Wanderlove

by Kirsten Hubbard

  We can never go back.

  I see what she’s saying. To a seasoned traveler like Rowan, with his piles of passport stamps, this island isn’t much edgier than a Sandals resort. Not to mention Sonia, who’s seen it swell from a heap of sand into a starred Lonely Planet destination.

  But then again, to my friends back home, the entire Central America isthmus would still seem impossibly remote, a storybook realm of bandits and bananas. That’s how it seemed to me as I stared at the Mayan temple photo in my Global Vagabonds pamphlet.

  I guess it all depends on how you look at it.

  Bria’s first travel rule:

  Travel is a matter of perspective.

  “You think there’s any place left in the world nobody’s been before?” I wonder.

  “I stopped traveling many years ago,” Sonia says. “So I don’t know the answer.”

  Then she leans forward, wedging her coffee mug in her cleavage. “But what I do know is this: you got to find your own places. The places you get, girl, the ones that stick in your heart. And if you’re lucky, you find people to share them with.” She pauses. “Just don’t marry a goddamned fisherman.”

  She takes our empty plates and puts them on the ground for the dogs. When I reach into my daypack, she snaps, “And don’t try to pay me. I be very insulted.”

  20

  Day 15, Night

  Skeletons

  That evening, the Florida girls want to play skeleton in the closet.

  Five of us sit on the floor of the dive shop: Rowan and me, Jack, Emily, and Ariel. The dreadlock twins are back at the bar, while Clement and Devon headed home. Apparently they’ve outgrown that kind of nonsense. I wish I could say the same. I’m facing the open door, wearing a pair of Rowan’s sunglasses, even though it’s almost dark out. Jack passes around a joint and a flask of something called Garifuna giffity, which tastes like scorched gasoline. As usual, Rowan doesn’t drink or smoke. I spend so much time deciding between staying sober and carpe diem, they finish the joint without me.

  The game is Emily’s idea. I expect Rowan to make up an excuse to leave, but instead, he turns to me and says, “I’m in if you are.”

  I shouldn’t be shocked. By now, our evasiveness has become a joke. Like the other afternoon before dinner, when we visited one of the island’s art galleries. Rowan was browsing on the other side of a row of glass shelves, his face doubled and split, when he called to me. “Look what I found.” In the crook of one arm, he cradled a gnarled hunk of wood, made glossy, with a tiny knob the size of a popcorn kernel in the center. I pinched it open. A drawer.

  “For secret-keeping,” I said.

  Rowan set it back on the shelf. “We don’t need any help with that!”

  Hilarious. So even though I don’t want to play, I convince myself that I’m okay with this. That I don’t have anything to hide. And really, I don’t. My relationship with Toby isn’t exactly tabloid fodder. Rowan, on the other hand … I just can’t figure out why he’s okay with this when he can’t bring himself to confide even in me.

  But then he whispers in my ear, and it all makes sense: “Feel free to lie,” he says.

  “So how do you play?” I ask Emily.

  “It’s like truth or dare, without the dare. We go around the circle, and one by one we ask a question—any question. Everyone but the person asking has to answer.”

  “And what if we won’t answer?”

  “You take a penalty shot of giffity.”

  “That stuff’s foul.” And even though he’s never said so explicitly, I add, “Plus, Rowan doesn’t drink.”

  “I’m more worried about you, Bria,” Jack says. “You sure you can handle it?”

  “Of course. Can you?”

  He chuckles. “Sure. I love this stuff. But you, you’re such a little thing. How tall are you—one hundred fifty?”

  “Huh?”

  “He means centimeters,” Rowan explains.

  Emily leans over and seizes a dusty conch shell from the bookshelf. “I’ll start,” she says, “because I’ve got the conch.”

  Rowan crosses his arms. “I’m glad this game’s democratic.”

  “I don’t get it,” Emily says.

  “Lord of the Flies. You know, Piggy? ‘I’ve got the conch’? When they … Never mind.”

  “How do we know who goes next?” Ariel asks, flicking her thumbnail against her teeth. She’s too tidy of a girl to actually bite.

