Wanderlove (14 page)

A pterodactyl-sized insect flies up in my face, and I almost fall ass-first into my own puddle. Maybe it would be funny if I wasn’t feeling so miserable. And if stupid Toby’s stupid face didn’t keep appearing in my stupid head, laughing like a maniac.

You’re not the traveling type.

When I called Toby a few weeks ago to brag that I was traveling, I was certain he’d be impressed. Especially since I knew his summer plans consisted of the usual: art, more art, and putting in hours at his uncle’s paint shop to support his art. Maybe he was envious. I remember the time my father explained the difference between envy and jealousy. Envy is when you want what someone else has. Jealousy’s when you also don’t want them to have it.

Jealous. Toby was jealous.

“Well, I’m here now,” I say out loud.

It’d be more empowering if I wasn’t squatting with my shorts around my ankles. I yank them up. Time to embark on the journey back, which I hope is less eventful. I follow the wall around the corner and discover it doesn’t belong to a cabin: I’ve found the guesthouse’s common area. Empty, except . . . there’s a shadowy form in the hammock across the room.

“Rowan?” The hammock jerks, and I giggle, my misery forgotten.

“Bria? What are you doing here?”

Like I’d ever tell him I was too inept to locate the bathroom. “I was . . . taking a walk.”

“In the dark? Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither. I thought maybe I could sleep better in here, with more air coming through, but . . . here I am. Still sleepless.”

I’m feeling spine-meltingly shy, but I make myself go and stand beside his hammock. He has a new book on his lap:
The
Omnivore’s Dilemma.

“Aren’t you scared of the bats?”

He flicks on his flashlight and aims it at the ceiling. “I’m telling myself they’ve all gone for the night. Doing whatever bats do.
Echolocation
—I think that’s the word. Nice jacket, by the way.”

Oh damn. The dreaded crispy Windbreaker has been exposed. I make a face.

“No, I’m serious. It’s such an . . .
attractive
color.”

“I call it gutter water.”

“I was thinking more like . . . baby possum.”

“Or oatmeal gone rancid.”

“Or stormy sky. After the apocalypse.”

“You know what it’s really like? It’s the exact shade you get when you’re painting with watercolors, and you’re too lazy to change your cup of water, and all the colors blend together into a great big glass of ugly.”

Rowan looks at me with interest. “You paint?” I stuff my hands into my crispy pockets. “When I was younger.”

“How much younger?”

“Younger.”

For a moment, we seem to run out of things to say. The jungle is so loud I can almost sift the sound waves through my fingers, but it’s better than the gracelessness of total silence.

“Well,” I begin. “I guess I should—”

“Climb in?”

“The hammock?”

“If you sit facing the other way, we should be okay.” He sticks out his hand. I stare at it just long enough to crank up the awkward-meter to eleven. Finally, I crawl in beside him, clumsily, my Windbreaker crisping and crackling until I tear off the damned thing and hurl it over the side.

The wood columns anchoring the hammock creak angrily at our combined weight.

“Don’t worry,” Rowan says. “I’ve got an emergency plan. If the hammock breaks, I’ll just roll on top of you, so you can break my fall.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Rowan flicks off his flashlight, and our conversation fizzles out again. Now Rowan and I are folded together, in the dark, and the silence is awkward enough to peel paint.

“I’m sure
Starling
would approve of this,” I joke.
Curse my
mouth.

Fortunately, Rowan just laughs. “She
is
awfully protective of me.”

“Why?”

He coils his fingers through the hammock’s multicolored webbing. “She thinks of me as her little brother. And technically, I am. She’s seen me at my worst. She’s seen me at my best, and that’s what she wants for me.”

“I guess.”

“She really does. I know she can be . . . overbearing, but she’s always trying to do right. Compared to her, I’m a selfish jerk. You’ve heard some of her stories. She does these immense, philanthropic things, volunteers for months, works for pennies in tiny villages, and honestly? I’m just not that
good
.”

“What about . . .” I tap the bracelets on his leg. Then I fold my hands on my stomach, just in case they feel like getting grabby again.

Rowan nudges a chair with two fingers, making the hammock sway. “I guess I work in small ways. It’s kind of like this story someone told me, about a guy on the beach in Mexico throwing starfish in the sea. Thousands had washed ashore.

Someone asked him why—‘Why are you wasting your time, when there are so many? You can’t possibly make a difference.’ ”

“I know that story! The man threw another one back, and said—”

‘Made a difference to that one!’

” Rowan finishes.

“Where’d you hear it?”

“I read it, actually.”

“Where?”

“I think it was my mom’s old copy of
Chicken Soup for the
Soul.
”

He laughs. “Oh great! I thought it was some ancient Zen proverb. Something respectable.”

“Are you saying my mom’s not respectable?” I tease him.

“Not if she reads
Chicken Soup for the Soul
.”

“Apparently, you do too.”

He grins. “Touché.”

It’s all I can do to seal my lips around my own grin. We seem to have no trouble talking in the dark. It’s during the day when things get uncomfortable.

“Anyway,” he says, “I started buying the bracelets a couple months ago. And just kept buying them. Starling calls them my ring of guilt. I’ll probably take them off soon.”

“When?”

“When I’m not feeling guilty anymore, I guess.” I nudge the side of a table, making us swing again. “Can I ask you something?”

