>>Chapter Five

She stares at him, wide-eyed but close-mouthed. A silent type of look that somehow could say so much just passes between them. Her and the man.

He has startlingly bright eyes, colored a warm shade of blue and a stunning face completed with the most perfect jaw and nose I have ever seen. His dark hair is ruffled, blown over by the Hawaiian wind but instead of making him look like… like… Aidan, he looks cool even with his expression that says ruffled – and it’s not a bad type of ruffled, more like a little rattled or startled.

It isn’t tension in the air, but there’s something there.

The man named Carter breaks the silence first. “Sara. I haven’t seen you in a while,” he smiles somewhat uncertainly.

Sara snaps out of the trance and her eyes shoot everywhere, the way they do whenever she’s nervous. “Oh. Yeah. I guess so.” She looks back at him from under her lashes, attempting to keep cool. She bites her bottom lip and tries to return the smile – it lasts for about half a second before she gives up.

He scratches his head, understanding the awkwardness that’s settled between the two of them. “Right… then.”

Caprice manages to maintain her bubbly personality which at this point, for me, becomes ditsiness. She turns to Sara and flashes a ultra-white smile – which sends me to suspicions of whether or not she bleached her teeth, then remember what Sara told me about Caprice’s uncanny knack of remaining picture perfect throughout the years that she’s often mistaken as a model… and then spent the next hour or so taking back what she said. “Did you know Carter graduated with top honors from Harvard?”

“Oh?” Sara mutters. “Really?”

I could tell she wasn’t really all that interested at this point and her head’s filled with lots of squiggles that even she couldn’t comprehend.

I feel small. It’s like I shouldn’t be here. But this is Sara, I remind myself. She seems like she needs me, so until she tells me to butt off…

“Sara?” I tug her sleeve and put on my bravest smile as encouragement for her.

She looks at me and the right corner of her lip twists that’s usually her expression for a very frustrated “don’t worry” plus a sigh. She gives a huff then puts on a straight face. I could almost hear her insides rearranging, preparing to put on a bravado. “Would you like me to introduce you to my Caprice’s boyfriend?” she asks loudly, letting her voice carry.

Heads turn and footsteps stop, strangers look. The man named Carter shifts uncomfortably.

It took a second before what Sara said sinks in. “Oh? Oh. Er,” I look at Carter. “Carter? I’m Una Carton.”

I take a step forward, not at all tentative because of the man, but rather, Sara. He shakes my outreached hand. “Una, Sara’s best friend?”

I nod. “You’re Caprice’s boyfriend?”

He scratches his head again. “Well –”

Caprice is practically hyperventilating at this point. And evidently, her excitement could no longer be contained. She explodes, right at the moment, deciding to jump in and give Sara the shock of her life – “We’re getting married!” I know this because as she squeaked those words, Sara freezes.

My eyes fly open to its largest. There’s a pregnant silence.

Shit. Sara isn’t reacting.

“Con- congra- gratulations!” I stutter. My expression couldn’t settle on happy or any other expression except shock.

Everyone else’s quiet for another moment as Caprice wraps her arms around one of Carter’s. It takes a while before I notice that Sara’s shaking, with her eyes on the ground, her bangs hiding her expression. I look at her, opening my mouth. As I reach out a hand, she knocks it away, sending me into a deeper shock. She raised her head up again, eyes burning.

“This is why you flew me here.”

If Caprice looks unsettled, Carter looks like he’s about to jump off a bridge.

But then Sara spins on her ground, with her five-inch stilettos that puts her to my height. Her accusation wasn’t pointed at the couple after all. Her hands shoot up into the air – and the war begins.

“You BITCH! I told you, I’m through with all of you! You said you wanted to see me –”

“And I very much did –”

“Oh, PLEASE! What are you trying to say to me? What are you trying to prove to me! Sending some diabolical twisted message again –”

“YOU are my daughter, Sara Belinda –”

“DON’T!” Like a whip, her voice tears across the peaceful, warm Hawaiian air. Sara’s screech lets me see that it has taken up all her might. She pants, her face drained of all the color she’s had. “Don’t call me that name,” she hisses.

Mrs. Klein, Belinda Klein’s eyes, so like Sara’s, pale gray, has hardened and taken its form of iron, cold, solid, stubborn and immovable. She breathes rather smoothly, I notice, unaffected by her cold anger.

