Scratching The Bad Feeling Surface

Trigger warning: street/sexual harassment, sexual assault, rape, trauma

It was 21 degrees and sunny when I was out for a walk 2 weeks ago, thermal underwear on underneath my sweatpants, t-shirt, and thick hoodie. I even had my compression gloves on under winter gloves and my compression socks on for extra warmth. Minding my own business, I was playing a game on my phone while listening to No-No Boy through my library’s lending app.

Generally, when I walk anywhere, I walk against traffic. The route I take now is the opposite direction from the one I used to take when someone catcalled me from their car a couple of years ago. Because heaven forbid women, femme/femme presenting people, and non-binary people be allowed to exist in public without being reduced to a sexual object, especially those of us who are Asian.

After reaching the last car entrance for a business I circle around—there is parking all around the building except for one corner—I went for the outdoor stairs (there is a brick wall on the outside so at most you can only see someone’s head) at the corner for a little break while playing the game. After about a minute I stepped into the parking lot, noticing a black sedan that was already past me, backing up. Thinking the driver was going to back into a spot, I didn’t cross as I normally would’ve and walked down further before crossing to get to the apartment complex before ours. As I stepped into the grass between the two parking lots, I heard something behind me and turned around.

The black sedan, window rolled down, and a young man (probably mid-20s) beckoning me over.

Maybe he needs directions.

Maybe he works here and wants to tell me I can’t walk through here.

I pull out an earbud and he says something but I can’t hear him. I stepped closer.

I was wrong on both guesses.

He hit on me.

I can’t remember what he said exactly at first. Something about being his girlfriend.

“No, thanks.”

“Do you have a man?”

“Yes.” I shouldn’t even have to answer this. My initial no should be enough but men still don’t respect us or our bodily autonomy, but they’ll respect the man we’re with. This is why I used to wear a fake engagement ring while clubbing in my 20s. Even in Second Life men have hit on me in IMs with Chaz’s avatar right next to mine. One was so brash that he asked if my marriage was happy, again with Chaz’s avatar RIGHT THERE.

I start to walk away and he asks, “Can we be friends?”

“Sure.”

“Give me your number.”

“No,” I laugh with incredulity. The fucking audacity. I’m 50, in sweats, hood up over my head, clearly listening to something, halfway through a walk, and not even caffeinated for this shit.

“Why?”

“I don’t even know you.”

“That’s how we get to know each other.”

I said goodbye, put my earbud back in, and crossed to the other apartment complex. As I’m walking down the parking lot I notice a black sedan drive by the entrance, coming from my complex.

Is that him? Did he drive out the back and turn around in front of the townhouses?

Which would be an odd thing to do since he could’ve just turned the other way out of the parking lot, but I was on high alert now. Unable to even look at my game until I was at the office. If it was him driving by and he drove into the parking lot I was in, I was in an area I could’ve run into the grass that separates the two complexes, turned a corner, and then ducked into a shortcut to the strip mall we’re behind. Yes, all women have to learn to calculate escape routes, whether someone teaches us or we learn on our own.

We can’t even enjoy a simple walk without having a trauma reaction.

This is why we have #YesAllWomen.

This is why we say it doesn’t matter what we wear or what we look like.

This is why existing in public spaces is exhausting day after day.

This is why we plead with the men we know to speak up and do something.

This is why we get angry when men counter with “not all men.”

It’s enough men that this happens to us often, forcing us to alter what we do and how we do it. It’s enough men that it’s not limited to street harassment. It happens in school, at work, in church (yes it fucking does), in restaurants/bars/clubs, at parties and other social gatherings, in art galleries, in grocery stores…

It happens everywhere, including our own homes amongst family. If I had a nickel for every time a male relative said, “If we weren’t related . . .”

It’s inescapable.

Aging is not a deterrence from being approached in public. It’s one thing to strike up a conversation while waiting in a long line, it’s quite another thing to stop me in the middle of Kroger for no reason other than the man thinks he can, should, and I owe him my time and attention. Or to attempt to make chiding commentary on my graphic t-shirt because he thinks I need a lecture and he’s the one to give it, being the exact reason I wore my “I HATE PEOPLE” shirt—he had a kid with him and was blocked by other carts while I just had a basket and was able to dart away without him following me. But I was still hyperalert until I was in my car.

