by Leylah Attar
“It’s your lucky day, Rodel.” He pointed to one of the rocks.
“Wha—” I halted when it moved. “Oh, my God. A rhino.”
“Number five of the Big Five—the black rhinoceros. Now you’ve seen them all.”
It was facing away from us, plucking on the bushes that sprouted between the boulders. Its body was thick and gray, like a round, armored tank. Red-billed birds perched on its back, feeding on what I assumed were ticks on its hide. We spent a few minutes admiring its imposing bulk, the large, lethal horns, and its surprisingly slim legs.
When Jack started the car, the rhino whirled around and turned its mud-crusted face to us. For a moment, it did nothing. Then it bellowed until a smaller figure appeared at its side.
“Fuck!” said Jack, backing away slowly. “She’s got a calf.”
Shielding the baby with her body, the rhino lowered its head and snorted loudly.
“Easy, big momma,” said Jack, as he continued reversing.
For a moment, it looked like the hefty beast had been placated by our retreat. Then she came at us, so fast and furious I had to blink to believe something that size could move so quickly. The ground rattled as she exploded into motion—hot anger, cold, dark eyes. My skin turned to ice, all the blood pumping desperately to keep my heart from collapsing. She was close, and looming closer, so close that I could see her breath—heavy with moisture exhaled from her lungs—the thick, dense fiber of her skin, the menacing iron horn lowered as she headed straight for us.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
It was like watching a hellish, Jurassic nightmare flash before my eyes. And there was nothing I could do to get away from it. The violent sound of crushing metal ripped through the air as she rammed into us. All the air expelled from my chest. The sheer, brute force of the attack sent us skidding across the sandy dirt, uprooting scrub and foliage. The car teetered on its edge, and for a heart-stopping moment, it felt like we were going to tip right over.
“Jack!” My arms and legs flailed wildly as the world tilted around me.
“It’s okay. We’re okay,” he said, as the car righted itself.
The rhino stood back in a display of dominance, but she looked like she was getting ready to charge again. Jack changed gears and the car leaped forward, wheels spinning as she crashed after us. We hurtled ahead, tearing through grass and shrubs until we lost her.
“Are you hurt?” Jack glanced my way.
“No.” My stomach was still clenched, and I knew I’d be bruised all over, but it sure beat the alternative. “You?”
“I’ve been through worse,” he replied. “Next time, grab the oh-shit handle.”
“The what?”
“The oh-shit handle.” He pointed to the handle over my window.
“Is that what it’s called?” I laughed, in spite of the close call. My heart was hammering loud and fast, as if trying to flee my chest. “I always thought it’s to hang up the dry cleaning.”
“City dwellers.” He shook his head.
“Safari maniacs,” I shot back.
We found our way to the main road, along the western edge of the Serengeti National Park. It was like we had the whole place to ourselves. I couldn’t spot a single car, probably because the road was horrifically corrugated, and the animals were few and far between. Against a hazy mountain range, ribbons of tall trees lined the banks of a flowing river.
“That’s the Grumeti,” said Jack. “It empties into Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest freshwater lake. Wanza is located right on the shores of Lake Victoria.”
“One more stop before we get there.”
“That’s right. First Magesa, then Wanza,” replied Jack, as we exited the park.
After a few potholed miles, we approached a bustling center, nestled at the foot of green, craggy hills.
“I’m assuming we’re coming up to the town of Bunda now?” I looked up from the map.
“That’s right.” Jack stopped to check the car and refuel. There was a sizable dent on the passenger door in the back, where the rhino had attacked. The door wouldn’t open or close, but apart from that, the Land Rover seemed to have weathered it well.
After a quick lunch of pilau and stewed fish, we drove on through the gravel road that led out of town. The clusters of homes and shops soon gave way to cassava fields and banana plantations. Mango trees edged the street, bows heavy with fruit. There were few travelers on the road to Magesa, and the trees closed around us as we followed the dirt track leading to the village. The path was wet from rainfall, and the car fell into a constant rhythm of gas, brake, gas, brake, as Jack navigated around ravines and boulders. We ran into trouble after hitting a particularly deep pothole. The Land Rover gave a hellish clang and lurched to a halt.
