Wanderlove (30 page)

The darker it gets, the rowdier the crowd grows. Fights break out twice, creating a current in the masses, idiots shoving each other to see. The third time the crowd surges, it’s because a group of judges have crowned a local girl Miss Lobsterfest. Her waist is so narrow she resembles a twisted balloon. A pair of guys leap onstage and lift her. She holds her crown with one hand, squealing.

By then, our picnic table is a wasteland of paper plates and cups, kabob sticks and lobster carcasses. I shuffle through the mess as I drink and dance, and eat and dance, and throw back my head and dance.

Ariel keeps laughing in my ear. “I can’t believe it! What’s gotten into you? You’re so much fun!”

Emily has scampered off to find Rowan again. All afternoon, Emily and Ariel have alternated in their pursuit. So far, neither seems to have been successful.
Don’t give up the fight,
I think at him.

Which makes me realize I haven’t seen him in a long time.

The thought tugs at my middle. I should go find him before I drink too much. But the problem is the drinks keep coming.

Before I left for Central America, Reese emailed me articles about date-rape drugs in foreign countries. (And gue-rilla warfare. And unanticipated volcano eruptions. And botfly larvae, which you really shouldn’t look up. Really.) As a result, I won’t drink anything I don’t order myself. But that doesn’t stop guys from sticking bills in front of my face to pay.

I dance with Ariel the most. But the guys are everywhere.

They creep up from behind and accost me, sneak dance at-tack. They hold out burnt offerings of lobster, chicken, shrimp in exchange for just one song. When I let the Belizean guy with the double cornrow buns buy me a drink in exchange for a dance, I sort of feel like a hooker.

And then there’s Jack. As scarce as Rowan seems to be, every time I turn around, the Swedish Lumberjack is pulling me into a dance. After everything Rowan’s told me, I don’t know why I’m even giving this guy a second of my time. He was the instigator, the force behind Rowan’s fall, and yet there’s something appealing about his attention, made so obvious, especially after traveling so long with someone who’s made it
perfectly clear
I’m not his type.

Or maybe it was Starling who said that.

Suddenly, it’s hard to remember who said what, and why.

I’m starting to regret my last drink. When Jack grabs my hand for the thousandth time, I turn my face, trying to find an opening in the crowd where I can breathe. Past the chain-link fence and the palms and buildings, the sky smolders mandarin orange. It’s magical. But I can’t deny it—I’m starting to feel sick. And throwing up twice in one day, for different reasons, is a travel badge I’m not exactly seeking.

“Do you know where I can get a bottle of water?” I ask Jack. My mouth tastes like coconut, sickeningly strong.

He shakes his head. “How about another beer?”

I duck under his arms and head for a clearing, holding on to a palm until the ground stops mimicking Devon’s dive boat. The final scraps of island fantasy drift away. And it’s like I’ve woken up inside a painting of the underworld by Hiero-nymus Bosch. In the sunset, everyone’s faces are colored red.

The lobster smoke reeks like Hades. My feet hurt. My throat feels raw.

Ariel crashes into me. She’s reapplied lip gloss, and even that seems ominous, her mouth a glistening pink gash. “I’ve got shots of Malibu!” she shrieks.

I push past her. I don’t know where I’m going, if I’m planning on leaving, and if I leave, whether I’ll come back, but I halt in my tracks when I see Rowan.

He’s standing against the chain-link fence looking desperately uncomfortable, like a chaperone at a high school dance, someone’s beatnik big brother, with one hand in the pocket of his ragged shorts, the other holding a nearly full beer against his knees.

“Rowan,” I call.

He lifts his beer in greeting but doesn’t budge from his spot. He just stands there, watching me. And then, slowly but deliberately, he shakes his head.

What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

He can’t be serious. I feel his eyes on my skin and I want to cover up. How long has he been watching me? Has he been counting my cocktails? Have I been laughing too loud? I’ve always felt like Rowan was judging me, but never in this way.