I should be able to take a walk in my neighborhood and not have to worry about walking against traffic, escape routes, men stopping me just to hit on me, or men catcalling, disrupting a peaceful part of my day. Every girl, woman, femme/femme presenting person, and non-binary person should be able to. I should be able to have interactions with men that don’t lead to me questioning if he fetishizes Asian women. I should be able to go into a grocery store and only be interrupted by employees making sure I’m finding what I need. I should be able to log into Second Life without men not even in local chat distance, IM’ing me to hit on me and then turning verbally abusive when I turn them down, accusing me of being a tease. Even in Second Life men seem to think we create our avatars to please them and not our own self. It’s inconceivable to these men that we dress, do our hair, and our makeup to feel good about ourselves. A low-cut, skin-tight dress {or insert your favorite here} can remind us of our power, strength, and badassery.

Feeling good and ready to go clubbing in Kona.

When I went to clubs in college, it was to dance. Never to attract other men. But there are expectations for club attire. It’s a Catch-22 in which we have to dress a certain way if we want to gain entry and then men get angry because we’re being “provocative” or “a tease.” No, they saw me as a sexual object and when I didn’t respond as they expected, they twisted their issue into my fault. We’ve seen it play out over and over again in the media when allegations are made public: a woman is just existing and when she doesn’t consent the men twist their expectations into being her fault. Even judges and lawyers who are men will make the defendant’s expectation the victim’s fault. Remember the judge who asked the victim if she tried keeping her legs closed? How about the lawyer in Ireland who used the 17-year-old victim’s underwear as a sign of consent and the rapist was acquitted?

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/judge-who-asked-alleged-rape-victim-if-she-tried-closing-n1216611

As I processed what happened in the parking lot internally and shared with a few close friends, memories of other incidents resurfaced. The aforementioned incident in Second Life in which the man asked if my marriage was happy. The subordinate at work who repeatedly used intimidation tactics to get what he wanted (threatening to report me to my direct supervisor, using our residents like they were his wingmen, barring the one and only exit to our staff office leaving me with no escape), and even though I gave detailed written reports to my supervisor on these incidents, neither he nor HR asked about or saw to my safety in the workplace.

No matter what we do, it never deters nor keeps us completely safe.

Here are the ways I’ve had to protect myself/change what I do (not remotely comprehensive):

• Wear headphones/earbuds to listen to music while walking and taking public transportation
• Check all the exits inside public spaces and plan escape routes
• Sit in public spaces where men can’t sneak up behind me
• Plan escape routes outdoors
• Walk against traffic even if there is no sidewalk
• Carried pepper spray
• Walked with my keys between my fingers
• Walked with my umbrella in hand, ready to use as a weapon
• Attempt to be late to the two classes I had with my stalker (I usually wasn’t no matter how hard I tried, but as long as I got there after him so he couldn’t sit near me I was good)
• Screened phone calls to avoid talking to my stalker
• Wore fake engagement ring when clubbing
• Until recently, I never stated my age online
• No social media check-ins, geotagging, or posting about a place while I’m still there
• Given fake numbers to men who refused to leave me alone
• Purposefully look like a slob (didn’t work)
• Made sure I was listed in the White Pages as Last Name, First Initial with my phone number, no address even after I married Chaz
• Cut off all contact with my emotionally abusive ex even though it meant cutting off contact with mutual friends

If you’re a man reading this, women you know have done some or all of these as well as some I didn’t list while you don’t have to think twice about protecting yourselves in these ways while you’re in public. The girls you know are being taught these things whether you are aware of them or not.

If you read Tainted Love, you know Ari did some of these to protect herself and they were never foolproof. While several of my points in TL were focused on issues AsAm women face with other AsAms and with non-AsAms, I made sure to include incidents that affect girls, women, femmes, and femme presenting people broadly in a way to show how even if these things occur on different days, they become cumulative stressors leading to trauma. The first episode of Peacemaker has a perfect scene with this playing out [the following might be spoilery so skip to the next paragraph if you haven’t seen the first episode and intend to see it soon] of Harcourt in a bar minding her own business, just drinking a beer and keeping to herself. Guy 1 comes up to her, runs a finger down her arm, and asks if he can ask a question. She insults him since he touched her and got in her personal space. Guy 2, someone she knows, comes in and starts chatting her up the way we’ve had countless “friends” start off before they hit on us. Guy 3, friend of Guy 1, starts yelling at her from across the bar, storms over, probably counting on verbally and physically intimidating her. Once that confrontation ends, she returns to her beer where Guy 2 continues to go on about his needs and that it could be fun for both of them. He doesn’t really care about what she wants or needs, both to have men stop hitting on her and just leave her alone to drink her beer. He doesn’t really care if it’s “fun” for her. He just wanted sex and he was hoping she’d agree.