“Damn it.” Squatting on his heels, Jack peered under the car’s carriage. Two of the wheels were mired in thick, black mud, but he seemed more concerned about something else. “We broke an axle. It probably came undone with the rhino attack, but this just sealed the deal.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Well, we’re not going anywhere until we get it replaced.”
“How far to Magesa?”
“Too far to walk. We won’t make it before nightfall, and there’s no way we’re going through that forest in the dark.” He pointed to the thicket of trees ahead. “I’ll call for a mechanic. See if they can come help us out.” He turned on his phone and shook his head. “There’s no signal out here.”
“Shit. We’re screwed.”
“Not yet. But we will be when the sun sets and the lions come out. Don’t worry,” he said, when the color drained from my face. “We’ll take turns keeping a look out. I’ll keep watch on the roof while you sleep, and then you can do the same for me. Here.” He tore off a branch from the tree, stripped the leaves, and handed it to me. “Start whittling. A long, sharp point is best.”
I held the stick, speechless, as he ducked into the car to get a knife. It took a moment before I caught on.
There are no lions prowling about here.
Sure enough, when I marched over and swung the door open, there he was, doubled over. Laughing. The sound of it was like ripples in a still pond, after a stone has been thrown into it. It radiated outward, enveloping me, until I couldn’t help but join in.
It was in that state of intoxication, that release from self-consciousness, between peals of laughter, that I realized I was totally, completely in love with Jack Warden. It hit me like a ton of bricks, that you could feel so alive, even though your heart was nowhere in your possession, and you knew that you were going to walk around without it for the rest of your life. I stepped away from him, the laughter dying on my lips like he had speared my chest with the stick I was holding. I dropped it and turned on my heel, but my shoe was entrenched in the mud and I lurched, face forward, into the ground.
My downfall was complete. Quite literally. Absolute embarrassment. Absolute humiliation. Because Jack could read me like an open book—my whys, ifs, and buts; my starts, stops, twists, and turns. It was exhilarating because it was effortless—no explanations needed. It was terrifying because it left me transparent, with no blanket of pretense. There was no way to hide my feelings for him.
When Jack helped me up, I avoided his gaze. When he wiped the mud away from my face, I kept my eyes on the ground. When he sat me down and poured water over my palms, I watched the dirt wash away.
“Rodel.”
Damn him. Damn his voice. Damn the way he said my name.
He lifted my chin so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. He wasn’t smiling or laughing. It wasn’t the face of a man who was amused. He was looking at me with a mix of such intense tenderness and yearning, I choked back a sob, because beneath it all was an apology. For the things he stirred up in me, for the things I stirred up in him, for the bittersweet journey that had brought us together, and for the parting that was yet to come. And then very softly, very gently, with one finger still under my chin, he kissed me—once, tw
ice, three times—like he was picking a bouquet of flowers from my mouth.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said, running his fingers over my mud-coated tresses
“I’m a mess.” I took stock of myself—my feet, my clothes, my nails.
“It’s an easy fix. Stay right here.”
He got a kerosene stove out of the trunk, and before long, he had heated up two big pots of water, set up soap, a bucket, and a folding chair.
“Welcome to Jungle Jack’s Salon.” He bowed with flourish. “Sit. Lean back.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, settling into the chair.
“Washing your hair.” He adjusted the angle, so my head was hanging over the edge of the chair.
“Shouldn’t we be figuring out what we’re going to do next?”
“Shhh.” His breath fanned against my forehead, sending little shivers down my spine.
And there, on the road to Magesa, beside a car stuck in the mud, Jack Warden washed my hair with a bar of blue soap, as I sat on an old chair that he carted around in his trunk. When he poured warm water over my hair, I closed my eyes and thought how there really ought to be a word to describe the sensation when your lungs fill up with the sweetest air, and yet you’re left completely breathless.
