Wanderlove (20 page)

No matter how I multiply, it’s no time at all.

I stick my map in my sketchbook and shut it. Maybe when I get home, I’ll put maps up all over my bedroom walls like the guy in the Panajachel café—I’m sure my dad would approve. Actually, make that my dorm room walls. My boring dorm room, at my boring fallback college, where I major in something boring and make boring friends.

The walls of art school dorms probably resemble Jackson Pollock paintings.

I think back to what Rowan said about the monkey sanctuary: He’d take me sometime. He was joking, I’m sure. He knows I’m here only another ten days, and we’ll be on the island for most of them. He knows I’m supposed to attend college in the fall.

We’ve never talked about that, though.

I’ve definitely never told him how uncertain I’m feeling.

How I gave up on attending SCAA, even after I knew Toby wouldn’t be there. How I never mailed in my housing forms for state, so I might have screwed up my chances of attending any school at all. How I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other end of this trip—a thought that terrifies me but, in a strange way, exhilarates me too. I haven’t told him much at all.

I wonder how that affects my calculations.

Outside, the storm is beginning to break. As the sun shifts in the clouds, the light coming through the windows makes Rowan shimmer. He’s almost unreal. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can hardly picture him. And yet when I open my eyes, here he is—sleeping beside me, with his forehead against the bus window. So close I can hear him breathe.

The bus strikes a pothole. People curse, but Rowan doesn’t wake up.

It reminds me of the time my dad forgot to take his insulin. You’d think he’d get one of those automated contraptions, but he’s too stubborn. He passed out with his eyes open.

After giving him his insulin, with remarkable composure, my mom pressed his eyes shut with her palm, as if he were a corpse in the movies. While she called an ambulance, I just stared at his eyelids, waiting for them to spring open again.

He was fine. And it was one of the most tender moments I’d ever seen between my parents. But for a second . . .

My stomach knots up. It’s enough for me to tap Rowan’s shoulder. He jolts, like I’ve pulled him from a bad dream.

“What? What is it?”

“I just . . . I thought we were here.”

He glances out the window. Nothing but miles of empty beach forest. “Here?”

I shrug helplessly.

“I know what you look like!” he announces, as if he were contemplating it the entire time he was napping. “You look like the blind guy from
Star Trek.
”

“You’re just jealous,” I tell him, adjusting my glasses. “I now see the world in Technicolor.”

Day 10:

Belize City

Rowan sits beside the taxi driver, a fat man who chomps jalapeño-flavored Pringles as he drives, periodically wiping his fingers on his seat. I sit in back with my head sticking out the window, until I nearly get decapitated by a stop sign.

“Hey, Bria,” Rowan says, leaning around the passenger seat. He’s been quieter than usual all morning, and his voice comes as a surprise.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking. . . .”

I wait patiently.

“Do you want to stay another night in the city?”

“Another night?” I wrinkle my nose at the window. We spent last night at a crummy guesthouse where everything was wicker and floral: wicker chairs, wicker tables, floral curtains, floral sheets on our bunk beds. This morning, we wandered around town. I expected Belize City to resemble Guatemala City, with masses of people, clogged highways, skyscrapers, Pizza Huts. But Belize City’s only a fraction of the size, which means a different kind of chaos. Everything’s damp and windblown, slanting toward the sea. Instead of stoplights, there are roundabouts, crammed with honking vans and taxis, locals on bikes. It’s fine. But the city’s not somewhere I want to spend a second night, especially with
la
isla bonita
and the legendary Lobsterfest just a short boat ride away.

“I’m just not in a huge hurry to get to the island,” Rowan says.

“Why not?”

“No real reason.” He’s trying to look breezy, I think, but it’s not working. “It’s just—there’ll just be loads of people there.”

Our cab veers around a group of teenage boys on bikes.

One of them knocks on the roof of the cab, and our driver brandishes a fat fist out the window.

“There are loads of people here,” I tell Rowan.

“Strangers.”

I stare at him a moment before I figure it out.

He’s talking about all the island’s
non
-strangers—people who know him. Who
knew
him. Maybe even people who participated in the unscrupulous crash landing Starling alluded to—like the notorious dive partner.

All right. I get that. But here’s what I
don’t
get: why in the world did Rowan take the island job in the first place if going back is such a hazard? We’ve traveled all this way. And now that we’re almost there, it’s like he suddenly doesn’t trust himself.

“Also,” he adds, “there’s a chance our boat will be grounded, if the storm’s offshore. Lightning and all that.” I blink at him. “Lightning? I thought you said lightning couldn’t strike a boat.”

“That’s ridiculous. When did I say that?”

“Yesterday morning!”

He pauses, then looks sheepish. “You’re right. I just figured there was nothing we could do about it, since we were already on the boat, so why worry you?”

He didn’t lie to be bossy—he lied to be sweet. I know this, because we’re talking Rowan, not Toby, but my stomach clenches anyway. I was just starting to forget all that Liat stuff, and now here he goes again. The most frustrating part is I can’t be mad.

Because I lied too.

The cab pulls up in front of the water taxi terminal. We pay our driver and haul our backpacks onto the sidewalk. I can hear the ocean slapping against the boats. A maritime funk hangs in the air, salt and fish and boat exhaust.

“Are you angry?” Rowan asks.

I hate when people ask that. Somehow, it makes your anger seem less valid.

“I’m just sick of you guys shielding me from things,” I say.

“I may not be as well traveled as you, but I can
handle
it. I’m not
entirely
dependent on you. It’s just that I don’t know a damn thing about these countries. . . .” Rowan sighs exasperatedly. “Have you even tried? You can always read a guidebook, you know. I’ve seen them at every book exchange. Or go to an Internet café and Google it! I told you, the information’s out there. There’s no excuse for ignorance when you travel.”

