by Sunniva Dee
Sundays are the worst. I’m not going to mention it to the guys, because it’s clear what’s happening; Sundays are Luka’s nights. In stark contrast to the rest of the week, every Fratter except Luka seems to have something to do on Sundays around bedtime.
Three Sundays in a row, I’ve been fooled into thinking most will stay at the house until last minute. But then they get up. They leave. Some don’t even announce that they’re leaving, and belatedly, I find out that Luka and I are home alone.
It’s not that I’m scared of him. It’s our confrontations I’m afraid of.
I go to bed. He comes after me. Not once has he entered my room wearing only underwear like the others. Luka doesn’t try to get into my bed either. He sees me though. Watches me pull my duvet up. Registers the way my cheeks burn.
“I’ll just sit here until you fall asleep,” he tells me tonight. It troubles me that he’s in the window nook, our glass veranda, without as much as a cushion beneath him on the floor. He’s just there, knees bent and elbows on his knees, a moonlit shadow against the glass panes.
“I don’t want you to.”
“You sleep better with someone in the room.”
“I don’t sleep better with you here. You give me nightmares.” I fight the impulse to throw him a pillow.
“I’ve seen no sign of that.”
I sit up higher, clutching the comforter to my chest. “Why are you so stubborn? I know what I want, Luka, and that’s to be as far away from you as I can.”
A flare goes off in his eyes before they darken again. “I wonder why?”
“Seriously? You and your insinuations. First about Julian and now about me? Don’t even bother. You’re dreaming if you ever thought that… that I...”
“That you what?” He tips his head to the side, and it could have looked playful. We could have been flirting.
“That I’ve ever felt anything but disgust for you.”
He exhales heavily. “I see. And what did I say that upset you about Julian?”
I scoff. “Should be self-explanatory, don’t you think? The ‘work’ part.”
“I’m a little lost here.”
“You said he worked! I can only imagine you wanted me to believe that Julian earned money off porn too, but you forgot the minor issue of me knowing your brother really well.”
“Ha, no way. No one would have hired Julian. You gotta be a machine for my kind of job. Get it up and keep it up whenever for whoever and however long need be. Then you need to bust a nut on command. Julian didn’t have it in him.”
“You never say anything good about him,” I burst out and cover my mouth with my hand.
Luka rocks against the window frame, trying to get comfortable. “So it’s not good that he wasn’t in the industry?”
“Of course it is! It was the way you said it. Plus, what else could you have meant?”
“Just… relax, Geneva. Okay? Julian didn’t work.” He sinks back against the wall. There’s a slump in his shoulders, so small I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t looking right at him. “Go to sleep. I’ll leave once I see you doze off. I promise.”
Kenya isn’t just postponed. It isn’t happening for me at all. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t, but here I’ve got it, black on white. Ashley, another doctoral student, left right before Julian died, and we were supposed to join her backup team, assisting her while fine-tuning techniques for our own research in Brazil. I just received an email from her, in which she gives me her deepest condolences—and the news that she’s chosen the only remaining male doctoral student to join her instead of me. I hate that I understand.
If I hadn’t counted on Julian, I might have chosen a less dangerous project; in the jungle, I’m the weaker sex. Look at Yarunami and how the villagers took advantage of her. Then there are the snakes, the mosquitos, jaguars, piranhas, stifling heat, and deadly bacteria. So many reasons not to go.
I do feel weaker than usual right now. I can’t imagine myself in the Amazon without my shield, my armor, my man who was supposed to be there, strong and tall and supportive. I was going to run our interviews. I was going to be fearless because I didn’t need to fear.
Staring into the glass bottom of my second beer, it dawns on me that Kenya isn’t what bothers me. Neither is it the fear of going alone to Brazil. No. It’s the devastation of the Amazon not panning out. Because it really is not.
“The Mikhailov Oracle funds were allocated a few months ago, correct?” Dr. Bergstein asked yesterday.
“They were,” I said, not adding that Julian secured the grant based on his Russian heritage, not adding that I haven’t contacted the M.O. since Julian’s death.
“Perfect. Your spreadsheet looks good. Between the Mikhailov Oracle funding and what we can funnel from the Markata project, you should be set for a ten-week trip with a partner. Have you found one yet?”
I postponed my answer with a slow blink in hopes that his attention would waver. It didn’t.
“People are busy,” I admitted.
Those small, shrewd eyes of his examined me, not budging while I worked to appear calm. “I know you’re aware, Geneva, but it merits a repetition: you can’t go alone. Despite the liability waiver you’re signing to get into the jungle, the department doesn’t make allowances for our students to put themselves in life-threatening situations.”
“It’s not life-threatening. The tribe and the territory have been studied before, and so far no one has found themselves in danger.”
“Over the last ten years, thirteen anthropologists have been that deep into the Amazon jungle.”
“Yes.” I raised my eyebrows in a polite version of see?
Dr. Bergstein crossed his arms. “How many of them were female?”
“I can find ways of protecting myself.”
“How many?”
I pretended to think even though a quick run-through in my brain gave the answer immediately. “Mariana Smith.”
“That’s correct. She was the only one. Who did she travel with?”