However, the atmosphere of the surroundings has adapted to her iciness. It seems that, like a hurricane, the mother and daughter have ripped the place of its tranquility.

“Sara –” Caprice comes up, a hand nearly touching Sara’s shoulder.

“Don’t!” Sara knocks it off without a care in the world.

I catch Caprice’s expression for a second, before she lowers her head and lets her hair fall across her face. I shift my attention towards Carter who has sunk into the background. He’s leaning against the wall, ignoring all the curious or furious passer-bys, his expression hidden in the shadows. But for an instant, I can imagine – the cool eyes and arms crossed, expressionless, utterly uncaring, and unmistakably like Aidan. My eyes narrow.

Sara moves. I react. Hands reach out, falling around her shoulders protectively. It takes her moment but she gives in and sighs. “We’re going home.”

“Okay.”

And no one stops us as take our first steps.

“Sara, darling?”

Sara stops, her muscles across her arms tensing incredibly. I grab onto them, reminding her to relax. They twist under my touch, fighting, stubborn.

“Stay, for a day. Let us talk,” Mr. Klein’s footsteps approach.

Sara closes her eyes tightly, face twisted in a stubborn set. “No.”

I stand, eyes flickering between the daughter and father. They both have a stubborn set in their faces. So alike. But I then I suddenly see it, the years and years of weariness, as if for the first time, all the lines that have set into Mr. Klein’s face. And then I see it – a glint of sadness.

I open my mouth. “Sara –”

“Dad.” She breathes. “Why don’t you talk to Una? She’ll make that decision. She knows me best after all.” That moment, she lifts her head and there’s a glint in her eyes that suggested pride and indignation and threat at the same time. And I know in her head, as she said so, the thoughts that cross her mind were the indignation for being independent from the parents she despises so, the pride for having me and the challenging of her parents to deny that they know her better – a challenge she knows she wins, without much of a celebration.

He sighs. I see him nod. “Very well.”

A wave of sadness washes over me. So this is it? The best friend representing Sara for a trail on court against the man who had violated her of a happy childhood unintentionally? I don’t believe in this case – and I am forced to represent my best friend, who I love with every little bit of my heart, but wouldn’t know whether to speak for her, or myself. I’m not sure I wanted to do this.

Then the clock starts ticking, the gears knocking roughly into each other, screeching inside of me. Sparks light the irritation that continues into outburst. “We’re staying.”

Sara’s head whips around, her mouth in a round O, matching her eyes. She seems momentarily speechless – which is a good thing. Because as soon as she finds words, none of them are pleasant. So she lets all the anger out, with those profanities from every possible language she knows and I don’t (the highflying writer travels a lot, remember?), growing louder then softer then louder again, like a radio that’s out of tune.

The bellboy stumbles over and hushes her, quickly gushing and rushing her towards the resort. Like a good five year-old little girl, she obeys, her eyes squinted and the wails continuing. I sigh, scratching my head.

I pick up Sara’s handbag that she’d swung to the floor out of spite as the curse words were halfway swarming and trail behind the young, anxious bellboy, followed by a couple more with our luggage. With one last glimpse at the pre-wedded couple, I see a woman upset in the man’s arms, seeking comfort, and the man? The man is twice as upset, a hardest to his jaw and dying, just dying to break free from the embrace, as if there’s someone else who needs his comfort more than the flustered sister. And judging by the direction of his vision, I think I know who.

The bellboys usher us down the lobby, past a dark hall where a colorfully lit fountain stood magnificently, out into the open air again where we walk through a passageway surrounded by wooden structures entwined by thin plants with pretty little pale-colored flowers, somewhat like a gazebo, all the time trying to hush the positively howling Sara.

We walk pass buildings, like apartments, spot little huts, small houses, bungalows, short towers, and then reach something looks like a cross of NYC modernity and Hawaii flowery breeziness. It’s somewhat a cottage, but in Hawaii, it would be absurd in the perfect heat, so it’s made of a mixture of things including stone, wood and bricks. But you know what? I’m no expert – I can’t tell.

The double doors are made of fogged glass and I’m instantly wary of it.

In my college years, I’d once gotten so drunk I was convinced the glass doors to the shower inside the bathroom would shield me enough that I didn’t shut the door – while a party was going on outside. God bless my sensible roommate, Hannah, who sprang to action once a wolf whistle was unleashed as one of the senior guys walked in. And thank goodness, the exposure was minimum as the glass was fogged up and I was so drunk, I didn’t stand. The things college kids do when their drunk…

Let’s just say it stays with them.

