2019

Leimomi and Micah helped me get ready for dinner with Nikau.

It wasn't a date or anything, but Micah had come into my room to ask if she could borrow a book and realized what I was doing, so she insisted on helping, which meant Leimomi was dragged in to assist as well. Between the two of them, I had successfully put eyeliner on for the first time in years. Not that I needed to wear any makeup at all just to go to dinner with some guy, but I enjoyed playing around with it every once in a while. Wearing makeup wasn't always about how someone else perceived us and shaping ourselves to fit that mold. It was often a means to explore creativity, using ourselves as the vessel.

We were going to a yakiniku place in town, which he had surprised me by suggesting at the last minute instead of the hot pot place, saying something about how we should go there next time—next time, I noted—so it wasn't exactly a place that required being dressed up. I opted for something casual, light, and flowy that I had stolen out of Kanani's closet.

Giving them an obligatory twirl, I was met with a standing ovation which was all thanks to them.

"He won't be able to keep his hands to himself," Leimomi taunted.

"It's not a date," I said at the same time that Micah replied, "He better if he knows what's good for him. We admire works of art like her from afar."

After knocking on the door, Kanani appeared in the frame like a mother seeing her daughter off for the first time. I half expected her to make a joke like make sure he brings you home at a respectable hour or something of the like. Her maternal energy only burned brighter when Keali'i walked up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, a silent reminder that he would always be by her side.

"Our little girl is all grown up," she joked.

"She has five inches over you," Keali'i reminded her. "I don't think she's little anymore."

Kanani smacked his stomach. "She'll always be little to me."

Yanking my purse off the hook by my door, I scooted around them, making sure to kick my leg up behind me so I could smack her butt. "Please save the dramatics for the actual child in our house."

"Hey!" Leimomi protested as I continued down the stairs.

Mom was sitting downstairs in front of the TV playing with her sudoku booklet. Over the years, we had attempted to get her into using an app since it was easier to carry around, but she always refused. She liked the feeling of paper and pen in her hand, as well as the pressure that came from it since it was messier to clean up a mistake this way.

It always worked out in the end. Mom never made a mistake on her puzzles.

"You look beautiful, honey," she said, watching me descend the staircase.

Even with earl gray skies brewing outside while she was wrapped up in a massive knit blanket, my mother was the epitome of beauty. It shined through even on those days when I knew she didn't fully feel like herself. Seeing her and admiring her for her beauty, inside and out, always reminded me of how to look after myself. It was too easy to use self-deprecating humor as armor to hide the insecurities I held, but if someone as incredible as her could have a hard time recognizing what I thought was a simple, undeniable fact, then I could trust that was something I needed to work through myself.

"I got it from my mama."

She laughed and scooted over. I dropped down next to her and was immediately flooded with the scent of salt and sun. She must have gone for a swim earlier.

"What's his name again?"

"Nikau."

She hummed, "That's a beautiful name."

"It is."

"Am I going to meet him?" She looked up at me.

"Do you want to?"

Pausing, she thought it over. "Maybe not yet."

Because every part of me belonged to her, I understood the intricacies of our exchanges and could read between the lines. While my dad would have strongly suggested Nikau come inside to meet them, my mother was going to let things unfold between us naturally and without interference.

"Okay." I nodded, patting her leg. For a few minutes, we worked on her puzzle together until the sound of a car rolling down the driveway broke the silence. Quietly, I kissed my mom's forehead before saying goodbye.

Being around confident pretty people was already intimidating on its own, but when they had that alluring effect that turned heads everywhere they went, they were hard to be around. Not that it was their fault whatsoever, and I never jumped to any conclusion that every "conventionally" attractive person was stuck-up or skated through life with ease, cashing in their pretty points wherever they went, but I disliked the way my big, mean brain assumed I was being judged next to them. I could simultaneously tell myself I'm beautiful while feeling inadequate next to the other beautiful people around me.

Part of me wondered if this unhealthy comparison was a result of my perception, in the sense that I not only thought they were more beautiful inside and out. It felt unfair that someone that gorgeous could also be a good person. A better person. A person who could walk down the street and not worry if everyone was staring at them, thinking about how uneven their thighs were, how gangly their limbs were and how their bones poked out, how flat their hair hung. They didn't think twice before speaking because they somehow always knew what to say. They knew how to make people laugh or cry, depending on what they wanted. Their ratio of real to manufactured smiles skewed positively. They learned how to swim instead of sink.

Then again, what the hell did I know about what was going through everyone else's mind? For all I knew, they were all just like me. I couldn't truly believe that I was the only one who felt like this. Perhaps I was the stuck-up one. Stuck with this mentality that the world was out to get me.

Tonight was further confirmation that Nikau Reed belonged under the spotlight.