I wonder if he’s embarrassed for me, behaving like such a silly girl, so obviously overcompensating for the things I told him last night.

And then I begin to feel resentful.

Just because Rowan’s wild years are over doesn’t mean he has to tread all over my night like a ponytailed Godzilla. I’m almost two years younger than him. For all those months I wasted with Toby, I deserve this. How dare he judge me? I’ve never judged him. Not really. Okay, maybe sort of, but still.

When Jack’s arm snakes around my middle yet again, I feel both sick and glad. “I come bearing meat,” he says, holding out a lobster kabob.

Aware of Rowan’s gaze, I tear off a hunk of the smoky shellfish and eat it with my fingers. I try to turn that feeble gladness into something more gratifying. But when Jack’s sticky hand reaches for mine, the gladness seeps away and I just feel sicker than before.

Who am I trying to fool?

I shove Jack’s hand away. “Sorry,” I tell him. “But I’m just not interested.”

Like a pinball, I ricochet through the crowd until I’m standing in front of Rowan. I give him a push in the center of his chest. “So whatever happened to joining in?” He just looks at me.

“Rowan, come
on.
Liven up!” I put my hands on his hips, trying to make him dance. When I feel him respond, I put my arms over his shoulders and press up against him. I’m startled by how good it feels. He cups the back of my head in his hand, leans in.

“Don’t do this,” he says in my ear.

I pull back, forcing a laugh. It sounds like I’m hacking.

“Do what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, give me a break. I’ve had, like, three drinks!”

Rowan stares at me, unblinkingly, until I want to cover his eyes.

“You need to stop parenting me, Rowan. Just
let me go.
” He doesn’t argue; he just leans back into the fence. The party continues all around us, more jovial and boisterous than ever. But the night has officially lost its thrill, thanks to him.

“I think I need a walk,” I announce.

Rowan just stands there, his beer against his knees.

Day 17, Evening:

Jump In

I stride along the seaweed-clotted shoreline until the sounds of the party fade. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I grab my skirt and run.

When I stumble over a Coke bottle trapped in a tangle of sea grass, I kick off my sandals. I leave them where they land and keep running, dodging palm trees, slopping through milky puddles. I run until I’ve almost reached the tangle of mangrove forest, and then I let myself fall, first onto my knees, then onto my back.

I lie there until the ground stops swaying.

Then I sit up. Beyond my bare toes, the water flickers with lights. Spirit orbs. The horizon’s so dark it blends in with the sky. Above, night clouds obscure the stars in patches silvered by the moon. All I hear is the lapping of tiny waves. The entire island has shifted to the other end.

And here I am, alone.

I feel so sorry for myself I want to cry. I
want
to. I find myself searching for that familiar knot, that parcel of emotion tucked inside my chest the moment art began to break my heart. But for the first time, I
catch
myself trying. And as soon as I uncover it, remove it like a manhole cover and roll it away, the real emotion’s exposed.

Anger
.

Not just anger, but outrage. The kind that glows orange at the edges and steams and stinks like when you flatiron your hair too long. Outrage. Outrageous outrage. I am so damned outraged I could scream. I do scream.

The waves lap-lap back.

I mash my fingers into my eyes until all I see are Kandin-sky splotches. Then I reach into the sand and scoop massive fistfuls, squeezing it, letting it bleed between my fingers as I savor my anger.

There’s anger for Toby, of course. And my parents—for being too preoccupied to question me when I gave up art school and art. There’s some for Starling, because what the hell was she thinking, asking me to look out for Rowan?

She knew I was vulnerable. She’s got no right to be irritated after I made an honest mistake. And there’s even some anger left for Reese and Olivia, for backing out on our trip.

In hindsight, I’m glad they did, because otherwise I wouldn’t be here. And maybe I wasn’t the best friend to them when I was with Toby. But our friendship should have been stronger than that.

Most of all, I’m angry at myself.

