I try not to tie too much of my identity into where I reside because who I am—this person who occupies my mind and not the character I put on display for the rest of the world—lives inside my heart and soul, but it's hard to reconcile being a Hawaiian outside of Hawaii when I've spent most of my life on those islands.
Most of the time it's easy to push those thoughts aside, especially when surrounded by people who remind me of home. Though my bandmates aren't native, they've spent their entire lives supporting and uplifting the people, culture, and customs of the land which they've occupied, so they're family to me more than just friends. When we're in LA or jetting across the farthest reaches of the world, they're right by my side, grounding me to a place that stabilizes all of my frenzied parts.
Those days when it doesn't work out still sneak their way through. The turmoil of my head feeling displaced from my heart doesn't mix with the general struggles of living in the public eye. Like oil and water, my usual sense of self, born from the pearlescent blue waves of the Pacific Ocean, contradicts the new tricks I've been forced to learn.
"I really hate it here sometimes," I shout as I slide past the front door and kick it shut behind me. "Nobody has any respect for anybody but themselves. Living like they're the main character of the entire universe and everyone else is just a background....not even a character. A damn prop or something."
"Which one of us is background character #4?" Jun asks.
I debate throwing an overpriced bag of kale at him.
Jun hauls the heavier bags and sets them onto the counter while I push my sunglasses up on top of my head, pulling back some of my curls that have frizzed up in the warmth of a Tuesday afternoon.
The anger dissipates when familiar aroma notes glide through the breeze blowing in from the open windows and back door, and when I spot Marty working his magic in the kitchen, it all makes sense.
"Bless your heart," I sigh, sneaking up next to him. When I peek into the pot on the stove, he's finishing a batch of kalua pig and cabbage, and the residual hunger from a grocery run comes back in full force.
Marty flicks my hand away when I attempt to grab a piece of meat, pointing at a plate on the side. "I made some panikeke. Eat that and stop trying to burn your fingers off."
"What do you say about us hiring you as our personal chef?"
"I think you'd have to pay me a hell of a lot more than you do now."
"But it is on the table."
Marty snorts.
Jun snags a final pancake before darting away, mumbling about getting ready to hang out with friends.
Marty grabs his phone and starts playing Keali'i Reichel. I slip onto the counter and rest my head against the cupboards, wistful musical notes lulling me back down to Earth.
"What's on your mind?" Marty asks.
"The usual."
"I don't live inside your head. You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
Despite the buzzing in my ear from all of my irritation this morning, he manages to make me laugh.
"I'm definitely talking about a very specific subculture in LA when I say this 'cause I know there's far more to this city than just the glitz and glam of entertainment, but anytime I go anywhere here, I'm just profoundly aware of how different it is than growing up back home. I feel like a fish out of water here sometimes."
As someone who goes back to Hawaii as many times as he can for a reason, he doesn't disagree.
"I just—" I search for the right words to explain how I feel in the scattered tile pieces floating around my thoughts. "It's been four years that we've lived here full time. I thought it would have gone away by now."
"Can I tell you a secret? It's not just LA. Don't get me wrong, this place has problems. Many of them. But you're also not used to it because you're not from here. You can take yourself out of Hawaii, but it'll always be a part of you."
His words slip out so casually, so simply, as if it really is that easy.
"How do I make this city feel like home? I spend so much of my time here that I don't know how I'm supposed to be myself without accomplishing that."
Marty casts me a side glance. "Stop trying to make it another Hawaii. It'll never be that. Think of the people you have here that do make it feel like home."
"How was it when you lived here?"
Born in Samoa before moving to Hawaii, Marty is no stranger to moving, especially when he left for Los Angeles for high school after his parents divorced. He moved back to Hawaii once he turned eighteen, but high school years are some of the most formative of a young person's life, so he credits the move, as well as his tumultuous relationship with his mom and stepdad, as reasons why he's able to stay grounded no matter where he is. He had no choice but to learn it.
He laughs. "Rough. It was a different time, different circumstances. I made the best of it that I could."
"I'm glad you did, though." I lean against my palm, smiling up at him. "And that you found your way back to us."
"You couldn't get rid of me if you tried," he jokes. On the worst of days, it reminds me too much of my dad's. On the best of days, the reminder is a warm welcome, a memory pulled straight from the depths of my wildest dreams. At this moment, it's the latter.
...
In a surprising development, Brendon gives me a spare key before he leaves for training. He and Rami have been exchanging house keys in case there's an emergency while one of us is away and the other is home. Either Rami and Brendon are closer than I thought they were or they're more trusting than they likely should be. Although, to be fair, it has gone without incident since the initial exchange, and it's not like the idea of it happening now sends up warning signals.
I don't feel like being stuck in the house by myself, but I'm also not in the mood to call anyone to hang out, so the next best thing is hanging out at Brendon's house.
"Your house is the party. Mine is the roof we hide away on. Think of it that way," he'd said after dropping it into my palm.
"Except you're not there. It's weird."
"Weirder things have happened. Trust me, you'll thank me one day. And if you help water my plants, I won't be mad about that either."
I'd scoffed, sliding it into my pocket before trekking back to my house, fully convinced I wouldn't.
