Wanderlove (12 page)

“I can do it,” I hear myself say. “But . . .” Then I blurt out the only excuse that might make a difference.

“But I don’t really have a boyfriend. We broke up.”

“I guessed that.” Starling slips her arms through the straps of her backpack. “But let’s keep it our little secret, all right?” k

When I arrive back at the hotel, alone, I find Rowan in the courtyard, reading in a tangerine-colored hammock. He doesn’t see me approach. So I hang back for a moment, watching him, sketching him with my mind.

One arm is folded behind his head, the other propping up his book. His bare foot dangles off the end of the hammock, and I can see his left gastrocnemius muscle flexed above his stack of bracelets. He looks content, composed—not a hint of the screwed-up, wounded baby bird Starling made him out to be.

He also looks like a stranger.

I try to imagine us standing together on a Caribbean island beach. It just doesn’t work. Sure, I can picture Rowan there: with his rope of black hair and tanned skin, he seems designed for an island lifestyle. And I can picture myself there too: wearing my billowy white skirt and silver necklace, gazing at some far-off horizon, like a girl in a cruise ship ad.

But when I try to imagine us together . . .

I have an impulse to flee. But I have no idea where to go.

And besides, my backpack’s still in our room.

I need to face the truth—that for now, Rowan and I are shackled together. As long as he’s the non-ditching good guy Starling swears he is. Maybe it won’t be that awkward. All our best exchanges occur when Starling’s not around, talking over both of us and brandishing her philanthropic backpacker badges. I can take back my art while Rowan guides me through extraordinary places. If I’m supposed to act like some kind of private investigator—not to mention a romantic force field, repelling an onslaught of backpacker skanks—fine. I can do it. I can pretend to be badass.

And maybe I can learn to do a little less observing and a little more jumping in.

Taking a deep breath, I walk over to Rowan and give his hammock a nudge. “You read more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lazily, he tips his head my way. “Morning. I didn’t used to.”

“Read?”

“It’s like I just discovered it in the past few months. I can’t get enough.” He closes his book. “Where’s my sister?”

Here goes nothing. “Starling’s gone.”

“Gone?” Rowan swings his legs over the edge of the hammock and sits up. “What do you mean—she left for Flores?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Damn her! She knows I don’t . . .” He shakes his head.

“This is just like Starling. It’s not the first time she’s pulled a stunt like this.”

“What, made you a babysitter?”

He stares at me.

“Because I’m not any happier about this than you are, all right? Maybe it sucks to be chained to a travel newbie like me. But how do you think it feels to be dependent on someone who doesn’t want you tagging along?”

“It isn’t . . .” He pauses. “That’s not— Did Starling tell you that?”

I tuck my hair behind my ears, wishing for more length.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It isn’t you,” he says, and I think, Yeah, right. “It’s just that . . . I usually travel alone. Unless I’m with Starling. And even then, we can only last a couple weeks before we want to murder each other. She should have told me she was leaving.”

“She said you don’t do goodbyes.”

Rowan sighs. “Well, we try not to, anyway. Something we developed in our last couple years of constant comings and goings. It’s easier.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re a drag. I mean, seriously—they just drag out painful moments.”

I shrug, still feeling all sorts of unpleasant. “I suppose.”

“Think about it. Think about your last big goodbye. Both people are searching for the right thing to say, and both are uncomfortable because there
is
no right thing to say. Best to just leave and be done with it. Shut the book as quickly as possible.”

I try not to think of how long I dragged out my breakup with Toby. Isn’t that what a breakup is? A painfully protracted goodbye? At least, it was in my case. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s worked for me so far.” Rowan clears his throat. “Anyway. I’m sure we can handle each other’s company for a few days. Once we get to the island, we can do our own thing.

Sound okay?”

I stuff my hands into my jeans pockets to refrain from punching him in the latissimus dorsi. “I suppose we’ll manage,” I mutter.

“So . . . Onward, I guess.” He slides out of the hammock onto his feet. “Have you had breakfast? I’ve been dying for a pineapple
licuado
.”

