Chapter 8
8
Nothing like racing through the Atlanta airport to wake you up after a 5:30 a.m. flight. Their layover is barely an hour, but after speed-walking down moving walkways, they make it through international security and into the boarding line for their flight to Santa Lupita.
“I’m so glad you could come with,” Elsie says. “I really didn’t think you’d get the time off on such short notice, but I couldn’t do this without you.”
“You could,” Ginny says.
They don’t correct Elsie’s understanding of the events that got them here. Telling her at this point that they quit their job makes no sense. Elsie’s the one in—well, crisis seems a bit excessive, but—in crisis right now. Ginny doesn’t need to make it about them.
It did feel a bit like lying last week, though, when they would pick Elsie up for lunch every day like nothing had changed. It felt calculated—it was calculated, the way Ginny never started woodworking in the morning because otherwise she’d have to shower before lunch so Elsie wouldn’t know. They’ve never lied to each other before. But it wasn’t lying, really—just omitting something, and for a good reason—so Ginny tries not to feel too guilty.
Now that they’re past the calculating part of it, though, there’s really no need to tell Elsie until after the trip.
Ginny has only been out of the country once, on an eighth-grade trip to Winnipeg. In high school, Elsie did a spring break trip to France, but Ginny stayed home. The farthest south they’ve ever been is Gulf Shores, Alabama. They’ve certainly never been in first class.
The first leg of the trip was in coach, but Ginny managed to sleep through it anyway, the armrest up between them and Elsie so their hips weren’t squeezed to the point of torture. Now that they’re in first class, the seats are big enough to be comfortable. They don’t even have to use the seat belt extender they bring on every flight.
The rest of the plane has yet to finish boarding when a flight attendant asks what they’d like to drink.
“I feel like we should take advantage of being in first class,” Elsie says, “but it’s too early to get alcohol, right?”
“She’ll have a Fuzzy Navel,” Ginny tells the flight attendant. It’s been Elsie’s favorite drink since before they were legal. “And I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
“So you don’t think it’s too early, I guess.” Elsie giggles as the flight attendant goes to make their drinks.
“I think for this trip you should do whatever the hell you want.”
“What happens in Santa Lupita stays in Santa Lupita?”
“Not even that,” Ginny says. “Unless that’s what you want. But Els, you almost ended up married because you didn’t speak up about what you wanted. So this trip, you get to do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“As long as you ask for it.”
“You’ll do whatever I want as long as I ask?” Elsie sounds skeptical.
“Yep.”
“Gimme five dollars.”
Ginny gets out their phone and sends Elsie five bucks through their banking app. Elsie grins mischievously.
For the entire four-and-a-half-hour flight, she uses the rules like a superpower. She makes Ginny play tic-tac-toe and read the safety pamphlet in increasingly silly voices and ask the flight attendant if they’ve ever caught anyone joining the Mile High Club. She has two more drinks, and as they begin their descent, she tells Ginny to switch seats so she can look out the window. Ginny makes no complaint, though the view is incredible: an endless expanse of blue—water and sky smoothing into ombré, almost, cobalt and royal and cerulean fading to turquoise around groups of islands.
Once they land, Ginny barely processes anything but the weather. Eighty degrees, and what’s that thing in the sky? The sun ? Minnesota hasn’t seen that for months.
Ginny holds doors and carries luggage and handles check-in, all without Elsie asking. It’s habit, taking care of things. This trip is about taking care of Elsie. A lot of their life is about taking care of Elsie. They wouldn’t have it any other way.
The person at the front desk lists too many amenities for Ginny to remember them all. Horseback riding and snorkeling and couples’ massages. Neither Ginny nor Elsie mentions that they’re not actually a couple. Everything is included—Ginny’s gotta give Derrick credit for that. It doesn’t feel like real life.
That feeling is compounded by being taken by sea to their bungalow. Their luggage already went in one boat, and they climb into another, a wooden dinghy with an outboard motor attached. The dinghy seems unassuming, but Ginny can tell that’s intentional—they may not build boats, but they know enough about woodworking to recognize this boat was put together with care and skill.
Both Ginny and Elsie have been practically silent since walking out of the airport into a new world. The color palette around them has completely changed. Minneapolis was white and gray and darker gray, that brown slush of snow in the streets that too many cars have driven over. The island is all blue sky and bluer water, green plants and tan sandy beaches.