  “We can spin the conch.”

  “Like spin the bottle? I’d rather play that.”

  “Let’s not,” Rowan and I say at the same time.

  Emily kneels with both hands on the seashell. “Okay,” she says. “My question is … Have you ever cheated on someone?”

  Ariel and Jack answer yes, while Rowan and I say no. I’m impressed until Rowan winks at me and I realize I don’t know whether he’s lying.

  Great. This is going to be a mindfuck.

  Emily spins the shell, and the pointy end stops at Jack. He leans against the wall, extending his infinite legs in front of him. “Have you ever carried drugs across an international border?”

  There’s a pause as we all weigh the weirdness of his question. Especially me. I can’t help thinking of the pounds of bananas that weren’t bananas. It fits too well. I glance at Rowan, who just happens to be avoiding my eyes, and then I speak.

  “I have—I bought a box of Alka-Seltzer in Tijuana once.”

  True story. I was trying unsuccessfully to ward off a hangover after my fifty billion kamikazes. Everyone laughs except Emily. “That’s not what he meant,” she complains.

  “So what?” Rowan says. “Then he should have worded it differently. I’ve carried all kinds of drugs across borders: Tylenol, aspirin, malaria pills.”

  Jack grins. “Foiled.”

  The game goes on. Heavy-lidded from the joint, Ariel asks about sex in public places. I ask about shoplifting. “Boring,” says Emily, even after Rowan relays some elaborate story about hiding a container of pistachio ice cream in his pants. She asks about threesomes, and I decide not to mention me, Toby, and Toby’s sketchbook. Then it’s Jack’s turn again.

  “Have you ever been jailed in a third-world country?”

  Emily and Ariel both shout, “No!” I consider making up a story, but I’m not fast enough. I shake my head. Only Rowan is left. And for some reason, he’s not answering.

  “Rowan’s taking too long,” crows Ariel. “Drink! Drink!”

  Jack grins and holds out the bottle. To my surprise, Rowan accepts it. He swallows, making a terrible face. “This shit’s wretched.”

  “If you’d stop being so damn cagey, you wouldn’t have to drink it,” Jack says. “Come on, man. What’s it going to take to get you to talk to me?”

  “Not bringing up shit like that.”

  “This isn’t the same sort of situation, I told you. Not even close.”

  I’m starting to feel dizzy. It could be from the smokebox we’re sitting in, but more likely it’s the secrets whirling through the air. It’s almost like Jack’s trying to blackmail Rowan with his past. Who does that? But I don’t know what else to think, especially when Rowan’s still avoiding my eyes.

  “Why has everything got to be so serious with you nowadays? How about this?” Jack reaches for the shell and points it at Rowan. “Your turn. Give me your best shot.”

  Rowan scowls. It makes him look like a little boy. “Oh, I’ve got questions for you,” he says. “How about, Have you ever left a friend to take the fall for you? Or, Have you ever had an ulterior motive when you told your pal about a job lead? Or how about, Have you ever slept with your best friend’s sister, then lied about it?”

  Oh. My. God.

  “That’s not fair,” Emily says with a scowl. “The question has to apply to everyone.”

  “Quiet,” Ariel says, looking intrigued. “Did you, Jack? Really? His sister?”

  My dizziness has turned to nausea, and the smoke and giffity are only making it wors
e. I want my denial back. I want to run outside and stick my head in the sand and pretend that I haven’t heard anything, that Rowan’s the brilliant, perceptive, utterly decent guy I’ve come to care about more than I’ll let myself admit, nothing more, nothing less. But as tempting as a getaway sounds, I can’t leave the others to talk shit about Starling. Not while she’s busy martyring herself for the greater good in some impoverished village.

  “That’s what you’re so bent out of shape about, Rowan?” Jack is saying. “Really? Because she’s the one who—”

  “I slept with Rowan’s sister!” I shout.

  Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

  “Well, I did. In Río Dulce. Starling and I slept together. Literally. In the same hotel room. Not in the same bed, though. Sorry.”

