Chapter 13
13
“There are three things that can hurt you, but only one if you follow the rules.”
The yacht has anchored, and the guide is doing the safety spiel. Ginny wishes Elsie would listen rather than take pictures of the island, though they admit Santa Lupita’s iconic twin mountains are stunning from this angle. They’re not as far offshore as Ginny expected, in what is apparently a popular snorkeling spot; three other boats are anchored nearby, and countless people bob in the water. Ginny would’ve liked a bit more privacy.
“As long as you wear your life jacket, which you must, you won’t drown,” the guide says. “As long as you don’t touch anything, which you shouldn’t, you won’t have a problem with fire coral. That only leaves the jellies, and they’re so small it’s more like a zap of static electricity than anything else.”
Ginny loosens the straps of the provided life vest as much as possible, but still has to suck their stomach in to buckle it. Great. They have to spend the whole morning squished into this thing.
The tightness of the life vest is forgotten the moment Ginny puts their face in the water. The boat is anchored off the reef, of course, but even here there are schools of fish flitting in and out of the occasional coral. They forget about their desire for more privacy, too; when they follow Elsie over to the reef, there could be a thousand people around and Ginny wouldn’t notice.
It’s like an episode of Planet Earth . Coral and anemones and sea urchins and fish, so many fish. Ginny can’t count how many different kinds, sun flashing over colorful scales as they dart through the water. She wants to ask Elsie if she saw the one that looks like Dory, wants to never stop looking at the reef. There’s too much to see.
At first, Ginny swims all over, trying to see everything, though they’ll never have enough time. Eventually, they manage to stop being so desperate to take it all in and instead let themself enjoy the experience.
Ginny is floating, as still as possible, hands motionless in front of themself, trying to see how close the schools of striped fish will get, when something thrashes in their peripheral vision. It’s not a sea turtle or an octopus, but their best friend.
“Fuck!”
Ginny is at Elsie’s side in half a second. “Are you okay?”
She is, Ginny can tell upon closer inspection. She’s floating just fine, mask pulled off her face and one hand to her mouth.
“Something stung me! On my lip!”
She pulls her hand away and sticks her chin out at Ginny, but there’s not even a mark.
“It looks okay,” Ginny says, reaching out to touch Elsie’s lip before thinking better of it. “It was probably one of the tiny jellies they told us about.”
“On my lip, ” Elsie huffs like it’s a personal affront. She flips around in the water and holds a leg out toward Ginny. “I jerked away when it happened and accidentally kicked a coral and now my shin feels like it’s on fire.”
That did leave a mark, an angry stripe of red across Elsie’s leg.
“You must’ve kicked fire coral,” Ginny says. “Let’s go ask the guide what to do.”
They shepherd Elsie back toward the yacht. Once there, the guide flushes the area with salt water, then vinegar. Elsie pouts, but she’s not in pain anymore.
“They could’ve warned us about fire coral,” she grumbles.
Ginny tries not to chuckle. “They definitely did, Els. You were a little focused on taking pictures.”
“Oh,” Elsie says. “Well. Whatever. I got great pictures. Even if I got stung on the lip and attacked by fire coral.”
“ You attacked the fire coral.”
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you’re blaming the victim like this.”
Ginny laughs and bumps their shoulders together. “I love you.”
Elsie beams. “Love you. Thanks for taking care of me. You can go back in if you want.”
“Nah,” Ginny says. “I’m good here.”
They are. Snorkeling was amazing, and they could’ve done it forever, but they could do this forever, too, sitting in the sun on a boat beside their best friend. Life is good.
SUNRISE IN SANTA LUPITA IS AT 6:30 A.M., SUNSET AT 6 P.M. It means they get a full two hours’ more daylight than Minneapolis this time of year, but it also means that if they want dinner at sunset, they have to eat like they’re AARP members.
The restaurant is a la carte, separate from the buffet they ate at before, and it’s the first building they’ve been in that isn’t fully open-air. Still, they eat outside, the host leading them through candlelit tables and out a wide door to the restaurant’s deck.
All the servers wear ties, and Ginny would, too, for a restaurant this fancy, if they were back in Minneapolis. On vacation, though? They’re in a chambray button-down French-tucked into chino shorts—joggers, because in addition to no ties, Ginny refused to bring any pants with a zipper on this trip.
Elsie looks like a dream in a kelly-green linen jumpsuit with wide legs and a square neckline. Ginny keeps getting distracted by her collarbones.
“I can’t believe I got stung by a jellyfish on my fucking lip,” Elsie says for the fifth time once they’re seated.
