I can feel my heart racing, and I wish it was just because the boat guys told us they’ve spotted dolphins and we can go snorkelling with them. I can feel my hands trembling, and I wish I could say that it’s just because Genna looks fucking hot in her bikini. I mean, she does. She really does. All curves and smooth skin, suntan, and freckles, and I wish my mouth wasn’t so dry, because I want to kiss her so much. But it’s not. I’m scared. Three years of wanting and waiting and wishing, and now it’s all in the palm of my hand and I’m scared. I’m fucking chicken shit!
I’m numb as I follow her into the water and watch these amazing creatures play, disappearing into the blue beneath us. Then they go right and left before speeding towards us like torpedoes and jumping out of the water, somersaulting and disappearing again. Fish in the most amazing colours swim in and out of the coral, and a lone turtle ambles along, taking his own sweet time, not bothered about anyone or anything, just doing what he does every day.
That’s what I need to do, right? Stop worrying and just enjoy being in love with the woman who loves me. We aren’t doing anything wrong. We aren’t hurting anyone. So fuck it. I’m just going to forget about all the other crap, and we’ll deal with it later.
The sun is starting to set as the boat crew deposits us at the atoll for our sunset picnic, and we arrange for them to pick us up again a couple of hours later. The blanket is already laid out on the sand, and coconuts from the palm trees on the beach are weighing down the corners. An ice bucket’s nestled nearby, and covered platters wait for us. Slices of mango, melon, pineapple, and papaya sit amongst cheeses and deli meats. Crusty bread and julienned vegetables round off a simple meal, which we feast on as the sun dips into the water. Genna smiles at me and holds her glass in salute.
“Happy Christmas Eve.”
I clink her glass with my own. “Happy Christmas Eve, baby.” I’m not thinking about anything but her when I kiss her, and my earlier doubts are pushed completely out of my head. Her hand rests on my arm, and her tongue slides into my mouth. She tastes like sweet wine and pineapple, but the essential taste that is only Genna is just underneath it all—the taste that’s a little bit earthy, a little bit musky, and just a tiny bit spicy. I wish I could bottle it and take it with me always. I can feel her desire as her breathing becomes more erratic. Just like my own. I can’t stop my hands from cupping her breasts. Her hardening nipples press eagerly against my palms.
“Sand has a tendency to get into some uncomfortable places,” I say as she pants against my neck, and I whisper in her ear, “Will you take a swim with me?”
She doesn’t answer. She just groans against my neck and lets me tug her to her feet. I unsnap the button of her shorts and let them fall as we walk towards the soft breaking waves. I drop my own shorts and toss them back towards the blanket. I don’t care if they make it there or not. All I want right then is to hold her body against mine and kiss her again. She dives under the water and surfaces a few feet in front of me, slicking her hair back off her face and standing in the waist-deep water.
“I thought you wanted to swim?”
I shake my head. “Not really.” I don’t want to waste any more time and so grasp her about the waist, pull her flush against me, and kiss her, hard, plunging my tongue into her mouth and twisting my fingers in her hair until she is soft and moaning in my arms. I want to touch her everywhere, all at once. I’m not gentle as I drag my nails down her back and clutch her arse and lift her leg up around my hip. I’m rough as I squeeze her breasts, tugging and pinching her nipples. I’m not tender when I push the tiny scrap of fabric away from her crotch and expose her to the cooling water and my exploring fingers. There’s some animalistic part of me that has to take her, some primal part of me that needs to own her. I’d planned on my seduction being romantic. I’d planned on taking my time, driving her to the edge of sweet ecstasy before I let her come. Now it’s me who’s on the edge of the abyss while I’m staring down into the green and gold of those trusting eyes, those loving eyes that are looking right at me. Her lips are bruised and swollen from my kisses, but I know there is nothing she won’t give me. Nothing she won’t let me have. No claim that she won’t let me make. So I slip inside her. Her heat envelops my finger in such sharp contrast to the cool water that it makes my head spin, and I need to feel more of it. Two fingers, and her muscles clamp down on me. I can feel them trembling around me just like she’s trembling in my arms. Her eyes widen as I twist my hand slightly and find the spongy flesh deep inside. Her mouth forms a beautiful circle, a delicious imitation of the way her pussy is open for me, and I can feel my own answering spasms.
I’ve never come without being touched before, but the beauty in my arms, the gentle lapping of the water, and the breathtaking sensation of her coming around my fingers is more than I can take. The sensation spills out from my groin, travels down my legs, and up my belly like fire burning through dry kindling, devouring and obliterating everything in its path.
This would be the perfect time to tell her “I love you”. This would be the perfect place to tell her “you mean everything to me”. This would be the perfect way to let her know that I want her forever. As I stare into her eyes, her leg still curled around my hip, my fingers still buried inside her, those words die on my lips and those intentions desert me as the boat comes into view and I struggle to gain enough distance from her to appear decent. My hasty retreat causes her to lose her balance and disappear under the water. She comes up coughing and spluttering and shouting.
