“You are so stupid.” Dakota laughs and then lets out a long sigh. “I’m scared.”
“Scared?” I ask, turning to face her. Sorry, scenery. “Why are you scared?”
“I don’t think I know how to navigate this thing with Isla. And I’m really starting to like her. I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Dakota—”
“Isabella was always telling me that I was doing things wrong. I wasn’t holding her hand enough. I wasn’t giving her enough affection. I wasn’t dressing the way she wanted me to dress. I wasn’t posting enough about gay rights. I should be using my Instagram platform for the lesbian community, not for my business. I wasn’t . . . gay enough.” Shoulders slouched, she twists her hands in her lap. “Those words haunt me. I can still see her with that blonde, when I found them in bed together. She didn’t even care I caught her cheating on me. She just shrugged and said, ‘You’re not gay enough for me; I moved on.’ What if . . . what if it’s the same with Isla?”
Anger eclipses me, and I have to take a brief pause before I say something that won’t help the situation—only magnify it.
Once I’m feeling calm, I take Dakota’s hand in mine. “I want to make one thing clear: being gay doesn’t define you. Do you understand that? I think sometimes people fall under the impression that if you’re gay, that’s who you are. You’re gay, and they leave it at that. But that’s not fair. And just like a beautiful, nonsmelly onion”—she chuckles—“you have layers, and being gay isn’t the outer ring; it isn’t even the second or third. It’s deep at your core, and you keep it there, close to your heart, because that’s the way you choose to live your life. You choose to define yourself as a good friend. As a beautiful artist. As a savvy businesswoman who has used her platform to grow her freelance work. You are so much more than a lesbian. Yes, that’s a piece of who you are, but it’s not the definition.”
She smiles softly and tilts her head, resting it on my shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I kiss the top of her head. “Isabella put you through hell, and she’s made you second-guess every piece of you that makes you special, unique, the best friend you are. Don’t let one person’s blinded opinion of you make you question the person you’ve grown to be.”
“I loved her, though. She was my first . . . ever. She helped open my eyes to a part of me I was hiding for such a long time. She was right about my being gay, which was the biggest revelation of my life. It’s hard not to trust her opinion on everything else, when she knew I was gay.”
“I can understand that.” I stroke her hair. “Yes, she might have opened your eyes, but that’s all she did. And if it wasn’t her, it was going to be another girl—you just happened to run into Isabella first. Don’t give her all the credit for something that was bound to occur.” I lift her chin up so she has to look me in the eyes. “This is your chance to grow, Dakota. Your chance to be yourself, not the person Isabella wanted you to be.” I motion to the valley in front of us. “And what better place to do it than here, in Scotland.”
She chuckles. “You’re right.”
“I know I am.” I smile, picking up my pie. “Give yourself some grace when it comes to Isla. It will take a bit of time to get used to navigating a new relationship, but she seems patient, kind, and understanding. The best you can do for her, and for you, is be yourself.” I take a bite of my pie and chew.
“When did you become so wise?”
“I think it’s all the shortbread and Scottish air.”
Dakota studies me, a smirk playing at her lips. “I think you’re starting to find yourself here.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “I see a new spark in your eyes. There’s excitement in your voice.”
“I am excited. The entire drive here, while we were taking in the landscape, I kept writing down ideas for the coffee shop and my plan of attack. Want to hear them?”
“I would love to.”
“Enjoy,” I say to an old man wearing a plaid shirt with SCOTLAND embroidered on the back as he leaves the shop, coffee in hand.
He told me he stopped in on this Monday morning because he heard the coffee was boring and that’s what he likes—boring coffee.
Yay for the sale, but serving coffee to a small demographic of cantankerous crotches isn’t really what I’m looking for.