“You know,” Ginny says, trying for nonchalant but unable to stop a grin, “ P may not be in the acronym, but I could pee on it if you want me to.”
A beat of silence. Ginny can only pretend to look at the menu for so long before glancing across the table. Elsie’s glare makes it impossible not to laugh.
“I hate you,” she says.
Ginny tries to swallow their laughter, focusing on the menu again. “The boat captain did say they have lots of water sports here, but I don’t think that’s what they meant.”
“Water sports is distinctly not on our list of things to do this week.”
“I didn’t realize it was that kind of list.”
“You’re so stupid,” Elsie says, but she’s giggling, too.
The server arrives then, in a long-sleeve white button-down and a black tie matched to black pants. “How are we doing tonight, ladies?”
Ginny bites their lip to keep from smirking. The gendered term is annoying, but the lecture Elsie is about to launch into is endearing enough to outweigh it.
“Excuse me,” Elsie checks the server’s name tag, “Juliana, is it? This resort specifically caters to queer people, right?”
The server’s eyes are wide. She nods.
“And I see your name tag has your pronouns on it,” Elsie continues. “So you must know that you can’t assume someone’s pronouns or gender by looking at them. Why would you greet anyone with ladies ?”
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. There’s plenty of nongendered ways you can greet a table.”
“Anyway,” Ginny says before Elsie can start listing them. They appreciate that Elsie uses her privilege to address the rampant gendering that people do for truly no reason, but— “We’re good. How are you doing, Juliana?”
The server looks at her. Glances nervously back at Elsie. “I’m good. Thank you. Are you enjoying your stay?”
Ginny is more interested in looking at the menu than making small talk, but they chat, all smiles and gentle voice, before giving Juliana their drink order and sending her on her way, hopefully a little less anxious about serving them all night.
“You know I’m okay with getting she ’d,” Ginny says to Elsie once the server is out of earshot.
“ I know that,” Elsie says, “but she doesn’t. And what about when there’s a customer who isn’t okay with that? Plus, she didn’t she you, she ladies ’d you. It’s different.”
“I know, Els.”
Ginny’s chest feels warm. Elsie just… she cares, and she gets them, and Ginny fucking loves her for it.
“Should I not have said anything?”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Ginny reaches for her hand on top of the table, squeezes it. “I love that you stand up for me, and for nonbinary folks in general.”
“But?”
If they’re pushing Elsie on what she wants on this trip, why not push her on this, too?
“Where does that boldness come from?” Ginny says. “Why are you so good at speaking up for me but not for you?”
Elsie pulls her hand away. She looks at her water glass. Picks it up and takes a sip. Puts it back down. It takes her a moment to respond, and when she finally does, Ginny can barely hear her. “You deserve it.”
“So do you,” Ginny says.
“I know, I just—” Elsie huffs. “I don’t always know what I want, so how am I supposed to speak up about it? I know it’s not right to greet strangers with gendered terms.”
Of course that’s when the server returns with their drinks. Ginny puts on her nicest smile. It’d be really helpful if they could tip to make up for how terrified this kid looks. She delivers the drinks and takes their food order and scurries away.
Ginny’s mojito comes in a crystal highball glass with a lime twist, muddled mint swimming among the ice cubes. It’s positively boring compared to Elsie’s Bahama Mama, which looks like a sunset in a hurricane glass. Pink and yellow and orange melding together, a maraschino cherry and a huge slice of pineapple as garnish.
Ginny waits while Elsie takes pictures: of their drinks with the actual sunset as a background, then a selfie with hers, and lastly one of Ginny holding their drink. They’re going to continue the conversation once she’s done, but Elsie picks it back up herself.
“Even with Derrick, I didn’t know I didn’t want to marry him until it was right in front of me. Until it was really happening. Fuck, I’m lucky I didn’t make it all the way to the altar before I figured it out.”
You and him both. Ginny doesn’t say it; Elsie feels guilty enough already.
“I don’t even know who I am separate from Derrick. I’ve never been an adult without him.”
“Okay, but you know some stuff you want,” Ginny says.
“Oh my gosh, this drink is so good. Try it.”
Elsie holds the glass across the table, straw angled so Ginny can lean in for a taste. It tastes like it looks: sunny and beachy and tropical. Too sweet by half, but Ginny knows that’s how Elsie likes it.
“Delicious.” But they refuse to let the topic drop. “What if, in addition to doing whatever you want on this trip, we use the time to think about what you want? In real life, I mean, not just here.”
“ We think about what I want?”
Ginny needs to think about what they want, too, what they’re going to make of their life now that they’re not chained to a desk forty hours a week. But Elsie still doesn’t know about that, and this is about her.
