“They always have apple bananas.” I hold my phone between my chin and shoulder, gripping the handle of the cloth grocery bag in my other hand.

“Good. Joan wants to make those smoothies at our next mahjong night,” she says.

I tell her I’ll pick up a few bunches of apple bananas and that I scored an entire crate of dragon fruit, which I’ll pick up with the car later.

“Oh, that’s good!” she squeals into the phone. “We can make that frozen dragon fruit puree and serve it this weekend for the customers. Everyone loved it the first day we tried it out. I want to do it with tapioca balls this time though.”

Today we’re pulling double duty. She’s at the condo in Kihei trying out a new vegetarian pansit recipe while I’m scouring the farmer’s market for new ingredients. She’s convinced a new recipe will set us apart among competition at the Maui Food Festival. I’m just glad to be out of the house and away from the food truck. When I’m home, I worry about having more vivid sex dreams about Callum, which has happened a couple of times ever since that first night.

I slip my phone back into the pocket of my dress. Even though it’s a Monday, the market is full to the max with locals and tourists. I can’t even make a normal stride with the people around practically pressing up against me. I manage with baby steps, dragging my flip-flops against the ground.

But being in this up-country part of the island is a welcome break from my day-to-day of sweating it out while racing back and forth from Kihei and Big Beach. Kula stretches across the western-facing slopes of Haleakala, Maui’s dormant volcano, which means it’s cooler here most days. I take a slow, silent breath in. I could swear the air feels crisper up here, even though there’s only a couple thousand feet of difference in elevation between here and the shore where I spend most of my time.

Gazing around, I spot Matteo the food blogger. He waves from his nearby booth, where he sells his special brand of essential oils. I offer a head nod, then bump into a blond woman in front of me, her hair in a messy braid.

“Shoot! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention—”

She twists around to me, squints, then beams. “I know you!”

I focus on her vaguely familiar face, trying to remember where I’ve seen her before.

She squeals before grabbing my elbow and pulling me to the side and away from the crowd. “Nikki DiMarco, right? You and your mom Tiva run that food truck! Oh my God, I love your food! Your whole menu is to die for!”