“Get it off me! Quick, get it off!”
She’s shaking her arm and running for the beach. Now, running through water is not an easy task. Doing so while trying to shake a gelatinous, tentacle-owning creature from your arm results in a lot of swearing, a lot of splashing, a fair bit of screaming, and even the occasional half-drowned Genna. This only gets worse when the boat guys begin treating the jellyfish sting. One of them offers to pee on her arm. Now, I don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly certain that using urine to treat jellyfish stings is actually an old wives’ tale and doesn’t work. AT ALL. Does anyone know the Maldivian for “fuck off”?
CHAPTER 25
GENNA
Ten days. It’s been ten blissful days of whistle-stop tours of gorgeous tropical islands, interesting food, laughter, sun, swimming, and sex. Not just any old sex. Oh no, we’re talking mind-boggling, out of this world, fan-fucking-tastic sex! It’s intense, but she makes me laugh. It’s experimental, but not scary. It’s amazing, and it’s with her. With Abi. I want to say “my Abi”, but I don’t want to jinx it, you know?
Today’s whistlestop tour is on this little island called Réunion, which is a former French colony. We’re in the city of Saint-Denis, and the tour guide is giving us all the spiel about the picturesque views and the mixture of sophisticated French restaurants and bistros. About the historic former port built by the French East India Company and its old warehouses that now house the French government’s administrative offices. There are Buddhist and Tamil mosques dotted all over the island, and the modern art museum is named after the poet Leon Dierx. I’m ashamed to admit that I have no idea who he is. Sorry. Rosie keeps sticking her hand up like she’s in school and asking questions of the poor tour guide. I’m starting to think NATO should employ Rosie to question prisoners, but it would probably be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
“Are there pirates here?”
“No, there are no pirates on the island.”
“How do you know? Do you know everyone on the island and know they aren’t pirates?”
“Well, no—”
“Then how do you know there are no pirates?”
“Because a man who does know everyone told me.”
“Oh, right.”
I know, right? I think this is a pretty clever diversion, and I’m definitely going to remember it for the future. Then the guide starts to tell us about the Grand Marché market and all the arts and crafts, spices, textiles, and fruits and vege
tables that we’ll see.
“Does the captain of our boat have a monkey?”
I know. She’s watched Pirates of the Caribbean far too many times.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Does he have a funny hat?”
“He has a hat. I don’t think it’s very funny though—”
“Does he wear make-up?”
“Not that I know of.” The crowd is tittering now, and I’m wondering if it’s a good idea to put my hand over her mouth.
“Is he a pirate?”
“They are with the prices they’re charging for this bloody tour!” The voice from the back drifts over and makes everyone laugh.
“No. Our captain isn’t a pirate. Now, if you would all follow me, I’ll show you to the coaches—”
“Will you be driving the coach?”
“No, we have a driver.”
Rosie takes hold of the poor woman’s hand. “Is he a pirate?”
“No.”
The door to the coach opens, and Rosie screams at the man behind the wheel with an eyepatch.
“He is a pirate! He is!” She flings herself into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist. “Genna, save me from the pirate!”
“Rosie, he’s not a pirate, sweetie. He’s got a poorly eye. See?” I pry her arms loose on my neck so that I can breathe and point to the white bandage over the man’s eye. “It’s just a poorly eye. Not a pirate.” My own reservations about getting on the coach are now far greater than Rosie’s. What the hell are they thinking? A driver with one eye? You’ve got to be joking! He slides a pair of sunglasses on and grins at Rosie.
“No pirates here, li’l darlin’. Just old Petey lost his glass eye.”
This is not getting any better. “See, Rosie, pirates don’t have glass eyes. They can’t afford them. Do you remember what the the pirate’s eye was made of?”
“Wood. He got splinters off it.”
“That’s right. So the driver can’t be a pirate.”
“Okay. Can I sit on your knee, Genna?”
“’Course you can.” When I get settled, I watch a smiling Abi sit next to us, and she pats my knee. That means I did good, right?
An elderly couple pass by as she squeezes my knee.
“Disgusting. No wonder the poor child is afflicted.”
“Come now, Muriel.”
“Well, we shouldn’t have to be subjected to this kind of immoral behaviour.”
“Muriel, please.”
I feel my cheeks heat with my anger and tears sting my eyes. Now, I have to say that since I came out, I have had to deal with exactly two incidents like this. This being the second one. The first time Ruth was feeding me a bit of chocolate cake in the park near our house when we went for a picnic. A man had been walking his dog and felt the need to express his displeasure at this “public display of affection”. His words, not mine. Personally, I think we could have been a lot more “affectionate” and really have given him something to moan about. Ruth didn’t take it very well. She started to shout at him, telling him that he was a bigoted idiot and didn’t have the brains God gave a flea. While I understand the sentiment, I don’t think that expressing it at the top of her lungs, across the park, was the best way to get her point across. Abi doesn’t seem to be reacting to the situation too well either. She’s gone grey. She’s staring straight ahead and has clasped her hands so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white. I can see where her nails are biting into her skin. Her eyes are unfocused as if she’s staring at something very far away, or deep inside her own head.