  “Stop misinterpreting the questions!” Emily exclaims. “And take those sunglasses off. It’s night.”

  I shove the sunglasses to the top of my head as Rowan stands.

  “Don’t leave.” Ariel tries to get up, giggling, but she’s too stoned.

  “Rowan, no hard feelings,” Jack says. “Seriously, I was just kidding around. We had great times back then, didn’t we? Anything I did to hurt you, then or now, I’m really sorry. Look.…” He holds up the flask, tips his head back, and swigs. When he lowers it, Rowan grabs it from his hand.

  “Rowan, you don’t have to …,” I begin.

  For an instant, his angry eyes flash my way. I’ve never seen him look like that. I’ve seen him frustrated, annoyed, exhausted. But never angry. He unscrews the flask and swallows. And swallows. And swallows. He recaps it, tosses it in Jack’s lap, then stalks off into the night.

  I give him a head start before running after him.

  Outside, people from the beach bars spill onto the sand. I dodge them, hopping over the seaweed that drapes the shore like stinking rags. Near the main dock, I finally catch up with Rowan, walking with his hands in his pockets.

  “Jack knew the answers to those questions,” he says.

  “Yeah … I got that.”

  He kicks a piece of driftwood. “Jack’s no angel, just so you know. I meant what I said, about taking the fall for him back in Honduras. If he’d gotten caught, the dive shop owners would have had him deported, or worse—it wasn’t his first transgression. I was lucky I didn’t get in more trouble. But I lost a job I loved, on an island I adored. And now there’s no way I can go back, not even for a visit.”

  “But … what did you take the fall for?”

  Rowan waves his hand, like I should know.

  “Drugs? Is that what you’re telling me? Jack blamed his drugs on you?”

  “They weren’t just his,” Rowan says.

  I pause. “Oh.”

  We’re walking down the main dock now, where the water taxis come in. I can hear the waves crashing against the barrier reef. The sound track seems to make the whole world stall, as if we’re suspended here in this landmark moment, bound by Rowan’s words.

  “I was young, and new to the travel scene. Selling drugs to tourists seemed like easy money—and it was, at first. Also, Jack can be awfully charismatic—even after the first couple times we almost got caught, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t fall for his fast talk ever again. God, it was all so idiotic. We could have been jailed for years. Hell, we could have been killed, considering some of the sketchy characters we got involved with.” He shakes his head. “Now you see why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  I stumble on an uneven plank, and Rowan grabs my arm to steady me. He pulls back quickly, like he’s suddenly too shy to touch me. It makes me want to hug him, but we’ve never done anything like that, and now’s probably not the best time to go there.

  “Why did you agree to play Emily’s game in the first place,” I say, “if you knew Jack had all that ammo against you?”

  “Jack and I might have had our issues, but it’s been a long time. He was great when we caught up in Guatemala City. And … well, you have to know Jack. He doesn’t mean things to come out as harshly as they do. Sometimes he’s just so enamored with the potential humor of a situation, he doesn’t realize he’s making everyone around him uncomfortable. And I suppose in this case, he’s still a little hurt.”

  We’ve reached the end of the dock. I stay a couple of feet back, while Rowan steps right to the edge.

  “Why is Jack hurt, exactly?”

  Rowan sighs. “Just … he and Starling had a thing, I guess. Late last year. I suspected it, even though I didn’t know for sure. She didn’t know about my problems with Jack until later.”

  “But what’s he blaming you for?”

  He shrugs. “I guess you could say Starling left him for me.”

  Everything’s beginning to come clear now, sun through the clouds. “How do you figure?”

  “I’d just arrived at Lake Atitlán, and I … sort of had what you’d call a breakdown. Hit bottom. Starling came down to take care of me. It was awful, but it was what I needed to give me a kick in the ass. Everything’s been so much better since then. Until now. I should have known this job was just an excuse as soon as Jack called.”

  And suddenly, the sun’s obscured by black thunderheads. “An excuse? An excuse for what?”

  Rowan runs his palm over his eyes, looking weary. “It’s nothing. Just a connection Jack has. A way to make extra money, when all the crowds are here for Lobsterfest.”