It was more intimate than a kiss, Jack’s hands trailing through my hair, the rough pads of his fingers massaging my scalp, making slow, steady circles as he worked the lather from my roots to my tips. He started at my temples, moved on to my head, and down to my nape. Massaging the back of my neck, he kneaded the muscles until my head fell back, relaxing into the cup of his palm. My skin tingled from his touch, from the sensual rhythm of his strokes, from the deliciousness of an unexpectedly submissive moment.
I don’t know how long we spent in that clearing, Jack washing my hair like it was the only thing he wanted to do, the sun on my face, little peeks of his body silhouetted over me. When he was done, he poured more water, pulling his fingers through my hair until all the soap had been rinsed out. And then again, just because. I was ready to get up when he grabbed my hair with both hands and gathered it at the crown of my head. Then he twisted it and squeezed out the water. The sensation of rough after soft sent a tingling to the pit of my stomach. I shuddered as little rivulets trickled down my neck and back, but it wasn’t from the water. It was because I could feel Jack’s eyes on the back of my ears, my nape, the curve of my exposed jawline. Then he let my hair go, and watched it tumble over my shoulders.
“Towel,” he said, handing it to me. He strung up a sheet between two trees and heated some more water. “You can finish off over here.”
“Nice.” I stepped behind the barrier and peeled off my clothes. “Jungle Jack’s is a full-service salon. A gal could get used to this.”
“A rhino attack, car trouble, face planting in mud, and a bucket shower?” He laughed. “You’re a strange one, Rodel Emerson.”
It was strange when I thought about it—that I’d be okay with things that were so far removed from my comfort zone. But things didn’t always have to make sense. The most profound, most memorable moments of life are the ones that make you feel. And that’s what I’d been missing. That feeling of being alive. I had come with a heart full of grief for my sister, never expecting to find love or life budding out of it. It was like Mo was showing me the possible in the impossible.
I wish you could see the world through my eyes, her words echoed in my mind.
I’m starting to see, Mo. I’m starting to see.
I peered over the sheet. Jack was dragging the tent out of the truck. It struck me then that I would be all right, no matter what. Sometimes you come across a rainbow story—one that spans your heart. You might not be able to grasp it or hold on to it, but you can never be sorry for the color and magic it brought.
NIGHT DESCENDED AROUND us with flat and complete blackness. The moon hung above, but not a single dot of light flickered on the horizon. Yellow-winged bats flitted off to meet the darkness as Jack stoked the fire.
“We’ll set off for Magesa in the morning,” he said. “Once we find Furaha, we can come back for the car with a mechanic. Hopefully, the phone will pick up a signal too.”
“Have you ever been? To Magesa?” I rinsed out our dinner plates and sat next to him.
“I haven’t been to any of the places on Mo’s list.” He was sitting close to the flames, his face toasty and warm.
“They’re all so different—each town, each village. I never know what to expect.” Night eyes glittered around us. A porcupine? A mongoose? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I felt completely safe with Jack.
“You miss home?” he asked.
“Yes. And no.” I shifted on the mossy log we were sitting on. “I just bought my first home. I miss that. I miss its worn, honey-hued walls. The sound of the river as it flows by. I miss my little book nook. The sheep-dotted hills. Fields of lavender. June roses tumbling over the fences. Small, wild strawberries growing through cracks in the flagstones. I miss the church bells, the tall, elegant spires. It’s home, you know? We traveled a lot when I was younger. I’ve looked for a place like that my whole life, a place that spoke to my soul.”
“It sounds beautiful.” Jack turned to me, elbows resting on his knees.
In the silence that followed, I smiled ruefully. After Sarah, he had vowed to never ask another woman to live on the farm with him. And I had just ensured that even if he changed his mind, that woman wouldn’t be me. We both had places of permanence that we weren’t willing to give up.