We all know when men proclaim that discrimination against a group of marginalized people is for the “safety of women” that it’s complete bullshit. If they really wanted to keep us safe, they wouldn’t be creating stories out of whole cloth to oppress marginalized people. They would be going after police departments that suppress evidence or even ignore reports altogether while treating the victim as if she is a liar seeking attention (Netflix’s “Unbelievable” is based on the true events of Marie Adler’s report not being taken seriously and how police charged her with filing a false report). They would be going after judges who have a history of giving haole abusers lenient sentences while giving Black and Brown men the harshest sentences. They would be ensuring funding for the testing of rape kits in every single community. They would be pushing for reform in how victims are treated by the system when they report: a big reason we don’t report is the fear of being re-victimized by police, prosecutors, defense attorneys, journalists, and the general public—all it takes is one “Why didn’t you [insert victim blaming here]?” to shut us down for our own safety. They would formalize national standards for higher education in regards to reporting and investigations that should include police involvement—some use internal councils only, ensuring no legal charges are filed against the abuser. There are so many more things that they could do in the name of our “safety” that would really help but are unwilling to do because it means getting caught in the net themselves.

To the men reading this, do more to help dismantle the systems that cover for sexual harassers/abusers and challenge the men around you when they’re crossing the line. That’s going to mean that you need to learn the subtlest of offenses that you might not think of as harassment or abuse; kind of like racial microaggressions and how those of us on the receiving end know them when we hear them but those who don’t experience them don’t know them when they hear them or say them themselves. I’ve had men friends tell me the men they’re around don’t do these things but I’m not so sure that it’s not that they don’t do them, but that maybe they don’t recognize it when it’s not overt. This isn’t just a women’s issue. It affects all of us in one way or another.

 

Giveaway on Rafflecopter

It’s Filipino-American History Month and I’m starting it off by giving away one set of autographed paperpacks of my novels: Tainted Love, The Downward Spiral, and Family Ties. (Scroll to the end if you just want to enter the giveaway) While Tainted Love is the only one that is explicitly about a FilAm, it’s important to remember that it’s because of a gatekeeper that I didn’t mention the race or ethnicity of my main characters in Family Ties and The Downward Spiral.

Gatekeepers are the reason why we didn’t learn about Igorots being kept in human zoos globally, most notably at the St. Louis State Fair in 1904. Or that Larry Itliong and Phillip Vera Cruz were at the center of the Delano Grape Strike, not Cesar Chavez—he wanted to sit it out and they had to talk him into joining them to show a united front of farm workers. It wasn’t until 2013 that Larry Itliong and Phillip Vera Cruz had a school named after them and it was 2019 when Governor Newsom declared October 25th, Larry Itliong Day. Heard of the Watsonville riots? How about Filipino segregation in California?

Our stories haven’t become mainstream because of gatekeepers in publishing and movies/TV. You might see Filipinx and hapa Filipinx on screen a lot, but most of them don’t play Filipinx. Look at Lou Diamond Phillips. He’s been working for decades and he’s never played a Filipino until Prodigal Son and even then they didn’t get to delve into his character’s ethnicity because it was canceled suddenly. Probably our most famous FilAm story within FilAms is the 2000 indie film, The Debut starring Dante Basco and featuring his brothers, Derek, Dionysio, and Darion. Twenty-one years later, the brothers star in Dante’s indie film, The Fabulous Filipino Brothers, which is currently on the film festival circuit.

Add in a layer of colonization and you have FilAms who are clueless that we have our own mythology and pantheon, stories that were passed down from one generation to the next until Spain came in and nearly wiped it out as they converted Filipinos to Catholicism. I had no idea about it until several years back when a Filipino artist’s illustrations crossed my Twitter feed and I’ve followed him ever since. I’m still trying to learn the stories, but it’s hard since even if some continued to pass them down, they changed through colonization and decolonizing those stories isn’t easy. I bring this up because while our stories are kept out and we remain unaware of our mythology, it allows haole writers, directors, and producers to appropriate our mythological creatures and whitewash them. If you’ve watched Grimm, you might remember the episode that focused on Sgt. Lee (Reggie Lee is Filipino) and an aswang. Aswang is a classification of creatures, and not one specific creature, much like Russia’s baba yaga. What if I told you another popular show featured a creature from our mythology but it was whitewashed?

