Where was Mini M? I needed him to kick me in the head.
CHAPTER 3
LYSSA
My best friend’s brother looked surprised to see me, which he shouldn’t have, because this was his idea.
How did New Zealanders greet each other? On Google I’d read about the hongi, which was when people pressed their noses together and exchanged life force through breath, but it seemed like that was for Maori people, or for Maori ceremonies. And Caroline said that Kiwis were quite relaxed, so a handshake outside of a business setting didn’t seem right. On the other hand, a hug felt way too intimate.
When I thought about stepping forward and reaching up on tiptoes to wrap my arms around Mike’s broad shoulders, pressing my body into the bulk of him to say hello, I got flutters.
The truth was, Mike Holliday was a lot of man.
I’d known that, in theory. I’d been on enough Holli-ford family Zooms to know that Mike had the personality of a freight train. He never said something when he could shout it, or liked something when he could love it. He was a man of extremes.
Caroline said this was why Mike and I clashed, because I was also—and this was her wording—full on.
I just hadn’t expected her brother to literally be a lot of man. Mike was solid. Beefy. He towered over me and filled space with a physique that demanded attention, and the confidence that promised it would be worth your while.
My mouth was suddenly dry.
Like a goober, I stood there cataloging him.
Like Caroline, he was Caucasian, but while she was pale, his complexion was suntanned. His brown hair was mussed in a way that wasn’t quite curly but suggested it could be if he committed to a multistep routine. He was only a year older than me, but the sun had left creases around the corners of his eyes, which must bunch when he squints or laughs. Most shockingly, the mustache that I’d thought was cringe the first time he’d popped up on my screen was unexpectedly sexy in person. It was giving Ted Lasso vibes, if Ted could’ve hauled me over his shoulder and stalked off with me.
Hugging was definitely a bad idea.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
—Hamlet.
Making up my mind, I stepped forward with my hand outstretched. But the sidewalk was uneven and I pitched forward, catching myself just in time to preserve the nose job I got myself for my nineteenth birthday.
“Whoopsie fuck.” Mike’s hand wrapped around my elbow. “Nearly kissed the dust there, di’n ya?”
I was confused. Both by the words coming out of his mouth and the warm brown eyes peering at me. But there were bits of gravel stuck to my hand, and my knee was openly bleeding. Quickly, I rolled up the cuff of my cherry-red pleather shorts, because keeping these shorts in good condition was far more important to me than a small scrape. Knee skin could grow back, couture could not.
“Come inside. We’ll fix you up.”
Mike held the door open for me, and at long last I stepped into the Holliday family café I’d heard so much about.
Inside smelled strongly of espresso. The blackboard over the counter had daily specials, and the tabletops had pictures of the Eiffel Tower on them—a weird choice. I went to Paris once on a school trip, and I could personally attest that it was nothing like this town. For one, Woodville smelled better. Paris smelled like urine, New York smelled like shit, and this place smelled like … vast and infinite space. I’d noticed this the second I’d stepped off the plane at the small local airport. The air was so crisp, my nose stung, and it felt like my lungs immediately expanded three sizes.
New Zealand as a whole was very green. Even now, when I looked out the window and past a few streets of houses, I could see white-topped mountains jutting proudly into the sky.
There weren’t any customers in the main café, but through glass doors, I could see a woman dressed as Elsa belting to an attentive audience of grade schoolers sitting crisscross-applesauce on cushions in the private courtyard. There were parents on chairs nearby, chatting amiably. A few held beers, others held coffee cups. Two people in linen aprons with a coffee cup printed on the breast made repeat trips between the kitchen and the courtyard—in with dishes and out with loaded trays. The place was busy but relaxed.
Mike leaned over the counter and fished out a stack of paper napkins, which he held out, motioning at the rivulet of blood running down my leg.
I took it and blotted it.
“Wait there.”
I did that too.
Caroline had made New Zealand sound kind of mundane and podunk. Seeing it with my own eyes, I realized she was what lit nerds like my mother called an unreliable narrator. It was cozy and pretty, like walking into Star’s Hollow. But Caroline had grown up dreaming of stardom and city lights, so it made sense now that what was suffocating to her was picturesque to me.
The plan I’d come up with on the plane solidified.
