Page 13 of Broken Hearts (Hibiscus Hearts #1)

By the time we make it back home, all bumped and jostled being carried on Nate’s back, I’ve sobered up slightly. Not enough to drive a car or even walk a straight line, but enough that I know being here is a good idea.

Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking. I have no idea at this point, but Nate’s been nice to me, and I’m a little drunk and everything just seems better. Tomorrow morning will probably be a different story.

Nate sets me down, and as soon as my feet hit the gravel on the edge of the road, I stumble causing both of us to burst out laughing. His hands reach out to steady me, and I don’t even think it’s fully from the margaritas, but more from the stress, the alcohol, the being carried, all of it. But it feels good to laugh, to feel somewhat normal in the chaos of being here.

“I think I might need to help you up the stairs,”

Nate teases, slinging an arm around my shoulders. The weight of his body feels comforting, and for a second I catch a faint smell of my father. The blueberry wax, the ocean and the fresh air from the hibiscus, and I lean into Nate. My memory catches, sending a burning sting through my nose.

I won’t cry in front of him. Up until a few days ago, he didn’t even think I should be here, so I will not grieve the loss with him watching me.

Swallowing hard, I push aside my feelings, fighting it with everything I have as I walk with Nate toward the stairs. Linking my arm around his waist, I try to remember all the stories Nate told, all the fun times he had with my dad, and how, even though Nate didn’t directly tell me anything about his past, my dad helped him.

We make our way up the stairs, both of us giggling stupidly as I let out a loud hiccup, grateful my dad lived on this plot of land with nothing else around it. We look like two drunk fools trying to get up these stairs, loud and clumsy.

Fumbling with the keys, I eventually get it into the lock, steadying myself on the doorframe as I push the door open.

The house is dark, and I feel around for a light switch, still unfamiliar with where anything is located. Nate reaches around me, flipping on the light, and the large space comes into view with the dim overhead lighting.

“Want to come in?”

I ask Nate, not even really hearing myself, wondering what I’m even doing. “A thank you for dinner. I could make you some tea,”

I now suggest. “Might help us sober up.”

“I’m not that drunk,”

Nate replies, not bothering to answer me, he just steps inside the house. It’s a place that is so familiar to him, but to me, it’s like staying at a stranger’s house.

I want it to be home, a place I love and remember, but I’m not there yet. Thinking about selling the place does make my heart ache. Not just for the people that rely on my dad’s business, but also for my dad. This was his dream as my mom said, and I don’t know if I can be the one to ruin that.

Nate wanders over to the large sliding glass doors, opening them. The room floods with the smell of hibiscus and the sounds of the ocean waves.

As much as I love New York, the sounds of the city—the honking horns, the sirens and the people—I could get used to the stillness of being here. Everything feels different and fresh and clean.

“My dad only has peppermint tea,”

I tell Nate as I begin rifling through the cabinets, looking for mugs, not knowing where he keeps anything.

“It was his favorite,”

Nate replies, and I turn to look at him, swallowing back the sting that seems to just linger now. “He didn’t drink any other kind, so you won’t find anything else in there.”

“He tried to get me to drink it when I was here, but I was twelve and anything he said I did the opposite,”

I say, hating that my memory of him is clouded by my difficult teenage years.

“Sounds like we had a lot in common back then,”

Nate jokes as I fill the kettle and put it on the stove. Heading over, I meet him at the couch, opening a drawer on the front of the coffee table, looking for something to set the hot mugs on so I don’t ruin the tabletop.

When I pull the drawer open, I don’t find what I’m looking for, but I do find a few small photo albums. I pull one out, setting it next to a pile of surfing magazines.

I look over at Nate, and he smiles, almost an indication that I should open the album. I have no idea what I’m going to find in here, and something about that scares me. I’m not sure I can handle seeing the life my father created without me, but in turn, I’m not sure he would enjoy seeing the life I created without him. That both of us went on as if the other didn’t exist.

Nate leans over and turns on the lamp on the small rattan end table. All the furniture in the house is gorgeous and feels so Hawaiian to me. It’s perfect and fitting for my dad’s house, like it belongs in a magazine or on a TV show about the quintessential Hawaiian house.

I find my eyes wandering, looking anywhere but at the photo album that sits in front of us. I’m scared to open it, scared to see a life that happened while I was off living my own life. I guess as a kid, I just assumed my dad was sitting around missing me, going to work, and doing the whole thing over again, day after day.

I know now as an adult that’s not what happened, but I also don’t want to know what really happened. That’s selfish and immature. I’m not a kid anymore, and my excuses are just that, excuses for what a shitty daughter I was. I couldn’t have asked him to try even harder because he did everything he could. And my mom was right, wanting him to leave everything he built here was wrong. But as a kid, that’s all I wanted.

I sit down next to Nate, taking the album in my hand, feeling the soft leather cover, the center embossed with a wave and a surfboard. I run my fingers over the design, picturing my dad buying it for the cover alone. It’s him. It’s everything he loves.

I find myself going back and forth in my thoughts of him, using past and present as if he’s still here with me. It’s hard to think he’s gone, but in my life in New York, he barely existed. The thought stirs some nausea in my stomach, acid rising up in my throat. It’s horrible that I carried on with my life as if my dad didn’t exist.

“Have you ever looked at this?”