From the pronunciation to her appearance to being portrayed as THE batibat, when like aswang, it’s a classification for a specific type of demon. In Philippine mythology, demons are dark-complexioned and harass/terrify the living through nightmares, disease, and other misfortunes. Batibats come from Ilokano folklore (the region my dad, grandparents, great-grandparents, and other relatives immigrated from) and the story of “The Fat Woman in the Post” tells of a boy who fell asleep near a crooked post in which a batibat lived. His mother forgot to move him and the batibat came out and sat on his chest. He had a nightmare of a fat woman, who filled the doorway, coming into his room and sitting on his chest. When he tried to call for his mother and could not speak, he bit down on his thumb. He woke up in a sweat with a bleeding thumb. Maximo D. Ramos writes in The Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology that in the descriptions of batibat he heard as a boy were always vague and while the largeness of batibat was emphasized, he never had the impression that batibats were female.

This is the reality that some of us live with, a history of violence, displacement, and labor exploitation that continues to this day, and a sense of disconnectedness, especially for those of us who have parents who assimilated, shunning their first language and not passing it down with stories of their homeland. Two decades ago, I could only find three Filipino authors in a bookstore: Carlos Bulosan, Jose Rizal, and Jessica Hagedorn. Now I can find armfuls of FilAm authors telling stories about FilAms. While representation is growing, it’s still not equitable for BIPOC.

With finally staring Adderall this month after going through an ADHD evaluation, I’ve been able to work on the Tainted Love spin-off: Never Again. If you follow me on Twitter or my Facebook page, you may have seen some of my #1LineWed posts. All new stuff I’ve written (daily!) in the last three weeks. I will tell you it centers on Maile as she enters college in 2019 and what I have in mind for her will span less than a year. And because it will go into 2020, the pandemic will be a factor in what happens and the choices she makes. I didn’t plan for it to happen that way since I was writing scenes for her before the pandemic, but telling this story while she’s in high school doesn’t fit well. It’s easier to incorporate the pandemic than to avoid it, especially since her dad is an E.R. doctor.

Okay, the giveaway. Or legally, I’m supposed to call it a sweepstakes. Again, the winner will receive an autographed paperback set of Tainted Love, The Downward Spiral, and Family Ties. You must be a resident of the U.S. and be 18 or over to enter. May the odds be ever in your favor.

Click here to enter the Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Tainted Love Deleted Chapter

I’ve mentioned before that Tainted Love started out years ago as a single piece of flash fiction on this blog that turned into serial fiction. It’s gone through several versions since then before I published it in May. In one of the previous versions, there are more scenes where Ari calls Lola or her cousin Makana. I chose one of those to share with you. I cleaned up the dialogue but I left the rest as is, which includes Ari moving to D.C. in the winter instead of summer and she and J.D. were separated for 3 years instead of just under 1. If you follow me on Facebook, I recently shared a piece on the role of ninongs and ninangs in Filipino families. In this scene, Ari’s ninongs and ninangs are mentioned in a little more detail.

In a side of reality, St. Sophia’s is the church my dad’s side of the family attended for decades and I would attend with my lola and lolo when I was visiting. I saw many family members married there and memorialized loved ones who died, the last one being my lolo 12 years ago. My lolo and lola renewed their vows there for their 50th anniversary back in the 90s. Sadly, it was destroyed by a mysterious fire in early 2010 and demolished several months later. The church had already planned to tear it down later that year and rebuild a bigger, more modern building. By the time my lola died in 2012, the new St. Damien of Moloka’i Catholic Church was holding mass for parishioners.

If you haven’t read Tainted Love yet, the Kindle version is on sale 7/9 through 7/15 for $0.99 in the U.S. market only. Also, SPOILERS.

Chapter 44

Here Is the House

“Babes, wake up,” J.D. says in a hushed voice, nudging my shoulder.

“What time is it?” My voice is low and monotone as I blink my eyes open.

He stoops over the bed in light blue scrubs over gray thermal underwear. “Too early. I need to leave and I didn’t want you to wake up disoriented your first morning here.”

