Page 89 of A Quick Stop in Paradise

“Frolicking and—what?” Stella scratched the back of her head, giving me an embarrassed scowl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just hanging out. Ugh—I haven’t metanyboys here. I’m so disappointed.”

Indeed she did not. Oscar, though, arched an eyebrow at her. “Things didn’t pan out with Jacob, then, huh?”

“Jacob?” Stella visibly blanked for a second before she shook her head. “Ugh… he’s a dick. Pass.”

“Right,” I said. I smiled sweetly. “Well, it’s a good thing you and Allison have been good friends.”

“Oh, um… yeah.” Stella shifted in her seat. “Yeah, it’s been fun hanging out with her and stuff. So, what were we talking about?”

Mom missed what was going on—honestly, I think even Oscar missed it, which raised some questions about just how obvious Brooklyn and I had been and how Stella had missed it—and she folded her hands on the table, looking at Stella softly and saying, “We were just talking about your sister, sweetheart.”

“Well, yeah, I know that,” Stella said. “Were you apologizing for being weird?”

Mom pursed her lips, visibly weighing it over before she said, “I guess so.”

I held my wine glass close to my face, a shield against the emotional vulnerability, and I said, “We were talking about everyone taking Shane’s side… Mom said she was sorry for trying to not take sides and ending up hurting me in the process.”

Stella folded her arms on the table. “So, did we get into the whole thing with Ryan’s career, or are we slow-walking the apologies?”

I sighed, putting a hand up. “Stella, it’s… it’s fine. I know these things are complicated—”

“No, I—I owe you an apology for that too,” Mom said, her voice strained, but honestly it might have hit harder for the fact that it was visibly difficult—that this was so hard for her but she was still doing it. “I’ve had an image in my head of what you were supposed to be like. I’m not… I’m not very good at this. I’ve never raised children before,” she laughed through tears, wiping them away with that frustrated gesture she always did when she was trying not to cry and did anyway. “But all I want is that you know I love you. I love all of you, and I want to hear what you actually need.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Mom… thank you.”

Oscar cleared his throat. “What I actually need is dinner, and I think our waiter is eyeing us wondering if it’s safe to come ask us for our orders.”

Stella rolled her eyes audibly. “Oh my god, Oscar, let someone have an emotional moment without running away hissing.”

But I let him have his hissing retreat—I was starving. I sat up straighter and smiled as the waiter came back to the table, and we placed our orders, frantically looking over menus we’d neglected, except for Stella, who had genuinely only just shown up and took a split-second glance at the menu before ordering blackened grouper. She always did that—hovered around the menu, took one look, and immediately picked what she wanted and dove in headfirst.

I wondered if that was symbolic of anything.

∞∞∞

I felt a strange mixture of lightness and exhaustion like I’d had a big workout once we’d finished the meal, moving to the boardwalk plaza looking out over the ocean, music playing softly and Mom and Oscar both at the bar while I sat on the loveseat next to Stella, holding up my drink to hers.

“Here’s to vacation,” I said, and she didn’t make fun of me like I’d thought, tapping her glass to mine.

“Here’s to vacation,” she said. “I didn’t think Mom would come around so readily.”

“Ah…” I leaned against the arm, staring out over the ocean. “Brooklyn talked to her.”

She looked incredulously at me. “Your girlfriend got Mom to sort herself out?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said, voice sharp. Stella ignored the tone.

“Could be. She’s really into you.”

I sighed, a hand to my forehead. “Stella, don’t. I’m really intoher,too. But I talked it over with her. Neither of us is willing to uproot our lives for this. So… it can’t work. It’s painful. I’d rather not dwell on it.”

She made a face, looking out to the distance. “Ugh… I thought maybe I had a chance of actually liking your girlfriend. That would have been cool.”

It would have, though, wouldn’t it? Things like bringing my partner around to meet my family, seeing them get along, went from feeling like an obligation to a soft, warm sensation in my chest that was, in this context, a deep ache. But like I said—I’d rather not dwell on it. “Maybe you’ll like my future girlfriend.”

She elbowed me. “Now who’s erasing your bisexuality?”

“Oh.” I laughed awkwardly. “Or… whatever.”

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