I ripped off the Band-Aid. “Two colleagues.”
“Exactly. Now, Geneva, I want you to know that you’re a brilliant anthropologist, and I believe in your project. I think it could potentially be groundbreaking.” Dr. Bergstein tilted his head, peering at me. “Have you landed on an interpreter yet?”
“I’ve reached out to a few, but I’m still waiting for answers.”
“Okay. If you want to anchor down the Markata funding, you’ll need to settle on a solid backup team. The combined interpreter/partner I initially thought we could pull off is a no-go. This means that as a bare minimum you’ll need a partner and an interpreter.”
I’m at the department and so frustrated I want to scream. Still, there’s a niggling at the back of my brain that never lets me wallow in peace. It harps about how I need to plow onward, how it’s the only way to clean up the mess.
I scour the internet again for Larengatu interpreters and get no new hits. I send a second email to the first batch of interpreters, crossing my fingers for an answer.
By the time I leave the department, I’ve visited four classrooms talking about my project, urging bachelor’s students and master’s-seekers to step forward if they’re interested in becoming a part of my field team. The ones doing so are tiny, blonde fairies I’d never dream of trying to keep alive in the jungle.
I’m defeated when I meet up with Joy, and she frowns, barely creating a fold between her honeyed brows.
“About the Larengatu-speaker you need. Why do you limit yourself to interpreters?” She wiggles a shrimp in the air, grilled antennas drooping.
“What do you mean? I need someone who knows the language.”
“Sure, but do they have to be formally recognized interpreters?”
I blink.
“Can’t they just be some Lara’ person w
ho has moved out of the jungle and learned English?”
I crunch down on a shrimp of my own, forgetting to remove the shell.
Joy lifts her shoulders, emphasizing with a shrug when I don’t reply. “Worth a search, don’t you think?”
At the library, the world wide web takes me on one crazy goose chase after the other. They’re rabbit holes opened with leads that first seem promising then disappear.
I can’t go back to a night at the Queen without some sense of accomplishment, so I send off a few emails. Soon, I’m led to Twitter and find a young Lara’ woman who’s married in a village at the edge of the forest. I shoot off a message to @Akuntsa7, and she answers a few minutes later!
Thanks to Google Translate, I’m a quasi-expert in Brazilian Portuguese. Akuntsa doesn’t complain. She knows someone who can help me, she says.
Levari is the youngest of my uncle’s, and he left Lara’ Nation to join Brazil so he could study the universal languages of Portuguese and English. He is back now.
I wonder what “back” means. That’s great! Is he with the Lara’?
Most times. We will pick you up.
I don’t know what to reply to that. I want her to send me his contact information so I can talk with him, find out if we’re a good fit, discuss salary. What if I’m doomed to hiring a blonde fairy team from my department and Levari is my only male connection there?
When you come? Akuntsa asks. Do you pay?
I’ll pay him. Not sure when I’m coming, I reply honestly.
My cousin is kind.
Do you have his contact information?
She takes a while to respond. To Levari?
Yes.
He’s not computer.
But does he get online at some library? If he’s studied languages, surely he has at least a phone. How do I ask without being rude?
Is there an email or a phone number where I can contact him?
No, you say when, and he get you.
I have a flash-feel of human-trafficking victim-to-be, so I open Akuntsa’s Twitter photos. I track her on Facebook too, where she has a ton of unprotected pictures.
Akuntsa is small and plump, a beautifully olive-skinned girl with long, straight black hair. Calm kindness saturates her features. It makes me think she’s wiser than her years. She has the face of someone trustworthy so I send her a friend request.
Have a good night, Akuntsa. It was so nice to meet you. I’ll be in contact.
Good night, Geneva. She sends me a heart emoticon, which makes sense from someone with her appearance. Maybe this will work out?
This is getting silly.
Not that it wasn’t already. I come home to the Queen, we’re weeks into our unspoken arrangement, and as soon as I walk in the door, the scent of lemon-garlic shrimp, Connor’s specialty, hits my nostrils and makes them flare.
But the silly part is that it’s seven p.m., the table is made, the guys are all home—every one of them—and guess who meets me at the door? My Monday Fratter.
Diego saunters toward me, crimson lips curling in a secret smile. He holds an arm out for me, corded, slim, tanned, and I should turn and run upstairs immediately. What I do is tangle my fingers with his because that’s what I want to do.
He raises our hands between us so our eyes meet over the peak of our knuckles. “Welcome home, babe. You hungry?”
I shake my head. Geez, he’s flustering me a little.
“Did you eat already? Connor’s making shrimp.”
“I know. Couscous?”
“Yeah, and some veggie stuff.”
“The puree?”
Diego sends a quick look around us, lingering on Luka, who’s stomping up the stairs. Then he draws me in so I feel every ridge of his body against me. By my reaction, he might as well have groaned out loud. I can feel how he wants me, and it makes me warm down low.
I’m disgusting.
No, I’m not. That’s just what society teaches you to feel. I press closer to him, and a small exhale pushes out between his lips.
“That you, babe?” Connor hollers from the kitchen.
I clear my throat. “Yep. I’m home.”