No better way to eat my own words than in his house, so I dial his phone while I open his fridge. Most of it is bare since he cleared it out before he left, but there's a container of apple juice I pull out.
Brendon answers on the second ring.
He's sweaty. And shirtless.
Averting my eyes, I focus on the warmth of his eyes, inviting even when I'm interrupting him.
I don't know when it started to feel natural, but these spontaneous conversations between Brendon and I have been growing in frequency the longer he's away for training. When one of us needs someone to talk to, we'll dial the phone and the other magically has free time to answer.
"I see training is going well." I want to smack myself in the forehead. That doesn't come out how I mean it to.
Brendon brushes the comment off with a smile. "A little early for you to be calling, huh."
"What are you talking about it's only—" I glance at the clock and stop myself. "Ok fine. Nine o'clock is early for me."
"I don't mind. I needed a break." Brendon walks up to a water dispenser inside the gym of Windsor facilities. "You look bummed about something."
"Nothing specific." There's some truth to it, but it's a struggle that requires a particular ear to listen to it. "Just having one of those days where everything is irritating me and I want to be alone."
He nods. "So that's why you're over at my place then."
"Sure. We can go with that."
I place my phone down while I grab a glass from the cupboard and pour myself a drink. When I return, Brendon has a shirt on and is somewhere noticeably quieter.
"I saw the car announcement," I tell him as I pad across the soft beige carpet and drop onto the plush sofa, memories of our last night together flooding back to me. The desire to take a nap is already creeping up even though it's not even noon yet. "It looks good. Not that I can tell the difference between the last car but, you know, looks good to me."
Brendon chuckles, the sound echoing around him. I realize he's in a locker room. "Should be a big year. They changed a lot of the regulations so the grid will be more on even playing fields. Be able to race closer together. Change things up a bit."
"You mean so Windsor isn't dominating like they always do?"
"Something like that." He flashes me a cheeky smile. "I get why. But I don't know how effective it'll be."
A shine of confidence beams back at me. "Sounds like your way of saving you think you and Idris are going to kick ass again."
"If it all goes according to plan—" he shrugs casually.
"I'll be rooting for you," I tell him, leaning back in my seat. The look he returns is so endearing it makes me want to shrink into myself. "First race is back at Melbourne again, right?"
"Yeah. I'm not complaining. It's a good track to open at. Always a good time."
Knowing what he means since I've been there—not as the first race of a new season but still—makes me happy.
"I was kind of curious about something, though," I start. Not quite in an attempt to keep steering our conversation in a certain direction or because I want to distract myself, but just from sheer curiosity. "Why wasn't your family at the last race?"
He's unsurprised by this question, possibly even expecting it at some point. The only thing he's mentioned about his family since I've known him is about his sister.
"They were busy. It happens."
"Too busy to see their son win a race?" The question comes out harsher than I mean for it to. "Sorry, no judgment. Just surprised."
He nods, chewing his bottom lip. "They're busy a lot. Don't really have time to come see me when I'm away."
His vague explanation doesn't ease any concern, especially side that race was not away, but he looks like he understands this, choosing instead to let me guide the conversation. If I want to push, he'll try his best to follow my lead. If I back off, he's fine with that as well.
"I don't want to jump to any conclusion..."
Brendon laughs, looking briefly back behind him to make sure no one is there to listen to our conversation. "Long story short since this is probably the worst place for me to talk about it—I don't think it's possible for anyone to work their way up through all of the hours and money that karting and motorsports requires without the support our families give us. But sometimes families change and grow apart and it just....really sucks when they're no longer on your team."
His words fall against my skin like snowflakes, softly and without hurry. Except instead of furnishing a drop of cold, they sting like unforgiving frostbite. Guilt eats at me for even bringing it up.
He exhales like he's admitted something he's never told anyone else, and even though it's clear our conversation needs to be cut short since he's probably needed elsewhere.
"Is that what you meant when you said you like being around us? Because your family isn't there for you?"
He smiles, an expression detached from his real feelings. It hurts more than it should.
"I'm sorry. I should've given you a trigger warning for this conversation."
Despite the sad turn, he laughs. A familiar harmony amidst a sea of off-key mistakes.
"You don't have to apologize. I like the sound of your voice."
I nod silently.
Brendon turns around at the sound of someone else in the background. He waits for them before replying, the camera dipping back down to his Windsor branded shirt reminding me once again of my untimely questions. When he raises the screen again, he is somehow the one that looks apologetic.
"Sorry, they're calling a meeting before we go home. I can call you later."
"I really can't handle the fact that you're the one apologizing right now."
He laughs again. "I said it's fine. Thank you for keeping me company."
"You're welcome," I manage to choke out. "I might be napping later. Fair warning. This is a very comfortable couch."
Brendon flashes me another smile. "Make yourself at home. I'll call just in case. You can help me pick out something for dinner."
"Can't wait to help you decide between plain salmon or plain chicken breast, or whatever the hell you athletes eat when you're training."
Turns out, when Brendon calls me, even when I'm flushed with a wave of exhaustion, I find myself answering his call. He goes with salmon, brown rice, and steamed broccoli, all because I tell him it actually sounds better than I thought it would. And after talking for an hour or so, I can't remember about what but I laugh quite a few times, he's not surprised when I fall asleep on him.
"Sweet dreams, Stevie."