I shiver at the memory. And then I notice that the string of profanities have stopped. I blink and see Sara inside the little cottage, crawling onto a big white bed draped in silvery nettings, and as she sits down, starts sulking.

One of the bellboys hands me the key while the others drop the luggage and hurriedly leaves. He reassures me on the security system that will sound if anything were to knock into the glass with excessive force and…

Well, I stopped paying attention to him after the word ‘glass’. I’ve stepped into the cottage and have eyes only for the gorgeous place.

It isn’t big, isn’t small, the perfect size for two. The floor is paved with rocks, rough enough to appear untouched but smooth enough to not get your feet bloody. The walls are painted a pale shade of yellow, almost white. But despite the fact that it’s a yellowed white and should probably give off a feeling that it’s old, it does quite the opposite. The paintings are brought to life, framed by the yellow background – pictures of the people of Hawaii, oceans and flowers. There are carvings that look decades old, ornaments placed on the one table a little to the left, across of the entrance.

I look left and see a step, where the bed with a solid wooden frame is placed higher above ground on a glossy wooden platform, draped by a mosquito net, soft white on soft white, and on the bed, colorful petals spread, striking against the white and… Sara.

I shift my vision towards the right, pointedly ignoring the drunken woman that is now screaming into the pillow. By the wall, in front of the window with fluttery butter-colored curtains sits a dining table for two, made of metal, and painted a dark green, almost like a garden table, with two chairs and a candleholder. Further, there’s a couch, wrapped in bold red leather, right next to a leather arm chair, two bamboo rocking chairs and an abnormally huge refrigerator, just before the space gets swallowed bit by bit to reveal a spiral stairway.

The bellboy seems to have been done with his reassurance and explanations as I hear the glass door click shut. I don’t bother to turn to check, mystified by the surroundings. I walk towards the stairs and begin to climb upwards, intrigued by the narrow stone steps. There’s light overhead and my eyes flicker upwards to welcome it. They are blinded momentarily and as I take the last step outside – at this point I’m sure the stairway led outside – I squint and force them open.

I stifle a gasp at the view I take it.

Instantaneously, I feel my bones and heart shift. Pieces of me seem to have found something – something warm, something beautiful, something right. It’s like I found another piece I never knew I’ve been missing. That kind of feeling. When you’re overwhelmed by the presence of God, just by standing there, and looking at something.

Something, particularly, in this case, the most breathtaking view I have ever laid my eyes on in the twenty-five years of my life. It’s surreal. Like something you’d see in a movie and immediately snort, thinking, oh, how fake.

That’s just it! This is the real thing. Like the most brilliant, eye-opening artist spent every second diligently eyeing the painting with an uncanny knack to measure the evenness of the colors and lighting the canvas with bold, confident but such soft strokes. The sky is so bright, so blue, the clouds so fluffy white. Here I am, standing in the little white balcony in the middle of the roof, looking down on God’s creations. Every tree alive, so vivid as they dance in the wind, and every movement of the clear water lapping, the flowers far off, petals caught in a breeze, the people crossing paths and warm-looking buildings that blend into nature.

I close my eyes and breathe, inhaling the salty sea breeze. This feels good. I feel… I feel…

I feel…

“UUUUNNNNNAAAAA!”

Oh, never mind what I feel.

I roll my eyes and trot back downstairs, to serve Her Mighty Highness-Pain-in-the-Arse-ness.

“Yes, your Highness-Pain-in-the –”

“Shut up, Una.”

I raise an eyebrow at her, as I fall to a stop, leaning against the wall. She sits, cross-legged, hugging a pillow to her chest, with her head half hidden behind it, her hair extensions half attached, and eyes bloodshot. She stares back at me.

For a moment, we try to let communication happen between us without words. We just stare at each other. The frowns in our brows deepen second by second.

I sigh and throw myself onto the bed, next to her. “I got nothing.”

She grumbles and I perceive that she received no signals either.

We look at each other for a second.

“Think the Hawaiian air’s messin’ with our reception?”

It’s a second before her tense muscles manage to relax into a full-blown grin. “Just what I was thinkin’, babe.”

I smirk. “Well, I could do with a break off your nonsense –”

Thwack.

“Sorry, Miss, I beg your pardon?”

