Ocean Blue ✓

chapter thirty-five

elliot

"There's someone here for you, mija." Mom pokes her head around the doorway, brow furrowed. "I can send her away if you want, but Natalie told me to expect her with an apology. Are you up for it?"

"Now?" I sit up. I'm still in bed, in a loose, ratty swim shirt, and basketball shorts I stole from Duncan years ago. "Uh. Yeah. Sure. If you want to send her in, then, cool."

"Okay." Mom nods, a little too vigorously, then points. "But, if she says anything out of line, she's dead. So dead. And then her mom will be dead. I will go on a rampage. No one wants to see me on a rampage."

Lately, the way Mom has been a little feisty and overzealous (well, more so than usual) has reminded me of how Neema always spoke about the swim girls. It's weirdly amusing. I manage a tight smile. "Thanks, Mom."

"Claro, mija." She leaves, her hair swinging behind her. I stretch my back till it pops, then rub sleep out of my eyes, and push my hair away from my forehead. I'm exhausted from last night. I quit the pool, and now Norm and I work night shifts together at the Gitt. He's a great manager and all, but fuck, am I tired. It's only been two weeks since I finished at the pool and started at the Cumm-n-Gitt—an enviable job bestowed upon me by a generous, sympathetic, and apparently very gay Enrique the Kinda Family Friend—and a month since that night with the Instagram posts.

My parents put me in therapy before making the decision to try and make a court case of this. I'm glad for it. Finally having someone to talk to—even if it's a forty-five minute drive every Saturday—is nice. Therapy didn't change my mind, though. I'm trying to focus on coming out and being myself rather than letting others get to me.

It's not too bad. Apparently, a bunch of closeted girls from school (who are now also coming out, because I guess we're all fucking done with this bullshit) think I'm hot. Which is hilarious. Alyssa says they're not wrong. Duncan disagrees. "Lukewarm," he says. "You're lukewarm."

I try to steady my breath, checking the time on my phone. My lock screen—me and my now-slightly-larger group of friends standing in front of the Pride Rock, the greenery of Breakneck cliff contrasting with the dark, cerulean sea in the background—shines out at me. Do I want to get out of bed? Not really. I don't have time to start arguing with myself when she's there, clouding my doorway with wet hair and wide eyes.

"Hey, Elliot," she says, wringing her hands. The infinity ring, the one that matched Brooklin's, is gone.

"Taffy."

"I, um...." She looks up at the top of my door frame, biting her lip. "Could I—could I sit down?"

My desk chair is full of crewnecks and sweaters from deciding what I wanted to wear to Jace's birthday get-together yesterday. I clamber out of bed, my feet sore from standing all night at work, and dump them all on the end of my bed. Then, because I deserve to be a bit dickish here, I say, "You might wanna make it quick."

Taffy doesn't make eye contact when she sits down. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and sniffs. "I will. I wanted to apologise. For everything."

"Everything-everything? Or just the stuff that could get you in trouble?" I don't expect her to genuinely care about either. I mean, the severity of that court case felt like it would be laughed off. Just kids cyber-bullying other kids. What the internet is for.

"Everything. I've been ... I've been self-reflecting, I guess."

I sit down and len against my head board, arms folded. "Well. That's nice."

She clasps her hands and rubs her thumbs together. "I-I think I might be gay."

Oh.

It's so hard to not react. Because, fuckng hell, what? She can't just ... do that. Say that. Like it's some kind of excuse. Yeah alright, maybe it explains some things, but it doesn't suddenly exempt her from consequences. I'm not about to forgive her just because she claims to be a toxic closet case. So there better be more to this.