Chapter 12
12
Most of the time, Ginny doesn’t think about sophomore year. About how long she and Elsie weren’t quite the same after the dance, how awkward everything was. It doesn’t really matter. It was forever ago—more than eight years by now. Basically, a third of their lives has passed since then. They’ve both moved on.
That Ginny hasn’t actually moved on doesn’t matter.
Sure, if sophomore year had never happened, Ginny might say something. They might even ask Elsie how she feels. They’re a lesbian—they love talking through feelings. But Elsie already rejected Ginny once, and their friendship barely survived. It’s not worth risking again.
Plus, Ginny is never sure if they’re reading things wrong. Did Elsie really look at their lips? Did her fingers linger on Ginny’s skin? Maybe the moment at the waterfall was just a fluke of Ginny’s senses, the way time moves slower when Elsie touches them. No reason to make it into anything it’s not.
When Ginny gets out of the shower back at their bungalow, Elsie is already in her other bathing suit. She tosses Ginny theirs.
“A swim is gonna feel better than a shower,” Elsie says.
Ginny was hoping to get some distance from all that skin. Elsie didn’t put on a top for the return hike, and Ginny spent a full hour and a half trying not to get distracted by the muscles in her back.
Still, Elsie isn’t wrong: the water is heaven.
Shallowness is relative—when the surface hits Ginny at their chest, it’s barely over Elsie’s belly button—but they’re both able to wade in all directions. Elsie had spent their first swim yesterday exploring; she circled the bungalow, ducked under the dock it’s connected to, chased glittering schools of fish.
Ginny found the floats in a storage trunk on the deck.
That’s what they both use today. Elsie sits on a pool noodle and Ginny lounges in an armchair float with a mesh bottom that keeps them half in, half out of the water. Everything is so blue it doesn’t seem real. Ginny spares a moment to wonder how this all works—why is Caribbean water more turquoise than the Great Lakes, why is this area so shallow and free of waves, how do tides work—but, god, she really doesn’t care.
“Don’t let me float away,” they say, and Elsie catches their hand. She’s floating, too, but at least wherever the ocean takes them it’ll be together. “What else you wanna do today?”
“This,” Elsie says.
Nothing is indeed on the list.
The afternoon feels like summer vacation in middle school. No responsibilities. The world is warm and golden and still. Time passes neither quickly nor slowly, because the clock doesn’t matter. They spend hours alternating between the hammocks and the deck chairs and the ocean. Ginny’s never changed swimsuits as much as she has today: a constant rotation to keep things dry, each bathing suit getting hung over the deck railing as soon as it comes off, the other being grabbed from its place in the sun.
Ginny has shared a bed with Elsie more times than they can count. Summers in their preteens they would bounce back and forth between each other’s houses, a night here, three there, then back again. Tonight is the same as every night they’ve fallen asleep beside each other; Elsie tosses and turns until her ankle presses against Ginny’s.
“Good night,” Elsie says with a sleepy murmur of content.
Ginny’s heart skips a beat.
None of that is unusual, but normal aspects of their friendship can suddenly feel heavier if Ginny thinks about them for too long.
She lies still and listens to Elsie drift off.
Ginny knew they were a lesbian before they knew they were nonbinary. It was before they met Elsie. They don’t have a specific ring-of-keys moment so much as there was never a time in their life they weren’t awed by women. The way they acted out enough to get sent to the hall in first grade on their student teacher’s last day. Their alarming devotion to Sally from Cars. The stern math teacher everyone else said was mean who Ginny would have done anything for.
The only time Ginny and Elsie have ever kissed, they were eleven years old. They both knew they were queer, but it wasn’t that kind of kiss. They just wanted to see what the big deal was. They’d kept their eyes open and broken the kiss with giggles.
“That was weird,” Elsie had said. “Let’s watch The Johnson Dynasty .”
That was a fluke. Just like their moment at the waterfall. They’ve had a lot of flukes over the course of their friendship, but not enough for them to mean anything. Elsie’s pansexual, but she’s never seriously dated anyone who wasn’t a cis man. There was Sahar in eighth grade, but that was a middle school thing. Elsie’s bound to be curious, just like when they were kids kissing in Ginny’s bedroom. Ginny had felt like their whole body was on fire afterward, hyperaware of how close Elsie sat on the couch. Elsie, meanwhile, had been fully engrossed by the television.
A few years later, when Ginny got up the nerve to ask her to the dance, Elsie said no.
Ginny is happy with their friendship. She almost lost it once, and she refuses to risk it again. So no matter how many moments they have like the one at the waterfall, Ginny will never ask Elsie if she feels the same way they do.
Elsie is the most important thing in Ginny’s life. She’s not willing to fuck that up.
Sleep always helps Ginny get their head on straight. Or, as straight as anything about them can be, so. Not very.
Whatever—in the morning, they wake up alone.
Elsie, ever the morning person, has left a note on the pillow saying she already ordered breakfast. The shower is running on the other side of the wall, Elsie’s voice loud enough for Ginny to know it’s off-key, but not enough for them to know what she’s singing.
They sneak their hand under the mosquito netting and grab their phone from the nightstand. Yes, they’re in paradise, they should unplug and all that, but they do actually have some real-life stuff they should pay attention to.
Ginny logs in to their banking app. They’ve been doing that a lot the last week, checking and double-checking their savings account. They hated their job—and it didn’t pay much regardless—but still, quitting without a backup plan maybe wasn’t the smartest idea.
They’ve got options, at least. Beyond their emergency fund, they’ll have some income. Woodworking always brings in decent money, and now Ginny will have more time to devote to that. As long as they can get enough work. Maybe Sue has a connection who could help.