Rowan looks a little wary but nods. He probably thinks I’m going to ask about his guilt, but I’m not. Here’s what I want to ask:
Don’t you ever get homesick?
It’s the question that has come to me every time I’ve considered the scope of Rowan’s travels. But my actual wording is less sappy. “Is there anything you miss about . . . home?”

“Sure! Lots of things.”

“Like what?”

Rowan looks thoughtful. “Well, clothes that fit, for starters.”

“Your clothes do fit.”

“That’s because Starling brings them for me from the States.” He pushes off the chair. “Also, I really miss knowing the hot water’s going to work when I get in the shower. And certain foods. Like fresh berries—especially blueberries. And raspberries. Real cheddar cheese. Fortunately, once you’ve been traveling long enough, your appetite makes compensations.” He thinks a little more. “Also, I haven’t driven a car in ages. I used to really like that . . . going for a drive.”

“I do too. Long drives.”

“Yeah?”

“Like sometimes I take the 2 up through La Cañada, into the mountains. Or the 14 into the desert. Not too far—just far enough to be someplace different.”

“By yourself?”

He looks surprised. I guess it
is
strange, coming from me: the undertraveled. Driving was something I did after Toby and I fought—which was often, especially just before we broke up. I’d fill my tank with my savings. Get in the car. And go, and go, and go. I never drove longer than an hour or two, so my parents wouldn’t notice I’d been away. Just enough for the scenery to change into something unexpected, to remind me there was another world outside my bubble. Unfortunately, the feeling never lingered. As soon as I reentered the Los Angeles city limits, I was back to my usual antics. Calling Toby. Telling him I was sorry. Compacting myself into the backseat of his Honda before our next fight drove me to the road.

It occurs to me that maybe I’m doing the same thing right now, this very minute—just escaping by plane, chicken bus, and boat instead of by car. Maybe I’ve been a Wanderlove wannabe all along, without ever knowing it existed.

“I always wanted to go to college somewhere else,” I say suddenly. “Somewhere far. New York or Chicago or San Francisco. Or even Rhode Island.”

Instantly, I’m embarrassed. Because why go to Cambodia or Croatia when you can visit Rhode Island? States don’t
get
any smaller!

“The school of design, right? You said you used to love art.” I gape for a second, then hinge my jaw shut and nod.

RISD is a famous school and all, but I’m still surprised Rowan knows about it. And even more surprised he remembers what I said about loving art.

“What stopped you from going off to school?” he asks.

“My parents had something to do with it,” I reply. “Art school’s expensive, and we’re right in that middle-class bracket where there’s not enough money for private school, but too much for any real financial aid.” I cross my arms. I wish I had a jacket, but I’m not about to reach for my Windbreaker. “Anyway, their reasoning was pretty solid. Why would I ever leave Southern California? The best climate on the planet. Urban suburbia. Culture, beaches, nightlife. All the things young people migrate to find, L.A. already has. Including art schools. And then, of course, there was Toby. . . .”

“Toby? Is that your boyfriend?”

Shit.
My throat starts to ache: the advent of tears. I didn’t mean to mention Toby to Rowan. Not now, and maybe not ever. Rowan’s insight makes me careless; it’s only a matter of time before all my skeletons clamber out.

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “That’s him. He said he wanted to stay in Los Angeles. Attend a particular art school in town. A good one—just too close to home for my liking. But I thought I wanted . . . Well, we haven’t had what you’d call the healthiest relationship.” Not a lie when put like that. “Sorry. I just—” Rowan puts his hand on my arm.

“Stop right there. You don’t have to make excuses for your experiences—how can you? They already happened. And you don’t have to dwell on them either. Just look to the future.

Like we were talking about. You can’t control the past, but you can control where you go next.”

I nod. “That’s why I’m here.”

He nods back. “Me too.”

We swing for a while in silence. My throat still aches, but I don’t want to cry anymore. Rowan said just the right thing, even though he barely knows me. He seems interested in every thing I have to say. It makes me want to cover my mouth with my hands and spill my guts at the same time.

Now he’s looking sleepy. And me, I’m exhausted. But I know I won’t feel this bold tomorrow—in the daylight, when we remember we’re companions by happenstance, not choice.

So I ask the other question I’ve been considering ever since Starling told me about Wanderlove.

“Do you ever think about going back?”

Rowan reaches for the chair. But instead of pushing off again, he uses it to steady himself as he climbs out of the hammock. He holds it for me, smiling thoughtfully, almost sadly.

“Every day,” he replies.

Day 7:

Livingston

We’re standing on the beach with our backpacks on, facing the ocean. A faint drizzle—what my dad calls a Scotch mist—makes the gray sea and sky bleed together like wet-on-wet watercolor. Even the waves seem sluggish, heaving toward shore. “So this is the Caribbean?” I ask.

“Sort of.”

“Either it is or it isn’t.”

“Then it is,” Rowan admits. “But it gets better the farther north we go. Once we get to Belize, you’ll see the real Caribbean in all its turquoise glory.”

The paths of tiny sea snails twirl across the sand, like writing in another language. I set down my backpack and my daypack, kick off one sandal, and touch the water with my toes. “At least it’s warm.”

“Want to go for a swim?”

“No way.”

“Oh . . . I forgot. I promise. But really? There’s no chance you’ll get in the water this entire trip?”

“I don’t think—”

“What about on the island? Even if you don’t dive, the snorkeling’s ridiculous. Imagine rays the size of kites sailing beneath you . . .”