“Well, yeah,” Ginny says. “I can help. Talk through it and stuff. Help you figure out who you are, even though I’m pretty sure you know more than you think.”
Elsie considers it. “So, like, not just a fun game where I get whatever I want. But a real thing.”
“A real thing,” Ginny agrees. “What you want matters. Both when it’s fun and when it’s real.”
Elsie looks at her. There’s a weight to the look, something heavy between them all of a sudden. Ginny would give anything to be able to read her mind.
“What if what I want…” she starts, looking toward the sunset. She pauses. It’s probably only for a moment, but it feels like hours to Ginny, their breath caught in their throat. When Elsie speaks again, her voice is stronger. “What if what I want is to enjoy dinner and not think about real life until tomorrow?”
There’s no way that was what she first planned to ask. There’s no way she had to break eye contact to talk about enjoying dinner. Ginny would give absolutely anything to be able to read her mind. But as always, they refuse to push it.
“I don’t know,” they say instead of asking what Elsie was originally going to say. “Enjoying dinner with this view seems tough.”
The sun has fully dipped below the horizon, the sky all pale orange with bright pink clouds, the water opalescent.
“I think we can manage it,” Elsie says.
She smiles and Ginny gets her pulse under control, and they manage just fine.
Elsie gets a different cocktail with each course. The Bahama Mama goes with a shared appetizer of scallops and pork belly so tender their forks go straight through it. The next drink, a rum punch, is overshadowed by her entree; it’s the first time in her life she’s had lobster. Ginny, meanwhile, orders lemon pepper shrimp and linguine that’s so good they practically lick their plate. For dessert, Elsie gets an espresso martini, and together they order chocolate cobbler with banana ice cream. It’s possibly the best meal of Ginny’s life.
All the bests in Ginny’s life have Elsie in them. Best meal. Best vacation: this one, probably, but also spring break their senior year of high school, when they spent a week driving around the Great Lakes with no itinerary, just going wherever they felt like that day. Their best concert: seeing girl in red at First Avenue.
This would be the best date, if that were something it could be. Stars are beginning to blink into existence above them. Lights from the island glitter reflections across the water. Their table is small enough they could easily hold hands across it or play footsie beneath. While parts of the resort cater to traveling families, everywhere they’ve been has emphasized privacy. Intimacy. You mostly can’t see the other bungalows from theirs; only if you lounge in the hammock on the side are you aware that anything exists besides the endless ocean.
Even if this whole place weren’t built for romance, any date with Elsie would be the best. She’s Ginny’s favorite person. It’s taken Ginny a long time to figure out how to be themself in life, but it’s always been easy with Elsie.
This dinner does feel different, somehow. Like maybe it could be a date. There’s just something in the way Elsie looks at them, and Ginny can’t stop wondering what it was she was going to admit to wanting earlier.
Regardless of all that, this cobbler is definitely the best dessert Ginny has ever had. They scrape their spoon against the plate, refusing to let any go to waste.
“Okay, I’m not gonna lick the plate in public, but I will do this.” Elsie swipes her index finger through the leftover dessert, then sucks it into her mouth.
Ginny chokes. “ Elsie. ”
“What?” Elsie giggles. “You sound like my mother. Elsbeth, that’s not very ladylike. ”
She drags her finger across the plate again. This time, her tongue comes out, licking up one side of her finger before sucking it into her mouth.
She is not looking at Ginny the way she looks at her mother.
“Anything else I can get you two?”
It takes a second for Ginny to break eye contact with Elsie to look at the server. They wish she’d misgendered them again, anything to interrupt whatever is happening here. This fluke.
“I’m all set,” Ginny says. “What about you, Els?”
Elsie hasn’t stopped looking at them. “I’m good.”
As the server reaches for the empty dessert plate, Ginny stacks their silverware on it, tosses her napkin on top just for something else to do with their hands. They watch the server walk away for as long as possible before finally looking at Elsie again. Elsie’s index finger idly traces the edge of her martini glass. Her head is tilted down, so when she looks across the table at Ginny, it’s through her lashes. Candlelight dances across her face.
“What if I want something that could ruin our friendship?”
Ruin it, Ginny thinks, no hesitation.
But no, they can’t say that. They want to be a good friend. Besides, maybe Elsie doesn’t even mean it like that. They can’t let their libido and this romantic place mess up a decade and a half of friendship.
“Nothing could ever ruin our friendship,” Ginny says. “You’re stuck with me for life, Hoffman.”
Elsie blinks and looks away. “A real hardship, being stuck with you.”