  “He wants you to, like …” I can’t bring myself to say the word again. “To sell …”

  “It’s not a big deal or anything.”

  “But it is a big deal. After everything you just told me?”

  “It really isn’t. Compared to the kind of situations I used to get into, it’s nothing. I’ve already said too much. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

  “I said don’t worry about me, Bria! I can take care of myself.”

  I can’t let it go. “But—”

  “Hey, look!”

  I turn and look. In a silver pool of light from a dock lamp, sinuous black shadows move through the water. Rowan steps closer to me.

  “Baby nurse sharks. They come out at night. Aren’t they graceful?”

  Any other time, I’d be captivated. Or joke about yet another hazard keeping me from the water. But this time, my stomach reels with frustration. It’s not the first time Rowan’s tried to change the subject right when we’re getting somewhere. I’d hoped we were past that stage, but apparently we’re not.

  And this time, we’re talking drugs across borders. Jail in third-world countries. Drug deals that might not be entirely dealt with. I know I should have expected this, after what Starling said, what Liat said. And I did expect some of it. Drugs, maybe. Girls. Scores of girls. But not all this. I mean … my God. Rowan. No wonder he didn’t want to tell me about his past.

  Especially since it’s looking likely that it’s not in the past at all.

  My emotions are twisting together, so dense and dizzying I can hardly speak. My head aches, and Rowan’s not helping by striding way too fast down the road to our hostel. He drops me off at my room with barely a nod for a goodnight.

  I stand with my ear against the door until I hear his shut.

  I count to sixty.

  Then I hurry back downstairs to the hostel lobby, where the night clerk’s still manning the desk. With his help, I call the number Starling gave me back in Río Dulce, the emergency number I’m supposed to call if anybody needs saving.

  “I think Rowan’s in trouble,” I tell her.

  21

  Day 16

  Letting Go

  Lobsterfest is tomorrow.

  It sticks up from the landscape of my journey like a volcanic peak. The inevitable climax of my days in Central America. Exciting, intimidating. Unavoidable.

  And now Starling will be there. She’s flying in from Flores tomorrow morning.

  “But do you really have to come all this way?” I said on the phone last night. “
Can’t you call Rowan and, I don’t know, talk some sense into him?”

  “That wouldn’t work,” she explained. “First, because it would make him angry, and less likely to listen to me. Second, because he’d know you called me. By showing up for the party, I can pretend it was a surprise—my intention all along.”

  He’d know you called me. I never thought of that. I tried to imagine Rowan’s reaction if he learned I told on him, and it made me want to down an entire keg of Jack’s toxic punch.

  “You’re sure about this, Bria? Because if you’re wrong …”

  I told her I was certain.

  And I thought I was. But this morning at breakfast, I can barely look at Rowan. It’s for the best, I tell myself. I’m doing this because I care. And he’s the one betraying my trust. Though every time I think of last night’s furtive phone call, it feels like it’s the other way around. I just wish I’d given Rowan another chance to explain. Or demanded an explanation.

  But now it’s too late.

  I need to keep busy, I tell myself. It’s the only way to keep my mind from stumbling backward into last night’s minefield.

  After breakfast, I hurry back to the hostel. When the coast is clear, I wash a few tank tops, a couple of pairs of shorts, and all my underwear in the sink of the shared bathroom. I drape them over the balcony outside our room to dry.

  I hang out at the edge of Sonia’s backyard until she comes outside and calls me a creep. While we listen to a bootleg CD of her favorite soca music, she tells me a story about a white man her husband took lobster fishing, mocking him in a deep, dopey voice. “So he says, ‘I nailed this one guy so big you wouldn’t believe. The guide said it musta been fifteen years old. Did he ever fight! A furious sonofabitch. I had to rip off both his antennae and a leg or two to get him on the boat.’ ” She spits. When I ask why, she explains, “He got no respect. He should have left that ancient old creature alone. That lobster probably was ten times smarter than he is, the filthy potlicker.”

  After lunch, I consider getting out my sketchbook, but I don’t really feel like drawing.