Chapter 19
Side Quests
There’s something holy about the moment a ferry uncouples from the mainland. Like a quiet promise that says you won’t be the same when you return.
The wake unfurls in widening rings behind us as we lean against the boat’s railing, the wind pushing at our jackets and hair. Before us, the Salish Sea glimmers, blue-green and impossibly beautiful. We pass little uninhabited islands that rise from the water like the backs of sleeping creatures.
Kiki is cradling a lavender matcha latte like it’s a therapy dog. She hasn’t said much since I picked her up from Bellingham airport, which is how I know something’s wrong. Kiki talks like she breathes—continuously, effortlessly. Silence is not her default setting.
“You came to check on me, didn’t you?” I ask, gently.
“Of course I did,” she says, but she’s watching the water, not me.
“You moved to a remote island, you’re trying to build a new life, and sending me photos of suspiciously adorable produce. It was time for me to check you weren’t in a cult.”
“And?”
“You might be. But your skin looks amazing, so I’m reserving judgment.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Not the way it used to.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.
She nods, pulls her jacket tighter, as the breeze kicks up, bringing with it the faint scent of cedar and salt.
“So…” I say, just to open a door. “This trip wasn’t just about my glow-up and questionable life choices, was it?”
“You always did see through me like I’m a Hallmark protagonist pretending I don’t still love my ex at Christmas.”
“Which movie?”
“Pick one.”
I wait. She doesn’t make me wait long.
“Mel dumped me.” She sips her latte. “This time it’s permanent,” she adds. “It had to be. I couldn’t keep pretending.”
I turn toward her, heart open, but quiet.
Kiki exhales, hard. “You know how in high school, all the other girls would whisper about who they wanted to kiss? Which boys they made out with under the bleachers, who had the best butt in jeans, who they wanted to lose it to at prom?”
“Sure.”
“I felt… nothing. I thought I was a late bloomer. Or just picky. And I wanted to want it. I watched Titanic fifteen times, trying to get turned on by Leo in a waistcoat. All I got was frustration that Rose couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger—and a weird fixation on lifeboats.”
I laugh, gently. She lets out a breath.
“Now that I’m an adult, I like kissing,” she says. “I love kissing, actually. I like the warm stuff, the kind of cuddling where your ribs hurt from how hard you’re hugging. I love slow dancing in kitchens and napping with someone tangled around me. I love love.”
She pauses. Looks at me.
“I just don’t want to have intercourse. I never have. And for a long time, I thought that meant I was broken. Or traumatized. Or missing something fundamental. But I went to this conference last month for Asexual Awareness Week, and for the first time, I didn’t feel weird. I felt named.”
“You’re a romantic asexual?” I ask, softly.
She nods, eyes brimming. “I didn’t even know that was a thing. But it is. And I am.”
“What are you feeling now?”
“Relieved. Terrified. Free.”
“I’m proud of you.” I give her a sideways hug.
Her shoulders drop like she’s been holding them up for weeks.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to ask questions or shut up and sit with it?”
She gives me a real smile now. “Ask.”
“Okay. Does it change what you want from relationships?”
“Maybe. I mean, it’s not like I was killing it on the dating apps before. But now I get to be honest. Up front. The already small pool of possible partners just turned into a kiddie pool with a slow leak, but at least I won’t be in it pretending I like the dirty water.”
That gets a genuine laugh from both of us.
“What about love?” I ask.
“Oh, I still want it. I want a Nora Ephron movie ending, minus the sex montage. I want someone to curl up with and eat popcorn straight from the bag and fall asleep on the couch watching Notting Hill with. I just don’t want the part where it ends with sweaty naked acrobatics.”
“Fair.”
“I kept trying to be the version of myself someone would want, and I kept leaving pieces of me behind to do it.”
“Not anymore,” I say, fierce.
“Not anymore,” she echoes. “You know, the weirdest thing is that I feel more like myself than I ever have. But lonelier than I expected. Which is why I needed this trip. Not because I need to disappear. Because I needed to be seen. By someone who knows me.”
I take her hand. “I see you. Always have.”
She wipes her eyes, then immediately pivots. “Also,” she adds with a sniff, “I want to help you get laid.”
I snort. “Excuse me?”
“What? You’ve been heartbreak cooking and mooning around farmers markets like a Bront? heroine with a secret sourdough starter fetish. It’s time.”
“You really came here to help me rebound?”
“I came here to help you thrive,” she says grandly. “But I am open to side quests.”
“You’ve put thought into this.”
“Oh, I have spreadsheets. And a moodboard. Think Under the Tuscan Sun. The woman gets dumped, then traipses off to France.”
“Italy. Tuscan sun,” I remind her.
“But don’t you think France would’ve been nicer?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” she continues, “Think You’ve Got Mail with the perky blonde in all her cute hats walking through Central Park, faking orgasms along the way.”
I snort. “You mean When Harry Met Sally.”
“God, the heartache that woman went through. The boxes and boxes of tissues, the confusion, the torture. And the guy she fell in love with was her friend.”
“Okay, I think we went off track—”
“As modern women, we have to ask ourselves: Do we really think we’ll find a Lloyd Dobler who’s going to stand under our window holding a boom box and play a kickass song to prove his love for us?”
She pauses. “Why are you looking at me like that? What did I mix up this time?”
“Actually, you got the movie right. Threw me for a loop.”
“Seriously, Ava. Is it even possible to find a Lloyd Dobler without going through a Costco supply of tissues?”
“First, I don’t know the answer to that. Second, you do know they’ve made romantic comedies since 1990, right?”
“Have they? Because the ones I’ve seen don’t deserve to be in the genre.”
“And today’s Lloyd Dobler would just text you a Spotify link.”
“So bleak.”
She doesn’t say anything after that, and she doesn’t need to.
Below, a shout rises from the deck. We both turn—and then we see them.
A pod of orcas, surfacing in unison. Five or six, maybe more, their slick black backs slicing through the water. One breaches—a full, dramatic arc—and the ferry passengers gasp.
“Oh my god,” Kiki breathes. “Is that even real?”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares, like she’s trying to memorize it.
“They’re resident pods,” I explain. “Gavin says they stay together forever. Matriarchal, too. The grandmothers lead.”
We watch the pod in silence as it disappears in the waters beyond us. We both exhale, long and quiet, as the island comes into view, with its towering evergreens, sharp coastline, and a kind of beauty that asks nothing of you.
As we drive off the ferry, Kiki says something about the trees—how tall they are, how the air smells pure, scented with possibility.
I smile, but my stomach pulls a little.
Because now I know why she’s here.
And I’m not sure what terrifies me more.
That she might succeed.
Or that I might want her to.