We left Hawaiˈi Saturday afternoon and arrived in D.C. Sunday—yesterday—morning. We spent the rest of the day grocery shopping, finding a winter coat and boots for me, unpacking, and doing laundry—J.D. didn’t have time to do any before coming home for the break and needed clean scrubs for the week.

“How thoughtful.” I yawn, still on Hawai’i time.

“There’s coffee in the pot and yesterday’s paper is on the table. And don’t forget your set of keys is on the dresser.” He leaves a kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you tonight.”

It’s late morning when I wake again and leave the warmth of the bed.

The studio apartment is long with an angle at the end, more than twice as big as my 512 square foot studio back home. An afterthought of a small square kitchen is set off to the right when you walk in the front door, with the bathroom and a walk-in closet on the left. A separate area for the bed and another closet is set into the acute angle of the end of the apartment.

I settle at J.D.’s desk, to the right of the lanai door, with coffee and the paper then riffle through a drawer for a pen. I take my time going through the classified ads, first circling anything related to my degree and then circling any administrative jobs. Next, I write down the ones that just require a cover letter and resume followed by the ones I need to go to personally to apply.

I run out of coffee and the cold winter air chills me to the bone. Checking the thermostat, I find it set to 70. I don’t want to crank it up without talking to J.D. so I leave it and take a hot shower. I forget that I don’t have winter clothes until I open a dresser drawer. Why I didn’t buy any while getting my winter coat and boots, I don’t know. I’ll blame jet lag and exhaustion. I close it and open one containing some of J.D.’s clothes. I pick out a pair of navy Georgetown University sweatpants and matching sweatshirt. I roll the pant legs and sleeves up so they don’t drag and roll the waistband down to make the pants fit better. I don a pair of socks but add another pair just in case.

Lola calls, checking on me even though I called after we got in yesterday. “Yes, we get food. I was just going make one sandwich,” I tell her.

“You so skinny. Eat more.” Lolas think their job isn’t done unless their grandchildren have some fat on them, asking if we’re hungry the second we walk through their door.

“You’ve seen me eat, Lola. No need eat more.”

“Mmmmm,” she drones in response. This one is monotone, expressing her displeasure in either that I’m not fat enough for her or that I’m disagreeing with her.

“I love you and I appreciate you taking care of me. I not going starve to death. Promise.”

“You went call your parents?”

“No. Why?”

“Tell them you went move.”

“I not going set myself up for disappointment. They no care and they went show me how much since Lexington.” I didn’t call them when I moved into my apartment, there’s no reason to start now.

“Aysos.” She pauses for a breath. I think a part of her still holds out hope that they’ll change and be the son and daughter-in-law they were before Ethan’s death. “I need the date for the wedding.”

“I’ll talk to J.D. tonight and den call you.”

“Cannot be at the church,” she adds. As if I needed reminding.

My family has attended mass at St. Sophia’s forever. No air conditioning, just window jalousies up high in the small church. The side door and front door are often left open during mass and events to help with airflow while fans oscillate back and forth with a low hum. It’s not much help in the heat and everyone ends up fanning themselves with the bulletin.

My parents were never regular churchgoers. Ethan and I usually played Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of the bulletin once the priest started the homily. We were both baptized as babies and Ethan had his first communion before he died. When we moved to Lexington, my parents stopped going to mass.

The only source of tension between me and my grandparents is that I’m not Catholic. My grandparents understood after several Sundays of attempting to force me to go that it was a battle they couldn’t win. I would never have first communion or go through confirmation. Getting married in St. Sophia’s didn’t feel right even if it’s where everyone else in the family got married and is a part of my community.

“I know,” I answer, glad that she can’t see me rolling my eyes. “We do it at Papohaku Beach.”

“So windy.”

“I love it there and the ceremony will be quick.”

“I going send you fabric swatches for your dress.”

“No need, Lola. I trust you.”

“Your ninongs and ninangs stay arguing about who’s going pay for what.”

I chuckle. It happens for every big party so it doesn’t surprise me—all part of being raised by a village and having two dozen godparents made up of my dad’s siblings, and both parents’ cousins and friends. Mom’s siblings were some of Ethan’s godparents. “Just keep it simple. I don’t want anything fancy.”

“Weddings are supposed to be fancy.”

“I not and I not going pretend I am when I marry J.D.”

“Your Lolo or one of your uncles going give you away?”

“I not property. No one going give me away.”

“Mmmmm.” Her drone is tight and heavy.

