And then he was gone, leaving me speechless, wondering just what the hell that was about. Did he expect me to flirt with him, swoon over him like those other girls?
The next morning, I returned to the beach, rolled out my towel, lay down to get some sun. With the sunglasses propped on my face, I scanned the surfers out in the water. I didn’t see Chazz anywhere. I waited two hours, but he didn’t appear, and so I went home. Wasn’t sure I would return the next day, but I did. And there he was, surfing just like the first time I saw him, and then finally calling it a day, carrying his board across the sand, talking to a few of the girls. I watched him, not sure whether I should get up and make the first move. But then he spotted me. Veered toward me again, his long hair dripping ocean water, and smiled down at me.
“So,” he said, “you want to hang out or what?”
And now here I am, driving north on the highway, to meet up with Chazz. Not the kind of thing I would normally do. But this is Hawaii—paradise, as my mother is now fond of calling it—and maybe it’s just being on the island, over four thousand miles away from home, that’s caused me to break out of my usual shell. Because when a hot guy asks you if you want to hang out or what, just what exactly are you supposed to say?
I press down on the gas, the speedometer needle rising and rising.
Almost seven hours to go.
Four
And so then I reach Waimea Bay Beach Park with five minutes to spare and Chazz is nowhere in sight. Not necessarily a problem. I’m just early. Though the more I think about it, does showing up first make me look desperate? The guy’s supposed to wait for the girl, not the other way around.
No big deal.
I park facing the water and shut the engine off, the windows down, the cool island breeze drifting in. I take a deep breath. Definitely helps beat away the memory of that rank New Jersey beach when I was a kid.
The dashboard clock goes from 9:55 to 9:56.
Four minutes until ten.
I sit behind the wheel and watch the beach and the water and try to ignore the dashboard clock as it ticks closer to ten o’clock. Then try even harder to ignore it as it goes to 10:05 and then 10:10.
I’m not the only one in the parking lot. A handful of other cars are here too. I don’t see anyone out on the sand—the beach officially closes at sundown—so who knows where everybody else may be. As far as I can tell, I’m the only loser sitting here watching the water waiting for someone who I now realize is not coming after all.
I don’t have a phone on me, and even if I did, I don’t have Chazz’s number. All he said was to meet him here tonight at ten o’clock, and now it’s closing in on 10:15 and he’s nowhere in sight.
Screw it.
I start the engine, let it idle for a couple seconds, and then put the car in reverse. As I start to back out, headlights veer off the road and splash me.
The car coasts through the parking lot, its driver glancing this way and that at the few cars scattered around the lot.
It’s a convertible. As the car nears, I can tell immediately it’s Chazz. At the same moment, he spots me and accelerates forward and parks the car right beside me.
But before I can even lift my foot off the brake, Chazz jumps out of the car and rushes over, holding his hands up in appeasement.
“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning down to watch me through the passenger-side window. “I’m such an asshole, I know, but I was getting gas and there was a problem with the pump and then I had to sort it out with the clerk inside, and then once I got back in my car I rushed over here as quickly as I could—shit, I thought I would get pulled over—and I was kicking myself because I didn’t want to miss you, and now it looks like you’re totally pissed at me, which is understandable, because like I said I’m such an asshole, so if you want to take off, I completely understand, but I’m begging you, please give me a second chance, I promise you won’t regret it.”
He leans back, lifting his arms in surrender, his face full of disappointment.
I hesitate. The car’s still in reverse. All I need to do is lift my foot off the brake, let it coast back, and then I’ll be on my way.
Chazz watches me. He doesn’t break eye contact. His expression doesn’t change. He sincerely looks like he’s sorry.
I put the car back in park, shut off the engine.
“Okay, I’ll give you a second chance.”
The somber expression on his face cracks as he smiles. He issues a heavy sigh of relief.
“That’s awesome,” he says. “You’re awesome. You’re not going to regret it. I’m totally going to make it up to you.”
“What do you want to do?”
He tilts his head back at the car. “How about we go for a drive? I got something special I want to show you.”
So a hot guy asks you to ride in his convertible to show you something special. Gee, what’s a girl to do?
Like an idiot, I smile and say, “Sounds great.”
Six hours thirty minutes to go.
Five
The convertible is a 1967 Corvette Sting Ray.
I know this because within a minute of us getting on the road Chazz starts telling me all about the car. How less than 23,000 were ever produced, and he has the only one on the island, which was, like, a huge deal for him because ever since he was a kid he’s loved Corvette Sting Rays and
