"So sorry to keep you waiting," she replies, in a gentle tease, her lips curving upward at the corners in an obvious smirk before she makes her way toward the beach, continuing to walk until the path turns to sand under her feet and the sound of the water is louder here than before. She plops down somewhat unceremoniously in the sand, hardly caring about being graceful, and pries the baggie out of her back pocket, making sure nothing's been crushed.

"I don't think we'll need a corkscrew," Wichita declares, prying the cork in question out of the bottle with an audible pop. "You're not sick, are you?" She chuckles before taking a swig.