I spin around and spot Penelope jogging toward me. I hop back out of the truck and start to ask what’s wrong, but she cuts me off, pulling me down into another one of her death hugs.

“You did it!” she yells, her voice giddy.

She breaks the hug, grips me by the shoulder, and holds me in front of her.

I stare at her painfully wide smile and try to muster a small one of my own. “Did what?”

She shoves her phone an inch from my face. “You and your mom! You got the highest score at the festival! Look!”

My stomach leaps up my chest when I focus on the screen. At the top of the Maui Food Festival webpage are the results of the poll. Tiva’s Filipina Kusina sits at the top in bright red letters, the number ninety-seven next to our name. My breath comes out in a huff. I can’t make words.

“Holy . . . wow . . .”

I don’t let myself blink when I look at the results. I don’t want that bright red number going anywhere.

Still grinning wide, Penelope nods her head while laughing giddily. “Hell yes, holy wow! You freaking did it!”

Slowly, I nod my head. Processing is still a struggle, but after another few seconds of Penelope’s giddy squeals and congratulations, it finally sinks in. We won. Mom and I, we did it. We established ourselves as the top eatery on the island, beating every other restaurant and food truck in the festival. We just won twenty thousand dollars. Nothing else even close to matters.

I wait for the wave of emotion to hit, for the joy, the relief, the adrenaline rush of success to paint me from the inside out. But it never comes. Inside every muscle is tense. My blood pumps like slow-moving sludge. There is not one iota of joy, happiness, or excitement inside of me.

“This calls for champagne!” Penelope says.

She pulls away and chatters on about a new cocktail place near her apartment. Her words fade into the background, though, the longer I stand there.

Champagne.

The last time I had champagne was with Callum, cuddled next to him on his couch, just before we screwed each other’s brains out. I’ll never, ever have champagne with him again—I’ll never have anything with him again.

Our win means he and Finn won’t share a food truck spot with us anymore.

I won’t see Callum’s face every time I look up from the truck window. I’ll never get another eyebrow wag that serves as a secret smile between us. We’ll never share another champagne-drinking contest, another kiss, another cuddle, or another flirty conversation.