A knot jerks my throat. “
Thanks,
Rowan. It’s great to know how you really feel about me.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“Don’t worry, I
know
what you’re saying—that traveling with me is a damned drag. It’s a shame you didn’t invite a street-savvy girl across the lake, but then again, a girl like that wouldn’t have fallen for your stupid prank.”

“It’s not about you, Bria! I told you—I don’t travel with anyone.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head. “Not important.”

“Of course. It’s part of the past! Can’t talk about
that.”
A car horn honks, and we have to cram ourselves up against the side of a building to let it squeeze by. Above us, there’s a rambling billboard for Dano instant milk powder:

“Probably the Best Milk Powder in the World.” I wish I could laugh. At the milk powder. At all this lunacy, made so momentous. But right now, I just can’t find the funny.

Suddenly, Rowan grabs my backpack and takes off down the street.

“Rowan!” I yell after him. “Come
on
!” I kick his backpack, which he left beside me. It tumbles over. Immediately, I feel guilty: after a while, backpacks seem more like travel companions than inanimate objects. Rowan knew perfectly well that stealing my backpack would force me to follow him, and that I’m too nice to leave his backpack behind. At least it’s lighter than mine.

I dodge pedestrians, cross a small park, and stop beside him at a promontory overlooking the sea. A red-and-white lighthouse looms overhead. Below us, waves burst against a wall of rocks. Rowan sets my backpack on the ground, and I quickly swap it for his. Just in case I need to make a quick getaway.

“You’re just trying to make us miss the water taxi,” I say.

“Not true . . . I just don’t think we should go to the island angry.”

“Why, is that some big no-no? Like going to bed angry?”

“Maybe it should be.”

Way out in the gloom, a cruise ship disgorges passengers into ferries. I wonder if they’re just as disappointed by Rowan’s Caribbean as I am.

“I want you to trust me,” he says. “Don’t you?” I look at him. In the stormy light, his eyes look dark, almost black. Toby’s are pale blue. They couldn’t look more different. They couldn’t act more different. But there are similarities between them, too—ones I can’t ignore any longer.

“I’ve caught you lying twice now,” I tell him. “If you have trouble being honest about little things, how can you expect me to trust you with everything else?”

“What was my other lie?”

“Liat.”

Rowan squints at the non-sun. “You’re right. I’m sorry.

I don’t know why I did that. Although I didn’t lie, exactly.” He cuts me off before I can object. “But I didn’t tell the truth, either, which is almost as bad. Did she tell you any . . .stories?”

“Not really. I stopped her before she could.” He stares at me. “You did? Why?”

“I didn’t mean anything noble by it. I was just scared of the truth.” I shrug. “But she did tell me your past was wild. . . .

I think she called it a ‘nonstop rave.’ ” She also said diving was just a front, but I need proof before I accuse Rowan of something like that.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Bria. I don’t want you to look at me differently. And if you knew what a mess I was back then, you would.”

“I don’t know if I would,” I say quietly.

“You would. Believe me. The Rowan you know is the good-parts version.”

“Really? Okay,
now
I’m scared.” He smiles. “In all honesty, I thought we were doing okay.

This is all new to me. I’ve never been forced into this situation before—I’ve never gotten to the point where anyone
wants
to know about me. Other than places to go, places I’ve been.”

“No one’s
forcing
you to do anything.”

“That came out wrong.”

“It’s okay. After all, Starling signed you up for this. She did a great job of matchmaking, didn’t she? Look at us: we’re both screwed up.”

He shakes his head. “I’m screwed up, you mean.” A massive wave bursts in front of us. Rowan grabs my waist and pulls me away, so we miss the worst of the spray.

When he lets go, he seems to do it almost reluctantly, dropping his hands into his pockets and backing away.

“Know what the shittiest part about all this is?” he says.

“It’s that I’m making everything a bigger deal by keeping it quiet.”

I know exactly what he means.

“If you really want to know, Bria, at some point, I’ll fill you in. On everything. Just . . . not right now, okay?” He sweeps his hand over the horizon. “Looks like the storm’s clearing. I guess it’s now or never, right?”

He takes a step toward the road, but I grab his backpack to stop him.

“Before we go . . . there’s something I need to tell you.” I try to smile. I probably look like a Claymation monster, pinched into existence. “And by telling you, I don’t mean it any way other than as a statement of fact. So you have to promise not to read anything into it.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but okay. I promise.”

“I lied,” I say.

“You lied?”

“Because I wasn’t over it. Lying was just another way to hang on to the past . . . like some kind of security blanket. But now I’m ready to put it behind me. The thing I lied about.” I look away when I say it. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Anymore.

We broke up before the trip.”

There’s a silence. A silence that carries the weight of a thousand anvils. I feel myself cringing as I anticipate the crush.

“Oh,” Rowan says.

He thinks I’m such a loser. I know it. What kind of girl lies about having a boyfriend? Or having broken up with one? I cross my arms over my daypack and start heading back toward the water taxi terminal, trying not to cry, because the only thing that could embarrass me worse is crying in front of Rowan.

Then I feel the tiniest pressure behind me. I glance over my shoulder. Rowan is resting his hand on my backpack. And somehow, it makes me feel better.

Then, right before we pass through the doorway of the terminal, he leans into me.

“I get it,” he says. “You’re running too.”

Thing s Toby said that should have

made me dump him instantly

“You didn’t really include that fairy
drawing, did you?”

“Maybe it was the diversity factor—