Ginny met Sue in a woodworking class at Lowe’s when they were in college, not even twenty yet. Sue was older, midthirties or something, an Ojibwa woman who introduced herself with a strong handshake and an unforgettable line.
“Take the workbench next to me. Us queers gotta stick together. I know I have a perfect bisexual bob, but I’m a dyke.”
“Me too,” Ginny said.
Sue snorted. “Uh, yeah.”
Everyone else in the class was a man. Ginny and Sue got so much extra attention from the instructor, so many “tips” from the other attendees, they went for lunch together afterward and agreed to never go back. They started working on projects in Sue’s garage instead, and when Ginny bought a house in bad need of a remodel, they did all the new cabinets and flooring together, with Elsie’s so-called supervision, which was mostly her standing around talking about stain colors and how her parents’ store really should do classes of its own, where they could kick out any condescending men. They’re a perfect pair: Ginny tending toward Adirondack chairs and dining room sets and thousand-pound entertainment centers, and Sue using all their scrap wood to make smaller stuff—cutting boards and cooking utensils and the like.
Sue has brought in some work for Ginny from her day job as an interior designer. Every so often, someone wants new built-ins, or a dining room table they can pass down to their children and grandchildren, or even something small like a bedside table. Usually Sue and Ginny split the project, their day jobs keeping them both too busy to complete it on their own. Now that Ginny quit, they’ll have plenty of time.
Their life in Minnesota is going to be so different when they get back. And even though they’re in paradise, they’re actually excited to go home. They don’t have an exact plan yet, but figuring it out is going to be a lot more fun than their old job.
There’s a knock on the door. That must be breakfast. By the time Ginny gets out of bed to get it, the delivery person has disappeared. At least that saves them the guilt of not being allowed to tip.
“Yay! It’s already here,” Elsie says, emerging from the bathroom squeezing her hair in a towel.
She’s in a spaghetti-strap tank top and black underwear.
Ginny’s head is very much not on straight. They drain half their iced coffee and set everything up on the deck table under the umbrella.
“I ordered lots of protein.” Elsie has put on shorts to eat, thank god. “Eat up. We’re going snorkeling.”
“That so?” Ginny spears a piece of fried sausage with their fork.
“Snorkeling this morning and dinner at that fancy restaurant tonight,” Elsie says. “Gonna check ’em both off the list.”
Protein consumed, bathing suits on under their clothes, and daypack strung over one shoulder, Ginny follows Elsie to the office on the beach where most of the hotel’s activities begin.
A worker with a name tag reading NICHOLAS, HE/HIM —Ginny loves that pronouns are included—issues them both masks and flippers and life jackets, all for free. He almost has Ginny convinced they should rent wet suits—one of the few add-ons available that’s not already covered—when they finally think to ask the water temp.
“Oh,” Nicholas says, like he’s talking about a horror movie. “It’s only seventy-four degrees.”
Elsie snorts, and Ginny bites down on a grin. Their preferred Great Lake is Superior, a balmy 62 degrees at the height of summer.
“We’re good.”
While they wait for the boat to the reef, they sit on the edge of the dock, Elsie’s feet dangling in the water, Ginny’s legs not long enough for hers to reach.
The beach is crowded with people, on chaises, under umbrellas, kids and adults both playing at the edge of the water. Thank god for the seclusion of their bungalow. Vacations are not for being around people. Though, squinting at other travelers from behind her sunglasses, Ginny realizes that at least there seem to be plenty of queer folks.
A lot of them, actually.
There was a mini rainbow flag on display at the front desk when they checked in. The staff’s name tags all have pronouns on them. And now there are more white men in Speedos than Ginny has seen in their whole life.
“Weird question, but, uh… is it possible Derrick booked your honeymoon at a gay resort?”
Elsie kicks her feet in the water below the dock. “I was hoping you wouldn’t figure that out.”
Ginny raises their eyebrows, smirking. “Els.”
“Don’t laugh,” Elsie says, then that’s exactly what she herself does, a giggle breaking through. “You know it’s important to him to support my identity.”
“And obviously the way to do that is taking you to a gay resort for your honeymoon.”
Elsie’s whole face scrunches up as she laughs. “He actually said—he said—” She wheezes for a moment. “He said, ‘It’s an LGBTQ resort. P might not be in the acronym, but that means pan, too!’”
Ginny presses their fist to their mouth, trying to contain their laughter. “ P may not be in the acronym.”
“He was always kinda offended about that, to be honest.”
“He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but at least his heart’s in the right place.”
“Yeah,” Elsie says, all quiet, and Ginny realizes maybe they shouldn’t talk about her ex that way.
Before Ginny can decide if they should apologize, Elsie pulls her cover-up over her head. Ginny looks out at the water.
“If we’re not doing wet suits, can you sunscreen me?” Elsie asks. “I got burned a little even with how often we sprayed it on yesterday, so will you rub it in, too?”
So much for getting their head on straight. Ginny would rather go back to talking about Derrick. Well—they’d very much not, actually. They’d like to put their hands on Elsie. That’s exactly the problem.
Elsie’s creamy skin is indeed pink in places, outlines of the straps of her other bathing suit. She’s in the one-piece for snorkeling, thank god. Ginny couldn’t have handled touching that much skin. They can barely handle the racerback straps and open back of this suit.
Elsie gasps at the first touch of Ginny’s hands.
No. At the coolness of the sunscreen. Not at Ginny’s hands.
“Go all the way under the straps,” Elsie says.
Ginny takes a breath. Lifts the straps to get underneath. She thinks about the Minnesota Twins, about how Jaws gave sharks a bad rap, she even thinks about Derrick—anything other than sliding these straps down Elsie’s shoulders. The wide expanse of skin. The freckles they connected with a Sharpie one sleepover when they were kids.
The boat arrives before the moment can turn into another fluke.