She looks at me then, that wave of mortification tightening her shoulders, her brown eyes wide with pleading.
I only smile at her, smug and forever the pestering arsehole. But I let her be, for now anyway.
She asks a question so specific, so long-winded that I see some of the others in our group lose focus, too. One kid is already begging his mother for his iPad.
When she gets her answer from the charming Canadian, and we start to move again, I poke her in the side and mutter under my breath, Geek.
She jumps at the poke and swats my hand away.
I want to learn, she says again, scoldingly.
You clearly know everything there is to know about this place. I gesture around us. You did your prep for this class, Miss Ross, so why can’t we skive off and go have a bit of fun? I motion with my head towards the fortress.
How do you know my last name?
I freeze. I can’t exactly say, because I spent all of last night doing my best to internet-stalk you. It’s not even on her Instagram page, but I found it through other sleuthing.
Fuck, this is a major slip up on my part. I run my hand through my hair and try not to let my arrogant mask slip.
I asked Florence. After that crushing Scrabble defeat, I needed to make sure you weren’t ranked in the World Championships. A pretty lie. She doesn’t buy it, and scrunches up her face as if she’ll call me on it. I think quickly, trying to change the subject before she can work it all out.
Okay, stand here, I position her in front of one of the old buildings, as she continues to frown at me. I pull out my phone to take her picture, but decide at the last minute to flip the camera around, putting out my arm to take a picture of the two of us.
Her face staring back at me from the selfie mode of the camera is so delightfully irritated that my smile is genuine.
I put my arm around her shoulders, flexing my arm. Say, I came to Louisbourg and saw the gun show. She blushes, trying to shove me away, but I pull her closer and kiss her on the cheek for the picture. This makes her laugh, and does something to me that isn’t funny at all, but thankfully I have the photo I need.
As we continue on with the tour group, learning now about how they made bread—and yet to my disappointment, I’m not seeing any samples being passed around—I upload the photo to my Instagram story. I tag Violet and only caption the photo with a flaming red heart emoji.
Feeling smug, I put my phone back in my pocket, only to have it start pinging immediately.
Billie the Beaut: Um, who the fuck is that???? She’s proper stunning!!! x
The text makes me laugh, as does the name on my screen. Billie has been my best friend since we were kids. And the two of us have been through a fuck ton of shit together. Billie is also the only person, aside from Mum, who still gets an X at the end of a message from me. I dropped it once when I was in a hurry and heard about it for weeks afterwards.
Finn: Glad to know you’re still stalking me even when I’m away! You’re obsessed love x
Billie: Who is she??? Tell me everything!!!!!!! x
I smile and only reply: Piss off x
I tuck my phone back in my pocket, thinking happily of my friend, who hates to be denied even the tiniest bit of gossip. I know this will be driving Billie mad.
Competitive to a fault, the two of us sparred a lot in our teen years, playing football together and generally getting into trouble. I had a lot of rage bubble up after dad left—after Alistair gave the ultimatum to my mother, that either he went, or the two of us would. Billie, I would later learn, needed an outlet for their own shit.
We were at uni when I first started to notice something was going on. Despite us going to the same university and playing on the same football team, I could feel Billie putting up a wall. It wasn’t until after my career-ending injury, the fucked-up knee and severe concussion, that Billie came out.
We joke now that Billie had three coming outs.
At that point, it was that they were interested only in men. I was surprised, but not completely shocked, and more hurt that my friend hadn’t felt they could come to me sooner. But after a while, I understood the fear that weighed heavily there, especially with our team. I was sworn to secrecy, but I said whenever Billie was ready, I would tell anyone who had a problem with it that they would have to deal with me.
The second coming out was about doing drag. I didn’t even know what drag was. When Billie took me to my first show, I could see the competitiveness all over my best friend’s face. That this was a new kind of sport, a new kind of dream. And Billie wanted to be the best.
It wasn’t long after that—after leaving uni altogether—that Billie changed their pronouns, feeling more aligned with they/them after spending some time in drag and being around people who were far more gender fluid than anyone we’d been around.
While I do have a reputation for being an arsehole, I was annoyed and surprised by how many people thought I’d have a negative response to all of this. I never did. Billie was Billie, end of discussion. But a few of my teammates over the years would try to needle me for a reaction, or some kind of judgment. I know I’m a dickhead, but I’m certainly not that kind of dickhead.
My mother once asked me if I ever struggled with any of Billie’s changes. I had been so offended by the question that I had to get up and leave. Even years later, thinking about it still makes my blood boil. Billie had seen me through the dark days after our family split, had helped me navigate the path forward after I couldn’t play football, and had always understood me better than myself.