“Pill-ows,” Sara bites at the phone as she chews on a piece of the steak she called room service to deliver. It’s bloody and I see the blood in her mouth because she’s so ladylike she refuses to close her mouth when she eats… and I think I’m gonna throw up.

“Pillows, Miss?” The poor man is on speaker phone.

“Ye-es. Shsh. Can’cha underschand what I shay?” Sara rolls her eyes.

“I can’t understand what you shay,” I say disapprovingly, eyeing the bits of juice… and blood, spitting out of her mouth. Her big, bloody, steak-ed mouth.

“I beg your pardon, Miss?”

Sara guffaws at the stress in the man’s voice. Finally, she swallows. She seems to have had her fun as she picks up the receiver. “Pillows, Mr. I just need pillows.”

Two seconds and she hangs up the phone, then she pauses.

“Hey… I probably should’ve just asked them to send over a cleaner…”

“Housekeeping at three in the afternoon, how charming,” I grimace.

“Well…”

We both look towards the other end of the cottage, where a pillow case has fallen to the floor, another one hanging on the mosquito net and lots… and lots of feathers, everywhere.

She grins, showing up the fangs she’s grown by now by acting like a blood-lusting vampire with the bloody steaks. “I’m sure they’ll find us charming anyway.” She huffs.

I roll her eyes and prepare for it.

“And besides,” I imitate her as she speaks, “we might as well spend all we can – Mommy and Daddy dearest are paying, after all.”

Her grin widens dangerously. “You hungry?”

“No.”

“You haven’t eaten since we got off the plane,” she complains.

“Don’t be silly,” I dismiss even though it’s true. I just don’t feel hungry. I blame it on jetlag.

Jetlag? I never knew that it has anything to do with hunger, but heck, I’ll take my chances with my excuses.

“You’re being silly. Is this about that ridiculous diet again?” She gives me a look.

I return the look, with a scowl. “No, but thanks for reminding me.”

She picks up the tall glass of orange juice, completed with a little flower at the side and a long fancy straw and practically inhales the thing. I allow the sound to elude me and I pray to fall asleep. That’s jetlag.

She’s sitting at the dining table – eating like a pig – and I’m on the armchair, cozy and perfectly comfortable. Perfectly… ready… to… fall… asl –

“Agh!”

My eyes beat, struggling. I’m naïve to think she’d let me sleep through the afternoon. “Wha’, you idiot?” I yawn, stretching. When she doesn’t answer, I turn to face her and she’s seen holding her little black monster phone and growling at it in disgust.

I roll my eyes, and feel it pop because of how tired they are. “You know that thing has no feelings, righ’?”

“This devil has direct transmission to them.” She suddenly sounds like the person from Lord of the Rings who said “My Precious.” Her eyes are nearly bulging, but I’ll give her that ’cause of jetlag – not forgetting her inexplicable fear of flight – and her crying. But she does look pretty insane.

“Your hair extensions are falling out. Your normal hair is the shape of a banana on the left and straight and flat like death on the right. Your clothes are stained with steak sauce and cow blood,” I add with repulsion towards the blood again.

“You have a problem with raw steaks, don’t you?”

I glower at her. “You’ve known for years, Sara.”

She smirks. “Revenge, baby.”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” I roll my eyes. “Grow up, Sara.”

“In case you have forgotten,” she raises her voice and I know the argument that’s coming – it’s a silly one, that we always have, and has yet to be resolved. “I am two months and four days older than –”

“With the maturity of a five-year old –”

“Just because I’m short –”

“Oh, don’t use that one again –” Knock.

“I’ve never –”

“Oh, never? Well –” Knock, knock.

“Psssh! I –”

KNOCK.

“WHAT!”

The guy nearly falls over… thought it might have been that he got knocked off when the door threw open. He stammers, “Your… your pillows, madams.”

Well, considering how crazy we both looked, I don’t blame the guy. Usually, I would be extremely not flattered – oh, who am I kidding?

I grab the pillows from him and Sara slams the door shut.

At this point, I’m really, really tired I could feel the bags of my eyes being tied down with more and more weight and my eyelids just twitching – and quite literally twitching – to shut. The room fuzzes in and out as I bring myself to take the steps that measure about 2 millimeters at this point.

“Another round?”

Oh, please, Sara. I barely have the strength to move my neck and look at her, so no protest. Next moment, I’m on the floor. Two more, and I’m snoring. One more and I could’ve been sure that she fell next to me.