Chapter Text
They liked her too much.
It was both of them — Mele and Alika Kahananui, the enterprising middle-aged kanaka couple, but mostly driven by Mele, the unofficial, self-appointed matriarch of Sulani.
She never hesitated to greet Leila Illes warmly when the two ran into each other on the islands, Mele often lavishing Leila with praise over her outfit choice or some painting or photograph of Leila’s that she had seen in town. “You’re looking lovely today, Leila,” she’d say, her voice dripping honey-sweet as Leila was out with her wife Oliana Ngata and stepson Tane Ngata, moving along brusquely before she could spare a word — not even a “hello” — for anyone else in the family of three.
It bothered Oliana, that was obvious — Tane, a quiet boy always in his own world, seemed to be far away from the petty Sulani’an drama, but it profoundly got under his mother’s skin. Oliana would frown, toss Mele a scorchingly deliberate “Hello to you as well,” in a voice dripping with false politeness, forcing Mele to acknowledge her (which Mele would do reluctantly, her nose wrinkling.) Oliana would even nudge Tane, making him wave at her, which Mele met awkwardly. She and Alika had no children — she was clearly unacquainted to interacting with them, and uninterested in learning how.
“I knew that couple first,” Oliana had grumbled, in the Ngata-Illes house in Lani St. Taz — in the same neighborhood as the Kahananui, a more affluent corner of Sulani. (The islands’ economy had been shakily dependent on tourism — albeit less so now that vacation rentals had been banned from the island to moderate the housing market for kanaka permanent residents.)
Oliana had not brought up her frustration until after Tane had gone to bed, but once he was sound asleep she reclined on a lounge chair on a clear night and — Leila didn’t know how else to put it — stewed in her anger.
“I know, darling,” Leila had said delicately, perched on the chair and stroking her wife’s curls.
“You know it’s because you’re a haole, right?” Oliana had snapped, her voice sharp with derision. “You’re a haole, so they see you as having more money, higher status than me. They — Mele, mostly — think you’re better than me. They want to bring more people like you to Sulani. Less people like me.”
Leila knew, deep down, it was true — a newcomer to the islands, the prestige she brought with her was written on her body, her pale skin and blonde hair. Even her speech, with her lingering remnants of a Willow Creek accent, indicated that her origins laid elsewhere. But in the moment, she stared silently at the moon, waiting for the awkward, guilt-ridden moment to pass. Oliana had watched her, waiting for some apology, some response, some thing — but when the moment did pass, and Leila was mum, Oliana had sighed, loud and deep, and leaned back, closing her eyes. Leila had dropped her hand.
***
Today, she hoped Oliana would feel differently.
“My love,” she began, her voice lilting as she stepped into the house, “I have good news!”
Oliana looked strikingly attractive in that moment, muscles rippling beneath her arms and brown waves of hair spilling across her shoulders. She had been eating after working out, it seemed —- she was still clad in her exercise wear, sitting at the kitchen table, her face flushed and slick with sweat. She glanced up from her garden salad and grinned broadly at Leila — the kind of million-simoleon smile Leila had always adored.
“Tell me.”
“Don’t be mad but — I got a photography commission!”
Leila had been looking to supplement her Watercolor Dabbler income for a while — life in Lani St. Taz did not come cheap, and being an artist in Sulani was difficult when the government was largely interested in island conservation and preservation above public funding for arts. But the other shoe was yet to drop.
“Don’t be mad?” Oliana blinked. “My love, why would I be mad?”
“It’s from the Kahananuis,” she said, the words quickly falling from her mouth before she could do anything to blunt the announcement’s blow, “Mele wants me to take photos of Sulani for her. For — for the Sulani Business Association, technically, I guess. They want photos for some magazine.”
Oliana’s face darkened, her eager smile sinking into a frown. “I see.”
“Darling, please be happy for me—,”
“I just don’t know if you want to take money from bigots.”
Bigots. The word was dangerous, a loaded gun tossed on the table amidst the conversation — one that Leila refused to touch. She felt herself take a step away automatically, unconsciously. Oliana’s frown deepened.
“Darling,” Leila began, pleadingly, but Oliana shook her head.
“Please don’t,” she said, standing up, turning, and walking towards their shared bedroom.
This was an anger Leila hated — when Oliana was somewhat angry, she would get snappy, sarcastic, would argue endlessly. It was a kind of fire Leila often appreciated having on her side. When she was deeply angry, though, her emotions congealed into a frozen silence, and she’d skulk away, leaving the other party baffled with her sudden, deadly calm.
It took some time before Oliana would get over the feeling, Leila knew — but she would get over it, she had to remind herself, before she blinked away budding tears of frustration and retreated, slinking away to her art supplies, hoping to calm down before Tane returned home from school. She’d load her film into her camera, and eventually all would be well.
All, she had to remind herself again, her hands trembling as she withdrew her camera, would be well.