Chapter 25 Tequila Shots
TEQUILA SHOTS
ASHLEY
True, everyone started out pretty charmed by Captain Julio and his beloved submarine and arch experience—for the first couple of hours, anyway. But once we tried to turn around and the engine coughed, sputtered, and then fully gave up on life, the whole vibe shifted.
The swells picked up.
The sun got hotter.
The questionable tacos we’d eaten earlier launched a coordinated attack.
And the drinks handed out like Halloween candy?
Yeah. Not helpful.
“No worries! Brief intermission!” Captain Julio shouts before promptly vanishing into the tiny pilot’s hut for what feels like an eternity.
By the time the engine finally roars back to life and the boat begins crawling back to the docks, my poor sister—the bride who should’ve been basking in the glow of a luxurious Cabo excursion—has wilted in one of the few scraps of shade to be found, clutching a barf bag. Her third, if I wasn’t mistaken.
Noah, bless that man, stays glued to her side, gently fending off well-meaning questions and pressing a bag of ice from the “bar” to the back of her neck.
As for me, having seen enough arches, rock formations, and turquoise ocean to last a lifetime, I drop onto a cracked plastic bench near the pilot’s hut—one of the only other spots I can find with intermittent shade.
Intermittent being the key word, because every time the boat shifts, so does the sun.
The twins join me a minute later—one on each side—Max slumping against my shoulder while Blakey curls up in my lap.
Every time the shade slides away, I throw whatever I have over them: my cover-up, a towel, another towel.
Basically constructing a rotating portable tent out of sheer maternal desperation.
Beckett stands close by, steady despite the rocking, not talking. Just being there.
And honestly? It’s really comforting. Feeling like a family.
I’ll be mad at him for that again, later. Once we’re back in the comfort of the ship.
Captain Julio, meanwhile, keeps right on performing, asking trivia questions no one wants to answer, “offering” free shots of tequila to anyone who got them wrong.
Beckett, always the good sport, is literally the last man standing. He’s not even bothered when the “paparazzi” squat down to show him the photos of his beautiful family…
“How many nines are there in one hundred?” Captain Julio refuses to give up on us. If fun could be forced by sheer willpower, well…
“Ten!” I answer without thinking.
“Ah, for such a smart-looking lady, you are… WRONG,” Captain Julio announces. “And when you are wrong on my boat, you take a shot.”
The bartender hands him a tiny green glass. Julio presents it to me with great ceremony.
“You have to drink it, Mom,” Max says helpfully, perking up under his towel tent.
“That’s the rule,” Blakey adds, solemn as a judge.
My mom reaches out a hand. “But she can’t dri—”
“I’ll take her punishment.”
Beckett steps in before Mom can finish the sentence and throws the shot back like it’s water.
He barely reacts—just the smallest wince as the cheap tequila hits his stomach. Gone as quickly as it appears. Like he’s used to swallowing things that burn.
“Come on now,” Julio presses on, hosting his own personal game show. “Someone must know the answer!”
“Eleven!” Babs yells from the back.
Wrong. Another shot.
She hands it straight to Beckett. Naturally.
“Zero?” Patty calls.
Wrong. More tequila.
By now, even the spectators are doing the math. A few people count on their fingers.
And beside me, Max and Blakey have been conspiring.
Max pokes Beckett’s arm. Beckett bends down.
“You guys know it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Max says. “But if we’re wrong, you have to take the punishment.”
Blakey nods gravely. “Cause we’re too young.”
Beckett chuckles. “Go ahead. Take your best shot.”
The boys scramble to their feet, and Beckett rests a hand on each of their shoulders like he’s presenting tiny prodigies on a game show.
“These two have the answer,” he announces.
“Ah! The little ones!” Julio beams. “Always, they put the adults to shame. So—tell everyone, how many nines are there in one hundred?”
Max and Blakey exchange a conspiratorial look. Then, in perfect unison:
“Twenty!”
“Winners!” Julio shouts, arms flung wide.
Max and Blakey immediately explain the logic—counting from 1 to 100, ticking off every number containing a 9. “Ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two…”
And their prize? A Cabo San Lucas key ring. And because there are two of them, Captain Julio pulls out all the stops and throws in a little magnet.
And then, thank God, we are finally pulling up to the docks.
Julio’s voice cracks as he gives his final “Muchas gracias!” into the mic, then he ducks out of sight to help with the ropes.
Huge ropes. Worn. Heavy.
For the first time, I see it—the slump in his shoulders, the weariness replacing his carnival grin.
When Beckett catches my eye, I know he sees it too. And sure enough, when he shakes Julio’s hand on our way off the boat, he leans in just slightly… slipping a folded bill into the man’s palm.
It hits me how normal this feels, just for a second.
Like we’re a family wrapping up a long, ridiculous day on vacation.
But it’s a fragile illusion.
Because no matter how today feels—things between Beckett and me are essentially the same. I can’t go on living with his secrets.
My heart feels heavy as the tender bounces back toward the cruise ship, the water glinting in the late afternoon sun.
Mom declares it’s bath time for the boys, only to be corrected that there’s no tub, just a shower.
Everyone laughs weakly, then shuffles towards the elevators, grateful the day’s over and that nothing official is planned tonight.
Back at our cabin, the door clicks shut behind us, and for a moment the silence feels… thick. Like what do we do now? Who are we?
“You, uh… want the shower first?” he asks, eyes flicking toward the bathroom but not settling. His fingers shift toward his pocket, probably itching to pull out that burner phone.
For a split second, I almost say, Who do you need to call?
“Sure,” I say instead. My voice is flat.
He nods once, still not pulling the phone out.
Then, unexpectedly, he adds, “Do you want room service? Or should we go to the dining room?”
I blink. I’m sunburned, salty, mortified by my screw up with the boat. The idea of dressing up and pretending to be a normal couple is just too… much.
“Room service sounds good,” I say quietly.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I know what you like.”
And somehow that unsettles me even more. Because he does know. Beckett has always known what I like, what I want.
And yet, the secrecy is still there.
“Sure.”
I grab my toiletry bag, slip into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me.