“That’s enough!”
Nakoa, Leilani’s father, stepped forward, posture rigid, arms crossed. His eyes were set on Mr. Banks—not with curiosity, but suspicion.
“You can’t just show up after decades and expect everything to fall into place,” he said, his tone sharp. “We don’t know you. We don’t owe you anything.”
The crowd hushed again. Several aunties exchanged glances. Children huddled around the legs of their mothers.
Makani didn’t flinch.
She turned to face Nakoa with a regal steadiness, as thoughshe’d been expecting this moment for years. “You sound just like my father.”
That landed hard.
Nakoa’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to protect this family.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re trying to control it.”
Her voice was calm, but her words carried weight. “When I was young, I let someone else decide who I was allowed to love. And it cost me dearly. I won’t let you do the same—not to me, and not to anyone else here.”
Nakoa looked away, anger flickering across his face, but he didn’t argue.
Leilani stepped in quickly.
“Okay, okay,” she said, slipping between them with the grace of someone raised in a family that argued loudly… and often.“We’ve had something of a surprise. Let’s not make a big deal about it now. Not when we have guests.”
“The surpriseisone of our guests,” her father said sternly.
Leilani turned to him, her voice still soft but edged with steel. “Then maybe it’s time we treated himlikea guest. With kindness. With food. And with enoughalohato let the rest of the night unfold without someone throwing a poi bowl.”
A few people laughed, grateful for the release.
Leilani gestured toward the long tables, her eyes twinkling. “Everyone brought food. And if we don’t start eating, Auntie Maile’s going to cry, and Uncle Manu will take that personally.”
The spell broke. Slowly, people began to move—plates were passed around, laughter returned, and the scent of roasted pork reasserted itself like a peace offering.
Makani reached for Mr. Banks’s hand. He gave it without hesitation.
As we followed the crowd toward the food, Cal leaned in and whispered, “I can’t believe we came here to meet our surrogate, and now we’re in the middle of a family feud and a decades-old love story starring Mr. Banks. What universe did I wake up in?”
“I think it’s the one where someone spiked the punch with a few too many shots of destiny,” I murmured back.
We reached the long tables, which were overflowing with food—mountains of kalua pork, sticky rice, fresh pineapple, taro rolls, trays of pork, and half a dozen dishes I couldn’t pronounce but already loved like my own children.
Someone handed me a plate. Someone else handed me a banana leaf. I wasn’t entirely sure which one I was supposed to use, so I took both and hoped for the best.
A few seats down from me, Angus was loudly asking whether the purple stuff was a dip or a dessert. Nobody answered him, so he took a bite anyway and declared it “tangy, addictive, and my new favorite purple thing.”
Mr. Banks and Makani were seated side by side across from us, hands nearly touching, their faces haloed in firelight. I watched as she reached up and tucked a hibiscus flower behind his ear, her smile soft and knowing. He didn’t speak, just looked at her like the years had folded up and vanished.
Cal and I sat with Rashida on one side of us and Mrs. Mulroney on the other.
“So,” Rashida said dryly, spearing a piece of grilled pineapple “One of your best friends is a baron. And apparently the long-lost love of a Hawaiian princess. How are the heart rates?”
She suddenly produced her iPad and started tapping away like she needed to record our responses.
I leaned in close and whispered to her, “Did you know about this?”
“Mm,” Rashida shrugged, like that was an answer.