Their boat hugs the curve of the beach, and just around a bend, the bungalows appear. Elsie gasps. A long straight dock extends from the shore, ending in an upside-down triangle with one bungalow off each side, facing different directions. The roofs are thatched and the walls are another new color: warm brown, baking in the sun. Ginny wonders what type of wood they’re built out of.
“That’s really where we’re staying?” Elsie asks.
“In my favorite one,” the boat captain says as they pull up to the bungalow farthest from shore. “The other two face east and west, but your deck faces south. Best view of sunrise and sunset, both.”
The captain ties the boat off at the corner of the deck. Along one side of the bungalow—the west, Ginny thinks, if they’ve got their bearings—are two hammocks, strung directly over open water. The south-facing deck has a small table with two chairs beside a staircase that leads directly into the water. Past the staircase, a wide umbrella casts shade over two patio loungers. There is no clear demarcation of indoors or out, because everything is open—window shutters and folding doors, wide-open to the ocean on three sides. Two wicker chairs face each other; their white pillows look cloud soft, but the main attraction inside is the extravagant four-poster bed. Rationally Ginny knows it’s mosquito netting tied up at each corner, but it looks like tulle, like the bed itself is a princess gown. There’s a mini-split above the bedframe, because they may want air conditioning. In January.
Their luggage sits beside the bed, whoever delivered it having disappeared already. The captain of the boat they just disembarked does the same, wishing them a great stay and adamantly refusing the tip Ginny offers. When the resort says all-inclusive, it means all-inclusive, though it tests Ginny’s chivalry not to tip.
On the opposite side of the bed from their luggage is a doorway that must be to the bathroom. Ginny first thinks there’s a turquoise floor runner leading that way, but it’s actually a glass floor, see-through to the lagoon waters below.
Ginny looks at Elsie, who is wide-eyed and grinning.
“Dude,” Ginny says.
“ Dude, ” Elsie says.
The bathroom itself begets another round of fawning. There’s a rain showerhead and a tub big enough for two—and not just two skinny people—with an open window beside it. The way the bungalows are positioned, it’s like Elsie and Ginny are completely alone, water as far as the horizon.
“This is wild, ” Ginny says.
Elsie nods. “It doesn’t feel real.” She grins. “I’m going swimming.”
At the airport this morning, Ginny dropped Elsie off at the door so she wouldn’t need to travel in her winter coat. They themself shivered in a hoodie on the walk from long-term parking.
Now they stand on opposite sides of the bed to change into their bathing suits. Ginny bought a new one for this trip so they would have two—one to wear while the other was still drying out. For this first swim, they put on their favorite, a one-piece that ends in shorts instead of a bikini-cut bottom. The suit is navy blue with a rainbow running from one shoulder straight across the chest then down to the opposite thigh. They look good and gay; of course it’s their favorite.
Once fully suited, Ginny takes a breath and turns to find that Elsie brought her bright-yellow string bikini.
Elsie grins. “Ready?”
Ginny nods, not sure they trust their voice in the face of all that skin.
They’re never prepared for the first time they see Elsie in a bathing suit each year. Minnesota weather means everyone has spent months covering up—all flannels and cozy sweaters. Ginny wears fleece-lined Carhartts while she makes furniture in her heated-but-not-that-well garage. Elsie loves UGGs even though they’re hideous.
Then summer comes and Elsie puts on a bathing suit and all Ginny can see is skin. It’s disorienting to see in January, disorienting to know this week isn’t enough for her to get tan; it takes all of summer for Elsie’s pale skin to go even light bronze.
Ginny looks at the floor in front of them as they follow Elsie to the deck. They can’t look at her back, bare but for the bikini strings and the end of her high ponytail between her shoulder blades, or her ass, barely covered, or her legs that go all the way to the floor. Elsie is a tall drink of water while Ginny is built like a teapot, short and stout. Elsie’s long blonde hair is light gold even in the winter, while Ginny has to focus on their hair cut, because the color isn’t doing them any favors: dishwater blonde at the height of summer and mousy brown right now.
“Sunscreen?” Ginny suggests, though the thought of covering Elsie’s back for her makes them consider forgetting to mention it. How are they supposed to survive this trip? A week in paradise, sharing a bed in a honeymoon suite with the girl they’re in love with. What have they gotten themself into?
“Later,” Elsie says. “Water first.”
She leaps off their deck.