“And Africa?” he whispered, staring into the flames. “What do you think of Africa?”
I will always think of you when I think of Africa.
“It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching. It heals you, it destroys you. It’s the place that claimed my sister.” And my heart.
The fire threw our flickering shadows against the tree trunks. The heat of the day had dissipated, and our breaths were turning to vapor.
“We should turn in,” said Jack. But neither of us moved. Because there was only one tent, and it had been flashing in our faces all evening, like a big neon sign on the Vegas strip.
I went in first, while Jack secured the fire. It was a fair-sized tent—until Jack entered because everything just seemed to shrink around him. I closed my eyes and huddled under the blankets as he slid in, next to me. I kept my back to him, but the air-inflated mattress shifted under his weight, so I ended up clinging to the edge, to keep from rolling toward him. I really was on a slippery slope when it came to him.
“Rodel?”
“Yes?”
“If you dig your nails into the mattress any harder, you’re going to rip a hole through it.”
“I . . . I’m not—”
“Let go.” He propped himself up on his elbow and loosened my grip. “What are you so afraid of?” His eyes searched mine. “This?” He swept me into his arms and held me snugly. “See? It’s not so bad,” he said, as his warmth seeped into my body—so male, so bracing.
“They’re just arms.” His fingers trailed slowly up and down my arm. “And legs.” He traced the curve of my thigh. “And this spot right here, that I’ve been dying to taste since I washed your hair.” He kissed a spot under my ear lobe. “I crave you, Rodel. In the most innocent ways. I lie awake in my bed at night, thinking of you down the hallway, wanting nothing more than to hold you. I want to stroke your hair until you fall asleep. I want to give you forehead kisses when you’re down. That’s all I allow myself. I don’t go any further.”
He stopped trailing patterns over my skin and shut his eyes like he was struggling with something wild and powerful.
“But right now, Rodel, now that I’m holding you, and touching you, and breathing you, all I want to do is take you like no one’s taken you before.” His gaze burned when he looked at me. “I want to take you like I hate you. Fiercely. Completely. Because you resurrected me, only to relinquish me. I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve done. You see thi
s?” He rubbed his hand over the scruff of his beard.
“After Lily died, every time I picked up the razor, I thought of ending it. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the thought of Goma having to bury me. When you showed up that stormy afternoon, it was like grace stepping on my porch. I didn’t want to look at you, I didn’t want to see you or hear you because there was no place for grace, or hope, or virtue in my world. They had been snuffed out.”
I held my breath as he continued baring pieces of himself. I couldn’t have spoken even if I’d wanted to. Lying next to him, our bodies touching under the blanket had turned me into a mess of quivering sensations.
“I thought you were well intentioned but naive.” His eyes were on my lips, and I marveled at how he could make them throb with a glance. “And that day, by the fire, I thought you were beautiful. But then you were more. You were smart and funny. And brave. And every time I look at you, I see something new, and interesting, and compelling. You make me feel like I want to go on long trips with you. To the sea. To the mountains. You make me feel things that I had stopped feeling, and I don’t know what to do with them, or where to put them. Every time you’re around me, I feel like I’m going to explode, trying to contain it all. You opened me up again, Rodel, and you had no right to, damn it! You had no right.” His grip changed, all the wound-up tension snapping in a hot breath.
Everything shattered as he took my mouth with savage intensity. One large hand gripped my waist, drawing me to him as if he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. Blood pounded in my brain as his hand glided under my top and fondled my breast, turning its pink tip marble hard. His body was rough and insistent on top of mine, our breaths uneven, limbs entwined.
“Touch me.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, heat rippling off his skin. My pulse raced to my fingertips, as I traced the corded muscles on his chest, the light mat of hair in the groove between his pecs. When I slipped my hands into his boxers, he reclaimed my mouth, surging into my palms with a groan.
“Tell me you want this.” He slid down my stomach, to the swell of my hips. “Show me.”