Page 13 of Every Step She Takes
I am very plussed. “I do want you to tell us what brought you to the Camino, though,” Inez adds.
“In my experience, no one comes to the Camino only to walk. We are all called to the Camino for one reason or another. I was twenty-two when I did my first Camino, and I was not in a good place. I was horribly depressed because I was stuck living as a man. I was called to the Camino so I could escape the societal pressures that were trapping me in a false life.”
More people “Saúde,” and she disarms them with another radiant grin. “So, what called each of you to the Camino?”
There’s an awkward beat of silence before the blond woman raises her hand. “I can go first. Hello, everyone, I’m Rebecca Hartley! I’m originally from Dallas, Texas, but I’ve lived in Marietta, Georgia, for the past thirty years with my husband, raising our four kids.”
Rebecca Hartley looks exactly like someone with four kids who lives in Georgia.
She’s probably in her late sixties, but with a skin-care regimen that has magically preserved her regal face.
Her hair is big, her accent is thick, and her tracksuit is Barbie pink and designer.
She takes a deep breath and finishes her introduction.
“And I was called to the Camino because I recently came out to my family as a lesbian.”
I choke on a hunk of bread. It’s the last thing I expected this woman to say.
Rebecca’s blue eyes fill with tears, and she reaches for her napkin to staunch them.
“Y’all, it feels so amazing to say that out loud.
” She blots the makeup beneath her eyes.
“I’ve been living a lie for so long, and I was fixin’ to live that lie forever.
But my youngest is graduating from medical school and finally moving out of her old bedroom, and I can’t use my kids as a reason to suffer through my marriage anymore. So, I finally asked for a divorce.”
The table erupts in applause for Rebecca, but I can’t seem to make my arms move to join in. I’m numb from hearing this woman’s coming-out story, and when my eyes fall on Mal again, I find her looking directly at me.
“Thank you. Thanks, y’all.” Rebecca waves her napkin like a Southern debutante.
“It’s been hard since I came out. My youngest has been great about it, but my other three kids are struggling to accept it, and my ex-husband, well…
his opinion don’t matter no more.” More applause.
“I think I was called to the Camino because I wanted to go somewhere I can be myself without worrying about how it makes others feel.”
“You can always be yourself with us!” Inez is sobbing now, and she gets up from the table to go give teary Rebecca a hug. Then half the table is hugging Rebecca, and what’s even happening ? It’s like I’m in a very progressive after-school special, but for geriatrics.
“Who the hell is going to follow that?” Cool Septum Piercing jokes.
Another woman who looks like she’s in her late sixties clears her throat.
“Hello. I’m Ro Hashmi, they/them. Non-binary.
Bisexual.” They start in a gruff monotone, and I feel like shit for misgendering them, even if it was only in my head.
“Born in Pakistan. Currently in Trenton, New Jersey. Was a computer programmer. Retired now. Also have four children. My corgis.” Each sentence comes out of their mouth like a terse jab.
“I was called to the Camino because I like to walk.”
“Is that… all?” Inez asks slowly, clearly promoting them to share the way Rebecca did.
“Yes,” Ro answers curtly.
Inez shrugs. “Okay, then!”
“I’m Vera Lopez,” says the woman sitting next to me with the camera.
She also has a European accent, but like Inez, her English is flawless.
“I live in Madrid, but I grew up in Burgos, Spain. The Camino Frances went through my street. As a kid, I used to watch all the pilgrims pass by the front of our house, and I would make up stories about all their grand adventures. I decided it was finally time to write my own story. Oh, and, uh, and I’m aroace. I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”
I don’t know what aroace means or why it would disqualify her from being here, but once again, no one else seems confused.
“It’s more than okay!” Inez erupts cheerfully. “We’re so happy you’re here, Vera.”
Introductions are interrupted when the first round of food arrives.
From what I can tell, the plate in front of me is a salad that consists of sliced tomatoes under a bed of iceberg lettuce.
