Page 5 of Broken Hearts (Hibiscus Hearts #1)

I can’t have this conversation with Nate, not when I just got here, not when I know he hates me for being the way I was with my dad. He sees my dad differently than I ever did, as more of a dad than I ever did, and I’m not ready to delve into that.

My answer is vague, but it’s all he’s going to get right now. I’m exhausted from the travel and seeing the town with Alana, and honestly, from just the idea of being here.

I look up at the stairs that lead to my dad’s apartment, knowing it won’t offer much solace but needing to have some time to myself. I haven’t been alone since I got here, never expecting to be welcomed by Alana the way I was. Nate’s welcoming on the other hand, was more what I was expecting.

“I’m going to go to bed,”

I say instead of elaborating on my answer. “With the time change and everything, I’m really tired.”

“Yeah, I get that,”

Nate says, his words softer, the harshness from earlier finally gone. And even though things seem to have settled down, I know how grief works. He might be okay with me being here now, but that could change.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I try out, hesitant to rock the boat. “Will you be at the shop?”

I take a sip of my beer, which only seems to make my exhaustion worse. Yawning, my eyes begin to water, and I can’t tell if it’s from the yawn or if it’s the unshed tears I’ve been holding in.

“Yeah, we open around eight, sometimes earlier,”

Nate says, stretching his arms above his head as he stands. His shirt lifts slightly, showing his impressive abs. Not like I could ever forget what he looked like shirtless. “But I’ll be up early. I’m usually there around seven if you’re up early. You know that time change thing can be a real bitch.”

I nod, biting my lip a little, my teeth tugging nervously at some loose skin. I don’t know how to act around Nate. He makes me nervous, scared I’m going to say something that paints my father in a bad light. That would be a reason for Nate to return to his surly demeanor from earlier.

“Well, um, good night,”

I say, heading up the stairs, but Nate doesn’t say anything more, and I don’t know if I’m comforted by that or bothered. Shit, this is going to be even harder than I thought.

I close the door behind me; the apartment is dark, and I feel around on the wall for a light switch. When I find it, the room is bathed in a low light, and I take a look around.

I was up here with Alana, but I didn’t get a good look. It’s totally different than when I was here all those years ago. It used to be this small, closed-in space with two tiny bedrooms. I stayed in one, and the other was my dad’s.

I remember arriving, feeling excited to see his house. But when I stepped into the bedroom, my heart sank, anger filling my teenage brain. I wanted the bedroom to be something he had set up for me, something that said he wanted me here, but it was just this little space with a twin bed, a nightstand and an old quilt that smelled like it had been left in a cedar chest for ten years.

But now it’s completely open, the walls and the tiny bedrooms gone. The ceiling has been lifted, revealing beautiful wooden beams. He must have had the place renovated recently, at least in the last year or two, judging by the updated kitchen cabinets and the rustic wood floors.

There’s only one bed, which is where I’m going to have to sleep, and I begin looking through the small closet near the bathroom for some sheets. Given my dad’s death was sudden, I would think the sheets haven’t been changed.

This is stupid. He’s my father. He was my father, and sleeping in his bed with sheets that he slept on isn’t weird. I wouldn’t change the sheets on my mom’s bed, so why would I here?

And anyway, I’m so damn tired that I’m not sure I have it in me to do anything but fall into bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.

That’s just what I do. Stripping off my clothes, I pull a T-shirt from my suitcase and collapse into the bed, not bothering to wash my face or brush my teeth.

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.

“Really?”

Nate asks, a shocked tone in his voice. “It’s one of the biggest surfing competitions in the world. Alana made it as an amateur.”

“And my dad was helping her train?”

I ask, my heart clenching as I think about him spending time with Alana, teaching her all the things he wanted to teach me.

“Yeah, but Alana is a fucking epic surfer. She can kick my ass out there,”

Nate jokes, tossing a thumb in the direction of the ocean. “I’ve known her since we were kids and she’s fucking fearless.”

“I got that from just spending yesterday with her.”

Nate’s description of Alana is spot-on, and not just that, but she’s so friendly. She knows everyone in town, and they all seem to love her too. “So when is this pipe thing?”

I now ask.

“It’s in a few months, but I’m not sure what’s happening now that Mitch is gone,”

Nate says, his words dropping low when he talks about my dad’s death.

“What do you mean?”

“Alana was a bit of a mess and said she’s not competing,”

Nate says. “She was wrecked by Mitch’s death. We both were,”

he adds, looking away from me and swallowing hard. “Still are.”

The barista calls our names, cutting off our conversation from going into a territory that could bring on the tears again.

We walk up and take our coffee, heading back outside, but instead of sitting at the table, Nate lodges his surfboard under his arm.

“We should head back. I need to get the shop opened,”

Nate says, his words quiet. “How’s the coffee?”

And we’re back to surface conversation, avoiding talking about my dad and the possibility of me admitting how guilty I feel.

“It’s really good. You were right, not too sweet.”

I take a long sip, enjoying the coolness in the morning heat, and hoping this caffeine kicks in soon. I’m going to need it if I’m going to stay up past seven tonight.

“It’s the best on the island,”

he says as we approach The Pipe Dream, and then I hear him mutter something under his breath. I swear it sounds like, “Not this asshole.”

“Huh?”

I ask, but he doesn’t even look at me, just heading around back, leaving me behind.

“Hi,”

I now hear a voice call out. “You must be Mitch’s daughter. I heard you were here.”

I look over near the front entrance of The Pipe Dream and there’s a man standing there. He’s wearing a suit, and I can’t help but think he must be sweating.

“Can I help you?”

I say, looking around and wondering why Nate left me here by myself.

“I’m a friend of Mitch’s. Are you Sage Harris?”

he now asks, and I nod, but something about this interaction feels weird.

“I am.”

“I’m Pat Butler, a friend of Mitch’s. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

he asks, motioning to Mitch’s apartment like he’s been here before. He’s now mentioned that he’s a friend of my dad’s twice, and that in itself is odd.

“Um, yeah, I guess so,”

I reply, walking to the staircase around back. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

I feel strange letting this man into my dad’s house even if he says he’s a friend. I don’t know him, and I wish Nate wouldn’t have disappeared.

“Just about his passing. I have some information to share with you about the business and, well, you know…”

He doesn’t finish his thought, and I have to say, I don’t know.

But I lead him upstairs. Opening the door, we head inside.