted a bright shade of bubble gum pink with the words Maka Coffee Shack hand-lettered on the windows. It has the same worn-out look of The Pipe Dream with the paint fading in spots and the nails rusted, but there’s something about it that feels quintessential Hawaiian, and I love it.

“Get the salted caramel cold brew,” Nate says. “It’s the best thing they have. Not too sweet.” He’s being awfully nice to me now, and I wonder if Alana has threatened him with his life.

“Okay, thanks for the tip.”

I order after Nate and then follow him to a small table outside overlooking the ocean. It feels like everywhere I look there are views that can’t be seen anywhere but in Hawaii.

Neither of us says anything for a bit, and it’s me who breaks the silence, asking, “Do you surf every morning?”

“Pretty much,” Nate replies, reminding me of my father and our phone calls. Mitch wasn’t a big talker, always the one to ask me the questions and listen to my replies.

It’s almost like Nate can sense the awkwardness, and he starts talking. “I used to surf with Mitch, and then we’d open the shop. Did you know he was training Alana for Maui Pipe?”

“I didn’t, but I also don’t have any idea what Maui Pipe is,” I say, laughing a little.

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