I pick at my food as the cool septum-piercing woman introduces herself as Ari from Portland, Oregon: a Filipino, trans, polyamorous pansexual.
She says she’s a beekeeper-slash-barista who is studying palmistry and is happy to do free palm readings for anyone who’s interested.
It’s maybe the most Portland thing I’ve ever heard.
I glance around the table. Everyone has introduced themselves except for me, Mal, and Mr. Indecent Shorts. And so far, everyone is queer. Which seems statistically unlikely, unless…
I lean closer to Vera. “Um, sorry, but do you know…? Is this a queer tour…?”
Vera swivels in her seat and stares at me with the first perplexed look of the night. Before she can answer, Inez pounces on my sudden engagement. “Yes, Sadie? Are you ready to introduce yourself?”
“Um, no, I was just…” I fumble with an excuse, but in my jet-lagged state, I can’t think of any way to escape the inevitable.
“Sure. I-I can introduce myself. I’m Sadie from Seattle.
I own an antique furniture store, and I enjoy restoring and repurposing old pieces with, um, reupholstery and stuff.
” I awkwardly wave to the table. Red, angry hives have already popped up along the backs of my fingers.
“I, well, uh, I’d never heard of the Camino until five days ago.
My sister is a travel influencer, and she was supposed to do this tour, but she broke her toe, and I volunteered to take her place. ”
A huge, potentially life-ruining mistake.
“Oh, so both you and your sister are queer?” Ari asks. “Very cool.”
“Um, well…”
“Sadie is straight!” Inez interrupts with her usual exuberance. And she sounds so sure of this fact, I almost believe her. “She’s an ally, of course, and she’s excited to help her queer sister write about this tour!”
Everyone stares at me like I’ve sprouted three heads, which is physically possible at this point. Something is happening to my body—something horrible and unfamiliar—and it could be an Animorphs- style Cerberus transmogrification.
I sit on my hands to hide my stress hives. “I’m sorry,” I croak, “but is this a gay tour?”
“Of course!” Inez smiles. “Beatrix is a tour company exclusively for lesbians, sapphics, and other LGBTQ+ women and gender-queer folks.”
I have three stomachs as well as three heads, and each of them are filled with acid and anxiety. Because I don’t belong here.
I have no business being on a queer tour with people who are confident in their identities.
Inez eyes me from the head of the table. “Did you not know…? Did your sister not tell you this is a queer tour?”
I bite down on my lip and try not to cry. I’m so tired, so hungover, so overwhelmed, and I just learned that in my attempt to run away from my gay panic, I ended up on a gay tour .
Ro loudly grunts. “Isn’t the whole point that this is supposed to be a safe space for us? How can we have a straight person on the tour?”
“Are you, like, Straight with a capital S ?” Ari asks. “Or, like ‘straight.’?” She uses air quotes on the second straight , as if I’m supposed to know the difference.
“There is something very gay about reupholstery,” Vera notes.
“Like, you don’t really only date cishet men, do you?” Ari sounds horrified at the thought.
I don’t know how to answer her. I don’t know who I date, or what I want, or how to talk about any of this without choking on my tears.
The anxiety is everywhere, spreading from my brain to my stomach to the tips of my fingers and toes. Everyone is looking at me, debating my sexuality, and this is the real plane crash. This is the near-death experience.
Even if I could survive the Camino, I could never survive this .
A clanging sound echoes up and down the table, silencing everyone and everything, including the anxious thoughts drilling down inside me. I glance up to see Mal holding her pint glass and a butter knife. “Excuse me,” she says, clanging the glass one more time. “But I haven’t introduced myself yet.”
With that, all the attention shifts away from the three-headed, heterosexual freak to Mal. She briefly meets my eyes and gives me a discreet wink. This redirection isn’t accidental. She’s coming to my rescue.
And that’s when I do start crying. Small, quiet tears I’m able to hide because no one is looking at me except her.