Page 99 of A Quick Stop in Paradise

“Brooklyn—” Allison shot me a look that would have made a lesser person drop dead on the spot. Stella laughed, though, stepping into the house.

“You know,” she said, reaching a hand out and teasing back some of Allison’s hair, and the girl immediately forgot I was there, looking wide-eyed at Stella, a blush spilling instantly over her cheeks. “You’re really fun to be around. I’m supposed to be picking up dinner for me and Ryan right now, but if you’re free to come into town with me, I bet she’d understand if I took a while.”

“Um—I don’t want to get in your way,” Allison blurted. I clapped a hand on her back.

“Allison, babe, the girl’s asking you on a date,” I said. “Say yes.”

“Um.” Allison looked frantically between me and Stella, who rolled her eyes affectionately at me.

“You’re so nosy, getting into other people’s business.”

“It’s what bartenders do.”

Allison let out a short, sharp breath, and—saying it all as one syllable—she blurted, “I’d love to. To go into town with you, I mean, and, um… yeah.”

Even with no idea what could come next. Just trying to spend what time they had together.

Dammit. I needed to take lessons from Allison. I’d thought maybe the girl respected me, looked up to me, because I’d learned how to deal with my family not respecting my queerness. But turned out all I knew was how to run away.

“Great,” Stella said, beaming. “Get your shoes on and get in the car. Please for the love of god don’t dress up, I’ll look awful next to you.”

“You look beautiful. I mean, you always do. I mean…”

Stella laughed. “You can compliment me more in the car, okay? Brooklyn…” She shot me a look, and I turned away, setting the dishes down by the sink.

“You’ve made your point,” I said thinly. “Go on your date.”

“I know Imademy point, but did youhearmy point?”

“Heard you loud and clear.” And I was intending on ignoring it. Luckily she had a time obligation that she was already delaying by taking Allison on a date—got her to drop the subject and head out the door, Allison right on her heel, the two of them practically floating. Even just with one more night for the two of them.

The thought of it haunted me all through washing the rest of the dishes in a stupid lonely house with nothing but the sound of the ocean waves in the distance mocking me, gloating about how far they were going to keep Ryan away from me. They crashed and rolled, lapping against the sand, normally too quiet in the distance for me to hear them unless I stood there and really paid attention, but this time they felt deafening, overwhelming, the only thing in the universe, until I found myself drawn there, some twenty minutes later, wearing my shoes and a light jacket, walking down the path and across the sand, the ocean breeze cool on my ears and the tip of my nose.

The beach was quiet at this time of night—a small strand away from the touristy part, it was deserted, rugged rocks lining the south end and rolling off to the white sand along the north end, an ocean pitch-black under a night sky staring me down as I sank down on a picnic table bench, hugging my jacket tighter around me against the cold of the ocean wind.

Somewhere out there right now, Allison and Stella were enjoying tonight like it was their last night on earth. And somewhere out there, Ryan was alone. I wondered if she could see the ocean from her room… if she was sitting there staring out over it at the same time I was.

She did love the ocean. Too much, honestly. Now I was going to think about her every time I saw the ocean, which was really damn inconvenient, since I lived on an island where I could see the ocean from my own damn house. Every time I was on the terrace, I was going to be there thinking about her sitting at the one spot by the side that she’d claimed as hers, sipping a flat white in the same lazy style I made them, staring out over the ocean in between writing.

I wanted her to stay there. Wanted her to write a hundred articles from that spot on the terrace. I wanted to beg her to stay, or at least to visit again—knowing she’d be off exploring the world, digging up stories, but I wanted her to come back here after each one to take all the notes she’d gathered, sit in that spot she’d made hers, and tell the world what she’d learned. While I brought her next drink up for her and kissed the top of her head.

Shit, she really was different from the others.

I slipped my phone from my pocket, opening my emails looking for the link to her page, and my stomach jumped with a nervous flutter when I saw a notification for a new newsletter release from Ryan Bell. My hand shaking, I clicked through, pulling up the post, and I clutched the phone tighter as I read.

Hi everybody,

I know I don’t share a lot of personal updates, and I already did share one this week, but I’m sitting here in a hotel room unexpectedly, having walked out of a flight after an argument with my family, and when I should be thinking about if my flight tomorrow will go better, I’m sitting here thinking about someone instead.

I know I mentioned the ex-boyfriend fiasco in the last personal update, but I didn’t mention the other part of it. The more important part. The part with the woman who gave me a safe place to land when everything fell apart, the woman who inspired me to tell my truth to my family and to my supporters, and the woman who’s made this whole experience worth having.

I’ve kept quiet about this because I didn’t want to polarize anybody, but I can’t keep quiet on my own self, especially not when I’m writing on matters of human rights and equality. I’m bisexual, and my family isn’t on speaking terms with me anymore over it.

I don’t regret it. And it’s not all of them. My mother came around. My sister has been a fierce and vocal supporter. My twin brother is just confused how someone so genetically linked to him likes anybody, let alone people of all genders. There are people who still support me, and I’ve found that it’s so much more meaningful this way.

Andre Gide’s famous quote, “it is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for something you are not” is true, but it doesn’t say enough. It is better to be hated for what you are, but it is even better still to be loved for what you are than to be tolerated based on what you pretend to be. Even if only by a select few. One person seeing you for who you actually are and cherishing every detail of you is worth more than a thousand people who accept a polished façade.

Many of you reached out to me to express sympathy for everything that I mentioned in my last update, and I appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you. But in truth, I’m grateful for all of this, because the woman I met here helped me realize something I’ve been trying to find for years.

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