He wore the attention well, even if he didn't act like he was even aware of it. The height helped, since a lot of locals were on the shorter end, but his attractiveness was never something that could be denied. And it wasn't subtle. He didn't blend into the background until you zoomed in on him and then questioned how you missed him all along. As soon as he walked near you, you knew you were looking at someone, and tearing your eyes away was nearly impossible.

When he opened the door to the restaurant, everyone in front of the host stand stared at him. In awe, in envy, with curiosity. I could see the questions swirling through their thoughts. Who is that? Where is he from? What are all those tattoos? Who's the mousy girl next to him? I found myself walking closer to him as if the very person at the center of their attention was going to be my shield from them too.

"For two, please."

Just our luck, our smaller party was able to be seated right away. The host quickly scampered in front of us and Nikau held his hand against the small of my back, guiding me in front of him to follow first.

Settling in happened quickly at these kinds of restaurants, so we didn't start the conversation yet. Soon after sitting down and ordering water for both of us, we were advised to grab our food from the buffet area while our server turned on the grill. After loading up our plates with raw meat and vegetables, we walked back to our table and started cooking.

Nikau opened his mouth to speak, but my eyes dropped down to the table and I cut in before he could.

"That's a fork."

He glanced down at his utensil. Bright and shiny. Probably because it was rarely used.

"It is."

"Where are your chopsticks?" I asked.

Realizing where this was going, he bit back a smile. "Afraid I don't use them."

"Don't or can't?"

"Take a wild guess."

Shaking my head, I handed the tongs to him so he could cook while I cracked my chopsticks apart. "We are definitely working on that before you leave."

It was a loaded demand, and we both recognized it as soon as I had said it.

"Alright by me." Confidence oozed out of him as he looked across the table, and I tried my best not to burn under the direction of his spotlight. I had never talked to someone who made eye contact feel that intimate, even while making an innocent comment. "Did you work today?"

"Unfortunately. But it wasn't as bad as it could have been so that's the closest we're getting to a win there." I placed a cheesy corn on the grill first before adding my vegetables. "I'm assuming you didn't or else you would've passed on coming here."

He laughed and made a point to exaggerate scooping up some rice with his fork. "I don't know, you're pretty convincing."

"Lucky me." It came out a little too sarcastically and I wanted to take it back when I realized how that sounded. "Sorry, I'm kidding."

"You don't have to second-guess everything you say. If I didn't like being around you, we wouldn't be here." He said it so casually that he didn't even look at me as he did, which was somehow even more embarrassing and only made me want to second-guess myself even more. Overanalyzing myself under the guise that it helped since I thought everybody else was going to do it anyway was exhausting. "Real talk, how did you end up working there? It's not your vibe."

"I know," I sighed. "There's an office out there somewhere that I can hide behind my desk and just work by myself all day. But it was just one of those places I found one day when every other place wasn't hiring so I'm kind of sticking it out."

He tilted his head to the side. "I was actually picturing you doing something outdoors. Maybe a lifeguard or something."

I laughed. How could a girl who couldn't save herself be expected to save others?

"How's the album going?" I asked.

He looked like he wanted to backtrack but decided against it. "I haven't worked on it much since I've been trying to get settled in. Work's busy and all. But all of my equipment finally arrived so my studio is set up."

"You have one in your apartment?"

Nikau nodded. "Yeah. Sort of. It's not a massive setup or anything, but I've been collecting everything since I finished school. It's worked out so far with recording covers I post to YouTube."

I wondered just how many followers he had. Since I didn't spend much time on social media, I haven't looked him up or anything. For all I knew, he could have this massive following and that was why everyone seemed to follow him. Maybe they recognized him.

"Am I having dinner with a celebrity?" I joked.

It was the only time he appeared bashful. Noted. "No."

"Meet anyone cool?" It made sense to ask; the music industry relied heavily on having connections.

"Besides my agent? I don't know if you've heard of Maverick."

The name was unique enough that I instantly recognized it, and I was reminded of a song called Lost in Translation that dropped a couple of years ago and caused me to listen to that album on repeat my entire summer of '17.

"Short DJ dude?"

Nikau nodded. "He dm'ed me on Instagram a couple months ago saying he really liked all of my covers. We've been talking about maybe working together in the future."

My eyes widened. If I wasn't mistaken, Maverick's name had been mentioned numerous times because of some egregious Grammy snubs. Working with someone like him would be as equally beneficial as it would be inspiring for an up-and-comer like Nikau.

"That's cool. Really cool. I hope it works out."

"I do, too," he agreed. "The stuff he's done with his music is wicked."

Nikau drifted further into talk about Maverick's music, which showcased his clear admiration of the DJ, and I was sure I would hear influences of him within Nikau's music. With encouragement and a little gentle prodding, I got him to talk about his more, too.