“Food’s up in five!”
Diego tips my chin up. “Let’s get you a glass of wine.”
My breath shudders when I release it. Will I get used to this? Will it continue? How long? Will we end up fighting—will I end up mad, selective, wanting one Fratter and not the other? Will they all disgust me, like Luka does now?
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
Dinner is delicious and passes without event. Afterward, we move on to crazy stuff on TV. James gets to choose, and we watch two hours of Monty Python, the wildest British humor ever made. It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely hilarious. I love it, and so do the guys. We’re laughing together like we haven’t since Julian was with us, and the whole time I’m on the couch with Diego.
As soon as I sit down, his arms go around me, attracting no attention from the others. Diego pecks my temple throughout, strokes my arm sweetly. He even brings my leg over his thigh so I’m resting as comfortably as I used to on Julian.
He pushes his knee up, and I’m not sure if he’s aware that he’s hitting my core. My body is fully awake again.
Once the TV goes off, Luka leaves first, waving a quick goodbye to everyone without meeting my stare. I can’t blame him. I haven’t been kind to him. I’ll probably never be kind to that man.
Diego stands next, pulling me up, his fingers laced with mine. He smiles that panty-dropping smile and lifts perfect eyebrows in question.
“You guys going to bed?” That’s Lenny. “I’mma hit the sack too. Dude, am I getting old? It’s, like, eleven thirty.”
Nathaniel groans sluggishly. “I kno-o-ow.”
As Diego guides us up the stairs, nose against my ear, I wonder how things became so natural. No questions asked, I get to cuddle with my man—the man I’m assigned each day of the week.
It’s just that tonight we took it even further. Since the moment I came in the door, Diego was my Julian. I let it happen, and that’s so fucked up.
“I’ll be right in,” Diego murmurs.
“Clean up, dirty boy,” I joke to compress the unrest inside me.
“I don’t think you mean that. I think our babe’s fond of musky men.”
Oh geez. I glare, but instead of disrespect, there’s seduction in his eyes, of the kind that’s been heating my girly-parts for hours now.
I’m barely out of the shower before he’s in my room, sliding the door open to the bathroom. Instinctively, my eyes widen in the mirror, and I clutch my towel over my breasts. Diego’s eyes darken.
“You’re hiding?”
“I... Well, I wasn’t sure who it was.”
“Were you afraid of someone else coming in? Connor? James?” He tips a playful smirk up his cheeks.
“Shut up. You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Geneva, look at me.”
“I am.” I squint, unhappy.
His eyes settle, black-fringed and serious. He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. “I only wanted to make you smile. It’s my job—all of our jobs—to make you smile. We want to help you through this, okay? Make you forget. What Julian did wasn’t right.” Diego expels a puff. “He could have avoided it.”
That makes a giggle tick out of me. “Yes. He could have not died.”
“He could. He wasn’t sick.”
“Except for what he did to himself,” I add.
“Yeah.”
And then I’m crying. Then I’m in Diego’s arms. Then my towel drops to the floor and he carries me to my bed and tucks me under the duvet. He tucks me against him too, exactly what I need.
“That was an asshole move,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead, my lips, finding my ton
gue. I press against him, nodding against his forehead.
“Fucking asshole.”
“We all loved that douchebag.”
“I know.” I swallow while he finds me, touches me, makes me feel better. We flow under the sheets, cause each other’s breaths to shorten until I whimper. He groans, and I snuggle in against him, as close as I can possibly be.
“Douchebag,” I wheeze quietly. Douchebag.
I have a small freak-out on Tuesday night. Lenny’s night. When I enter the Queen an hour late, they’re all waiting for me with Lenny spearheading them in the hallway. He smells like heaven. But then there’s Marlon behind him, a bit taller, eyes burning on me like he has plans too. So that’s why I tell them at dinner, fork and spoon pointing at the ceiling, “You guys better not get any ideas.”
I tip my fork forward like I’m about to skew a few of them. Marlon, for instance, with his neon-sign stare broadcasting how he’d rather not wait his turn.
“I’m not into threesomes. Or foursomes or fivesomes or anything like that.”
“Ba-a-be.” At least three of them exclaim this in mumbled what-’r-you-talking-about voices as if they’re all my boyfriend and I’m being ridiculous. You know what’s ridiculous? This arrangement.
“I’m serious! Just because I’m happy with one of you at a time doesn’t mean I’ll ever want to be... invaded by several of you at the same time.”
James has the decency to look shocked, and so does Nathaniel. The only one looking positively unimpressed is the one I haven’t slept with. Luka’s classic features are perennial ice/the Siberian tundra. Even so, he’s the one speaking up.
“No one would do that to you.”
“Really? Because I didn’t ask for anyone to come to me in the first place. You guys just came. So consider this a clear message: don’t ever misinterpret my body’s reactions into believing I’ll accept more than one of you at a time.”
Several pairs of eyes run over my body before slinking away.
“Got it,” Marlon says. That’s good, because he looked too hungry for a Not-Wednesday. I wonder if he has other girls. He must, right? He was with Sheena for a couple of years, but they broke up a few months before Julian died.