I ask Nate just as the kettle starts to whistle.

Not bothering to wait for his answer, I head back to the kitchen, filling the mugs and dropping a tea bag into each. Carrying them over, I find Nate holding the album, his eyes glistening with the threat of tears, the worry covering his face.

I watch as he pulls his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down a little as if to try to control his urge to cry. He doesn’t need to answer my question. The look on his face says it all. He’s never seen the album, and like me, he’s struggling with what it will reveal.

Nate has opened The Pipe Dream every day since my dad died, doing what he would have done had my dad still been here. He’s carried on, not stopping to think about what has happened and how he feels about it.

We’re both about to open this album and possibly sob. Not exactly how I thought our evening would go down. We finally got past the standoffish behavior, hating each other and wanting the other to leave, and now here we are sitting together in my dad’s house.

“Here,”

I say, handing Nate the mug while I sit down next to him. Setting the album on the table, he takes the mug, blowing on it a little before taking a small sip.

“You know that’s Alana,”

Nate says, and I narrow my eyes, my brows furrowed at his comment.

“What’s Alana?”

“That magazine cover,”

he replies, motioning with his head toward one of the magazines that sits on the coffee table. “Mitch was so fucking proud of her.”

“I can see why,”

I say, picking it up and looking at the toned and tanned girl on a surfboard, a wave several feet above her head as she surfs it. “Where was this?”

“It was at this small, local comp, and she took first place. It’s what qualified her for Maui Pipe. She’s the first local to make it in like twenty years or something like that.”

Nate talks about it so effortlessly. My dad might have been proud of Alana, but so is Nate.

When I first met them, I mistook them for a couple, but it’s far from that. More of a sibling relationship than anything and losing my dad has taken a toll on both of them. They need each other more than ever now.

“That’s amazing, and you said my dad was training her, right? Was he like her coach? I didn’t even realize surfers have coaches, but it’s a sport so why wouldn’t they?”

I’m rambling, nervous about opening that album, avoiding it with conversation, and so is Nate.

“Yeah, something like that, but I think he planned to find her a real coach,”

Nate says. “Mitch was super knowledgeable about the sport and everything, but he didn’t have that skill level. The kind of skill that Alana needs to compete with the best.”

“What’s she going to do?”

I ask, still avoiding the elephant in the room, the album sitting in front of us, another one next to it with the same leather cover but a hibiscus embossed on the front.

“She says she’s not going to compete, but she’s full of shit. Alana can’t not compete. Surfing is her life,”

Nate tells me. “And if I have it my way, she’s going to get back into it. She’s the best surfer I’ve ever seen. The best Mitch ever saw too.”

“I hope she doesn’t quit. I’m sure she’s still processing…”

I trail off, not sure how to address my dad’s death when it comes to other people.

“Yeah, she is,”

Nate says, not needing me to finish my thought. “Her roommates Daisy and Sloane are pushing for her to get back and I think they’re winning.”

Nate now leans forward, picking up the album, and without any hesitation this time, he opens it. Moving closer to him, our thighs brush, and I swear I hear him let out a small gasp.

I can feel the warmth of his body radiating between us, and now that we’re able to be in the same room together, he’s far more attractive than I care to admit to.

My mom’s words play out in my head, and I hold back the smile I feel building. It’s funny because I can only think about Nate as the guy who worked for my dad.

I lean in close, taking in the four pictures in the album, smiling now when I see my dad. His tanned skin, his sun-bleached hair and his ocean blue eyes. He looks so happy standing outside The Pipe Dream, his arm slung around the shoulders of a man that looks strikingly familiar.

“That’s Tanner,”

Nate says, his finger tapping on the picture. “Could they look any more cliché?”

Nate lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Those puka shell necklaces.”

“I can smell the surf wax through the picture,”

I joke back, Nate laughing again.

“Blueberry and bubble gum,”

Nate confirms, pointing at my dad and then Tanner.

“What’s your go-to?”

I ask, turning to look at him, his eyes brimming with tears waiting to spill over, but he closes his eyes and wets his lips, the moment passing.

“I don’t really have one,”

Nate answers, flipping the page to the next set of pictures. “I just took whatever was lying around the shop.”

The next set of pictures make Nate swallow hard, his throat moving with each hard gulp. It’s not going to be long before this becomes too much for us. Every picture tells a story, and this album is about to tell the story of my dad, a story that ended way too soon.

“Who’s that?”

I now ask, pointing to a kid standing with a surfboard outside The Pipe Dream. He has his hand on top of the board, his shorts slung low on his hips, looking like if he was hit with a big wave, it would take the shorts with it.

“That’s me,”

Nate says quietly, and I should have known it was him. A skinny kid with a surly look on his face, not pleased with having his picture taken.

“Oh my god, for real?”

“Yes, for real.”

“You look so cute with your surfboard and your shorts that are too big,”

I croon, tossing an elbow into his side.

“I’m not sure anyone would have called me cute back then,”

Nate mumbles, rolling his eyes. “I was more like a jellyfish sting. Everyone avoided me.”

“Except my dad,”

I say, waiting for Nate to open up. He mentioned my dad was the only person who never gave up on him. He’s holding back, keeping his feelings inside, and that can’t be good.

“Except your dad.”

“I feel like there’s a story there,”

Sage now says, her words quiet.