My mom had always said that if you wanted to understand a person, the best way was to get them to talk about themselves. No matter how forthcoming they were or how much they tried to hide, it exposed more of them than they ever realized. The nuances of a person flickered in the most subtle of moments, and if you were smart enough to know how to pay attention, capturing them could feel like catching a butterfly in your hands.

Creative minds were always the same, no matter what type of artist they were. Once Nikau started talking about his music, he disappeared into it. They were one and the same. Making music came as easily as breathing to him, and it was hard to discern how truly vital it had become to him. It was almost enough to believe, truly, that if you took it away from him, he would drop dead right then and there.

After a while of listening to him, I realized how much it felt like staring into a mirror. Every time he tried to explain what something meant to him or how a particular song moved him, he stumbled over his words, unsure of how to form the long string of thoughts that made up his soul into something as mundane as words in a conversation. If he was given a piano or a guitar, he would likely be able to tell a better story, and even without words, I would be able to understand it. To me, that was the very foundation of what it meant to be a musician—being able to read between lines that weren't even there in the first place.

I had been taken back to that other night as I watched him play while the rest of the world had faded away into the night. He explained how he had come from a long line of musical talents, many of whom had only shared a stage that was their backyard, but he had decided one day that playing to his friends and family wasn't enough. He wanted his voice to travel and for the rest of the world to hear him. When his covers started taking off, he realized how much of an impact he could have.

While there was nothing wrong with being "stuck" on an island, and he, too, had always known he would end up back home no matter where he ended up, he wanted to experience something more. I sympathized with that sentiment, even if I didn't fully feel the same way. I didn't have the same grasp on the world as he did. But the confidence with which he spoke of his plans for the future made me admire his ambitions, even if they were far grander than mine would ever be.

"Does anyone else in your family play any instruments?" he asked, turning the mic back to me.

"We all play the guitar to some extent. Lei prefers singing, though. And Dad used to play the ukulele. I'm the only one who played band in school."

"Yeah?" He took a sip of water to wash down the food we were having a hard time getting through since it was difficult wanting to put a pause to our conversation. "You must sing too."

I shook my head. "No. Not at all. I mean, I can. Sort of. Not well. Not like Leimomi. She's incredible. The voice of an angel."

The corner of his mouth flicked up again, softly, and it reminded me of a face he had made a few other times, though I couldn't remember what we had been talking about before those times.

"I don't think I listened to much classical music growing up," he explained.

"Oh, it's everything to me. I honestly feel like it tells more of a story sometimes. It's so easy to get lost in it. When I dropped out of band, I stopped listening to it for a while, but after signing up for lessons so I could play again, it felt like coming home."

I could feel my face lighting up, my smile brightening and widening at just the thought of it. Classical music always got such a bad rep for being boring, but I believed those who thought that simply didn't listen hard enough. It was the most accurate and palpable representation of emotions in music. I couldn't imagine not being able to appreciate the intricacies of all the layered melodies and harmonies, the fluid nature in how it lived and breathed. Even though I hadn't stayed in band for very long, those moments during a piece where we all marched toward the climax of a song were the most vulnerable moments of my life as a musician. As if I had laid my soul bare each and every time, hoping that somebody would reach out and find me and tell me I was okay.

I understood classical music wasn't for everyone, but part of me didn't trust anyone that actively disliked it.

"Do you have a favorite composer?" Nikau asked.

My answer didn't take long. For the past three years, all of the top artists on my Spotify Wrapped lists were composers, and while the bottom four switched out depending on my general mood that year, one sat on its rightful throne each year.

"Fauré," I answered. "I've always thought he was the most underrated musician of his generation. His music is just... it's impossible to not like it. Such a distinct style that's never overstated. Romantic but not weepy. Complex but not complicated. A bit whimsical but in the best way. You should listen to some of his stuff. I think it's best right when night has settled and you can see the moon for the first time."

One of my favorite notes I had ever read about Fauré's work was when it was described as a mildly overcast day in Paris, and I had fallen in love with that idea. After seeing that, it made sense why he was my favorite

"Consider it done," Nikau said even before I recommended a particular piece.

As he tapped his phone in search of a playlist to listen to later, I realized then how strangely vulnerable recommending music to someone could be, especially when it was something that held greater significance than you could even admit to yourself. Telling someone they should listen to something only for them to come back and say they didn't like it could feel like a blow against your heart in the most melodramatic way possible, and I had to mentally convince myself that it wasn't a big deal. Even if he didn't like him, it didn't mean his opinion of me was going to change, or that he'd think less of me as a musician.

The fact that I cared at all was silly. Or another sign that there was more here than I wanted to admit.