Shit. Not good. Sooo not good. I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter, but the truth is, it does. I wish it didn’t, I truly do. But having someone react to me like that hurts. They don’t know me. They don’t know anything about me, but they’ve come to the conclusion that I am worth less than they are. They judge that my place in the world is beneath them simply because I fell in love with a member of my own gender. Hell, they don’t even know that. All they know is that Abi touched my knee! That could mean absolutely nothing. It hurts. I don’t want it to. I wish I could rise above it and let it all wash over me. I don’t know them, after all. I don’t know a thing about them except that she’s a bigoted, prejudiced woman who should learn to keep her opinions to herself. It’s not like we were kissing or anything. I’m going to ignore the comments they made, but I can’t ignore the way it makes me feel. Right now I want to go back to our room and feel sorry for myself. I won’t, though. I will never let them know that they got to me. That’s when I let them beat me, and that is something I can’t do.
“Abi?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t turn to look at me, and I try not to think about what that means.
“She doesn’t know anything. She’s just a silly woman who doesn’t know any better.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the tension in her jaw. Her teeth are clenched so tight I swear I can hear them grinding together. She’s quiet the whole rest of the day. She doesn’t speak to me directly, and only to Rosie when she asks questions. I feel sick.
“Is Mummy angry?”
“I think maybe she’s not feeling very well, sweetie.”
“Has she got sunny stroke?”
“Maybe. Let’s give her some space and see if she feels better later.”
Rosie tows me over to every trinket that catches her attention in the market and points out all the pretty colours. The day drags, and a part of me is glad to be heading back to the boat, but as hard as I try, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change. How much money do you think it would cost to invent a time machine? One that would let me go back to this morning so we could change trips—or better yet, not leave the boat? I have over 120 million pounds left. I’ll give every penny of it for Abi to walk through that door to our bedroom, smile, and start to kiss me.
The door opens.
She walks in and sits at the foot of the bed.
“Genna, we need to talk.”
Nothing good ever comes after that sentence.
CHAPTER 26
ABI
“Genna, we need to talk.”
She doesn’t say anything but the colour drains from her face. Shit, this was going to be even harder than I thought, but it’s the right thing to do. Right? I have to think about Rosie. This morning scared the shit out of me, and I can’t subject Rosie to more potential hurt. She already has enough of that to contend with because of the prejudice people have about Down Syndrome. She has to put up with the pointing and staring and the stupid comments and the ignorance that people demonstrate all the time. Subjecting her to more of that because of how I feel about Genna just isn’t fair. It isn’t right. Rosie has to come first. She just has to. That’s a decision I made the second I decided to have a child. She comes first. Her happiness, her well being, her every time. Full stop. No questions, no what ifs. It just is. It doesn’t matter that I love Genna. It doesn’t matter that she makes me happy. It doesn’t even matter that I know this is going to rip my own heart out. Rosie is my priority, my number-one priority. She has to be. Always. If it was just me, I could deal with it. I could deal with the pointing and the looks and the comments. I’m sure I could. I could learn to cope with people treating us like we are subhuman or something. I think. How the fuck could I let myself forget my priorities? How the fuck could I be so selfish? Why couldn’t I just keep my damn mouth closed, keep my lips to myself, and just stay friends with her? I knew no good could ever come of trying to bring someone else into my fucked-up life. Too much baggage. I’m an idiot. A selfish, thoughtless, hormone-filled, lust-fuelled idiot.
So suck it up and get on with it. Put the poor girl out of your misery. “I realised something today—”
“Abi, she was just a stupid old woman, and I know that it’s upsetting, but she’s just one person—”
“What she said about us doesn’t bother me. Or at least it wouldn’t if it only affected me or us. But it’s not just about us.�
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“I don’t understand.”
“Rosie.”
Her frown deepens. “Rosie didn’t hear what she said, and if she did, she didn’t seem at all bothered—”
“That isn’t the point. Rosie will have enough problems and hardships to deal with growing up without me adding to them by coming out as a lesbian and being in a relationship with you.”
“I love Rosie.” Genna’s voice is so quiet I barely hear the words.
“I know that.”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“Just us being together will hurt her.”
“You don’t know that, Abi.”
“Has something like today ever happened to you before?” I need to know. No, that’s not right. I need her to accept that there is nothing we can do to protect Rosie from this and therefore this cannot be.
She pauses before she answers. I can tell she’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth. “Once.”
“Thank you for being honest. What happened?”
“Ruth and I were having a picnic, and she fed me some cake. This guy came over and started telling us that we were behaving immorally and that we were polluting his world.”
“I bet Ruth reacted well to that.”
“Not really. I’m surprised no one called the police the way she was shouting at him and the things she was saying.”
“That’s the kind of thing that I can’t subject Rosie to.”
“Abi, you can’t protect her from every potential idiot out there—”
Just My Luck Page 21
