Page 113 of Banter & Blushes #1

brIELLA

O ur last full day on the island feels like a dream.

There’s no rush. No packed itinerary. Just a quiet agreement between us to soak in every second, like we both know we’ll be pressing this day into memory for the rest of our lives.

After a delicious breakfast at the resort, we head over to the Hilo Farmers Market and wander through the aisles of the open-air space, ducking in and out of booths filled with locally made jewelry, art, and everything in between.

Everything smells like roasted coconut and sea salt and sun-warmed fruit.

I buy a seashell bracelet from a local artist—a delicate band of white and pink shells strung on braided cord.

Reid picks out a jar of pineapple jam for his mom, and eyes a beautiful sunset painting over the black sand beach.

Unfortunately shipping things from the island is pricey, so he decides against buying it.

“If only I could pack that in my suitcase,” he says.

We continue on, stopping at every stand, our hands entwined the whole time, almost as though we’re afraid to let go and lose this connection. The morning is normal. Easy. The kind of day couples probably have all the time.

And, we’re finally a couple.

Every time Reid squeezes my hand or leans in to show me something interesting he sees, my heart flutters like it’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be his girlfriend.

“I’m never going to be able to eat mainland pineapple again,” he says after sampling a fresh slice from a vendor. His eyes are closed like he’s having a full-on spiritual experience.

I laugh. “Same. I’m ruined.”

“Worth it,” he says, and when he looks at me, I get the feeling he’s not talking about the fruit at all.

It’s the kind of look that makes the world tip sideways for a second.

We grab lunch from a brightly painted food truck parked at the edge of a little cliffside pull-off. The sign says “ The Surfside Shack ,” and the menu is amazing—fish tacos with mango salsa, pulled pork sandwiches dripping with barbecue sauce, sweet potato fries with a sprinkle of sea salt.

We each order a plate and take it to a shaded picnic table under a wide, swaying palm tree. The ocean stretches out in front of us, the waves gently crashing at the shoreline, the breeze soft and warm as it ruffles my dress and sends Reid’s napkin skittering off the table.

I laugh as he runs to grab it before it flies away, missing several times before finally snagging it near the edge of the cliff. “Lunch and a show,” Reid says, shaking his head as he sits back down at the table, tucking the napkin under his plate.

I duck my head, grinning, and take a bite of my taco. The flavors are so fresh and delicious it’s like a dance party in my mouth. I take my time, savoring each bite.

For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence, just watching the waves roll in and crash against the black sand below.

“This is the kind of place you dream about when life gets too loud,” I say quietly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I used to see pictures of places like this and think, maybe someday .”

Reid looks over at me, his eyes soft. “Now that we’ve been here, I kind of want to come back every year.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “You know. Anniversaries. Honeymoons. Whatever we want to call it.”

The words settle between us. It would be amazing to come back here. To the place where it all started. I glance back toward the horizon, where the sun’s beginning to shift toward that late afternoon glow. “I’m sad it’s our last day.”

“Me too,” he says. “Especially now that we made it official. I feel like we’re just getting started.”

My heart does that fluttery thing it’s been doing ever since he kissed me on my cheek last night before bed.

“Then we make this last day count,” I say, lifting my drink.

He clinks his soda can gently against mine. “To the best almost-over vacation of my life.”

“To what comes next,” I add.

And the way he looks at me tells me he’s already dreaming of it too.

Later that evening, Reid tells me to go change into something special for dinner. “Is this another one of your roman tic surprises?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning widely. “Trust me?”

“Of course,” I say, snagging another sundress from the closet where I’d hung them all up several days ago.

Thank goodness for over packing. It doesn’t take long before we’re both ready.

Me in my sundress and sandals, and Reid in a pair of khaki pants, and the Hawaiian shirt with little surfing flamingos on it.

“Ready?” he asks, grabbing the car keys from the top of the dresser and leading me out of the room to the car.

We don’t drive for long before we turn off the main road onto a secluded little path, barely wide enough for our vehicle, lined with Hibiscus plants and torches flickering to life.

When the trees clear, my breath catches.

Just beyond the lava rocks is a private cove—and in the center of it, a table for two.

White linen. Glowing lanterns. A vase filled with red anthurium blooms sits at the center of a low table. Waves roll in with a soft hush, and the sun has just begun its descent, casting everything in amber and rose.

I press a hand to my chest. “Reid . . .”

“Surprise.”

I turn to him, heart full. “How did you even?—?”

“Magic,” he says. “Or the resort concierge. Take your pick.”

He helps me out of the car and holds his arm out for me to take like I’m a princess from a movie. Carefully, we pick our way down to the beach, and the romantic dinner he planned for us.

We kick off our shoes and sit barefoot in the sand, our toes buried beneath the surface as we eat and talk and laugh like it’s always been this way. Like we’ve never been afraid. Like we haven’t spent the last eight years skirting around a truth we’ve finally let come to light.

After dessert—some kind of chocolate lava cake that actually makes me moan—Reid leans back, looking more content than I’ve ever seen him.

And then I spot it.

Near the shoreline is what looks to be something half-buried in the sand.

“Is that a bottle?” I ask, pointing to the mysterious object.

Reid stands and jogs over, bending to pick it up. He holds it up and grins. “Yeah. Looks like one of those message-in-a-bottle deals. I wonder where it came from.”

He brings it back and pops the cork while I lean closer, curious.

Inside is a simple note, written on sun-bleached paper in neat script:

“Don’t let love slip through your fingers.”

I stare at the words.

Then at Reid.

He’s already looking at me, eyes full of quiet certainty.

“We won’t,” he says, soft and sure.

And then he leans in .

And I kiss my best friend.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just warm hands and salt-kissed skin and the soft, perfect press of his lips against mine. The kiss is gentle at first, but then it unfurls and deepens—like we’ve both been waiting our whole lives for this moment and didn’t know how much we needed it until now.

When we finally pull back, we’re both a little breathless, but sporting matching smiles.

And for the first time all week, I’m not scared of what comes next.

Because Reid isn’t a maybe anymore.

He’s mine.