If we continue this it might end in a big fight rather than a small disagreement. “I going call you tonight, yeah?”

“Mmmmm.” Looser and lighter than the last one.

I call Uncle Rizal’s house after hanging up. I need someone to intervene and make sure Lola doesn’t get carried away. Makana answers and I plead with her to talk to Lola after telling her about the conversation.

“You like me take over the planning?” she asks.

“Only if you like and can get Lola to give it up.” I know Makana will honor what I want.

“No worries, Cuz. I get ‘um.”

“T’anks, eh.”

“Shoots. How’s D.C.?”

“Fucking cold.”

She laughs and Shay’s tell-tale screech comes through the phone. “Shit. Gotta hele, Cuz.” She hangs up before I can say goodbye.

I spend the rest of the day working on preparing cover letters and my resume, finding enough envelopes and stamps in the desk so I don’t have to go out. I slide them in the outgoing mail slot downstairs before starting dinner.

When J.D. returns that evening, I’m sprinkling salt over the pot on the stove—kaldereta for the cold weather and a reminder of home. A whisper of a smile plays on my lips as our eyes lock. “Hi, baby.”

He removes his charcoal gray pea coat, hanging it up in the walk-in closet. “You’re wearing my sweats.”

I glance at my makeshift outfit. “I was freezing.”

He joins me in the kitchen, spinning me around. “They look better on you.” Covering my mouth hungrily with his, he pulls me closer. I slide my hands up his back and into his hair and then the liquid bubbling behind me turns angry and insistent.

Tearing myself away, I turn the burner off and pick out the bay leaves, setting them on the counter. “I need to get my own.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, kissing my neck before resting his chin on my shoulder. “I’ll get the metro map out for you. It’s easier than the bus in this weather. I should be off early Friday. We can go to the bank and I’ll add you to my account.”

I stir the kaldereta. “You don’t have to do that.”

He plays with my ring. “We’re getting married. Why shouldn’t I?”

I set the spoon on the counter and turn back to him, laying my palms on his chest. “I’m still getting used to this. You had everything planned out in your head before I did. Me coming out here for grad school. Getting married.”

“You said yes to both.”

“I know I did. You’re missing my point,” I state. “You’ve been thinking about this longer than I have. Go ahead, add me to your account on Friday. Just don’t be surprised at the moments when I have to reorient myself to you going from my boyfriend to my fiancé. And when we’re home next time, I’ll add you to my account.”

“That’s fair.” He dips in for a quick kiss and then presses his forehead to mine. “I like coming home to you.”

“I like not being separated by Lance or by distance, too,” I smile, winding my arms around his neck. For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. I don’t need to be hyperaware here, worrying about who’s calling or finding dead roses with photos of myself at the door. I don’t have to focus so hard on my future. He’s right here in my arms and grad school is around the corner.

“Lola called and said we need to pick a date now,” I add.

“Now?”

“If you want to get married during your rather short summer break, yes.”

“June twenty-sixth. We can have the rest of the two weeks as our honeymoon before I have to be back. Where are we getting married? St. Sophia’s?” He breaks away and pulls out two bowls from the cabinet next to the stove.

“No.” I pull out spoons and a rice paddle from the utensil drawer, handing him one of the spoons and the rice paddle.

“Why not?” He’d gone to mass with us over the summer. My grandparents thought it would be a good way for him to meet extended family and friends.

“Because neither of us are Catholic or a member of the church,” I explain as he spoons rice from the rice cooker into the bowl and ladles the kaldereta over the rice.

“Does that matter?”

I spoon rice into my bowl. “We’d have to promise to become members and raise our kids Catholic to do so—I’m not making those promises.”

His face scrunches in irritation. “That’s ridiculous.”

I shrug, adding kaldereta to my rice. “I really don’t care about getting married in St. Sophia’s.”

“Where are we getting married, then?”

I break out into a wide grin before we head to the table. “Papohaku Beach.” I took him there last summer and he fell in love with the three mile stretch of white sand beach that was virtually deserted.

“Perfect.”

I call Lola after we eat as J.D. does the dishes. She mentions nothing else about the wedding or if she’s talked to Makana. She ends the call quickly, telling me she needs to make lunch. Her curtness tells me Makana took over the planning and Lola isn’t happy about it.

Unhappy lolas are a force to be reckoned with and we’re going to have our hands full. I’m going to owe Makana big for this.

© 2021 Debi V. Smith