Because I’m the one who gave it up. Of course I’m talking about my art, but not just my art. That’s not all I lost. I gave up who I was when I was an artist—a version of myself so happy it scared me. Not the invented party girl I tried to become tonight. I didn’t like her at all, actually. I like Bria who drew. Bria who was happy.

I’ve spent so much time blaming everybody around me for what happened in the last few months. But in the end, I was the one who let myself go.

And it pisses me off.

A rim of gold glows along the reef. I walk a long time before I have any idea where I am. I must have run mile. I wonder where I left my sandals.

I stub my bare toe on something, and I glance down. A stick of driftwood. I almost kick it away, but then I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.

Once upon a time, whatever troubled me could be scratched away by my pencil, smudged out with the side of my palm. But then Toby came along, and art seemed to become what
created
my problems. Letting it go meant I had no out-let. Maybe that’s one reason I stockpiled my anger until it colored my world black and red.

I twirl the driftwood stick between my fingers.

Then I crouch in the moon-bright sand. And I begin to draw.

First I draw a nautilus shell. Nothing momentous. But my relief is instant as I mimic its cavities and whorls, endlessly swirling, my broken chunk of stick waltzing across the sand. I draw a leaping dolphin and then scratch it out and draw a killer whale in its place. On impulse, I add fangs.

I kneel and draw a goggle-eyed lobster, its antennae trailing like seaweed. A conch shell. A whale shark with leopard spots and an open mouth, swallowing a scuba diver, because damn it, I
told
him I didn’t want to dive. I toss the stick aside in favor of my fingers, carving out clumps of wet sand. I start to draw a mermaid, then scratch her out and draw a sea serpent in her place. A Pegasus with butterfly wings. I’m like a crazy person. It’s as if all these fantastic creatures have been caged in my brain since the day Toby first flipped through my sketchbook, and now they’re all stampeding out.

I’m finishing the talons on a dragon when Rowan comes up beside me. “Caught you.”

I jerk in surprise. My knee skids across the poor dragon’s face. Stricken, Rowan yanks me back by my waist.

“I’ve ruined it!” he exclaims.

“It’s not—”

“I thought if I didn’t surprise you, you’d stop drawing. And now I’ve gone and wrecked it.”

“Are you kidding? The wind’s going to wreck them all anyway. But it doesn’t matter. . . .” I lean down and pick up my stick. With a few strokes, I fix the dragon.

Rowan just shakes his head.

I watch him examine each of my drawings, carefully stepping between the creatures. He smiles at the lobster, the vampirish killer whale. When he sees the sea serpent, he grins.

“I drew sea lice, too,” I tell him, “but they’re too small to see.”

“Bria, you never stop amazing me.” With exaggerated caution, he hops over the nautilus shell and comes to stand beside me. “And you’re a mess.”

I look down at my skirt. It’s practically tie-dyed with tar and smears of seaweed. My arms are coated up to the elbows in pale, sugary sand. I make claws at Rowan. He catches one of my arms and brushes the sand from it, sending a million tiny shivers through my skin.

“Are you angry?” he asks softly, still holding my arm.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I pause. “Are
you
angry?”

“Not at you.”

“Who, then?”

He takes my other arm. “I hated seeing Jack touch you,” Rowan says. “
Hated
it.”

I try to reply, but I can’t breathe deeply enough. My heart’s getting in the way of my lungs.

“And I know it was my fault,” he goes on. “I mean, it kind of sucked, because you know about our history, but it’s not like I asked you to stay away from him. Not that I can tell you what to do. It’s just . . . I should have . . .” He sounds as nervous as I feel. “I’ve given you so much grief about hanging back, about not jumping in, when I’ve been just as afraid myself—”

I pull away. Because if I let him hold me for one second longer, I am going to spontaneously combust, and although it would be impressive, that’s not how I want this night to end.

“Then let’s go.”

Rowan looks mystified. “Where?”