Day 6, Afternoon

Into the Forest

“Just under two hours late,” Rowan says as the motorboat bumps against the cement pier. “Are you getting used to Central America time?”

“Hardly,” I reply, stretching my bench-shaped back. I snap shut my book, realizing I unintentionally sketched in its margins. My fault for using a pen as a bookmark.

We’re about to head down the Río Dulce to Guatemala’s Caribbean coast. To a village called Livingston, Rowan told me matter-of-factly. It’s not mentioned on my Global Vagabond itinerary. Before I threw it away, I memorized it in its entirety, including:

Copán Ruinas, Honduras

Travel via charter plane (approx. 30 min) to the town of Copán Ruinas, the gateway to the Mayan ruins of Copán. Experience architec-tural tour of the Maya site and stopover at Macaw Mountain Bird Park.

Cancún, Mexico

After Chichén Itzá, enjoy margaritas and salsa dancing lessons at all-inclusive Mexican resort Grasa del Mar, a.k.a. “Bounty of the Sea,” before flight south to the Tikal ruins.

I’m trying not to mourn missing salsa lessons alongside Glenna Heron, but it’s hard. Okay, not really.

“So are we off the beaten path yet, or what?” I ask Rowan as we hand our backpacks to the boat driver. I’m immediately embarrassed, but he takes my question seriously.

“Depends on what kind of traveler you’re talking about.

For the people in your tour group, yeah, sure. For your average backpacker . . . not really. For someone who’s been traveling forever . . . well, anywhere that accepts U.S. dollars—like most of these places—is pretty well trod.”

“Got it,” I say.

Rowan’s third travel rule:

The more you travel, the more all the
paths seem beaten.

A quarter inch of river water sloshes in the bottom of the boat. The driver wraps our packs in tarps before stuffing them under the benches. Eight people accompany us for the journey: a trio of backpacker boys, a couple with a humiliated-looking preteen daughter, and a pair of middle-aged birders who screech like parakeets when they see anything with feathers. I rest my chin on my hands, searching for manatee-shaped shadows in the murky water.

As soon as the engine starts, the tallest backpacker boy clambers over to our end of the boat. He sits beside me and offers his hand to Rowan.

“Nice to meet you, bro. I’m Pete.”

Rowan shakes the guy’s hand. “Rowan,” he says. “This is Bria.”

Pete ogles me for a moment. I adjust the straps of my tank top.

“So listen,” he says to Rowan, “we’re new to this budget-travel thing: me, Sammy, and Carlos—that’s them over there.

We saw you on the pier and decided you looked like the kind of guy who knows his way around, who knows the score.”

“The score?” Rowan repeats, in a tone that says,
Are you
for real?

“You know what I mean—you look experienced. Tough.” I bite my knuckles, stifling a laugh. Not as if I know “the score” myself, or what the competition is in the first place, but it amuses me that somebody appears even more clueless than I am.

“We’re heading to Belize,” Pete says. “Do you think you could give us a few pointers?”

“What kind?”

Pete glances at the family, then leans in close. “Like, which places are the most stoner-friendly?” I glance at Rowan, who yawns, like he’s seen guys like

Pete a thousand times before and can’t be bothered. In contrast, you’d think Pete wants to be boyfriends, as excited as he is to talk to Rowan. It reminds me of two nights ago, at the lake. Once Rowan came in from reading, the other backpackers latched on to him like bloodthirsty flies. I wonder what it is that makes him so irresistible. His quiet confidence?

His unmistakable status as a veteran traveler? His ponytail?

Or does he just seem like a nice guy? Little do they know what a judgmental ass he can be.

“Not just weed,” Pete clarifies, “but other stuff? We heard Belize is the place to go, as long as we keep a low profile.

Yeah?”

Pounds of bananas,
I repeat to myself.
Pounds of bananas.

“Drugs aren’t legal anywhere,
bro
,” Rowan says.

“Sure, we know that. But we heard about this one island . . .”

“What island?”

“Bird Cay something. Dancing Bird Cay.” Rowan sits up, suddenly interested. “Oh, you mean Laughingbird Caye,” he says. “Pronounced like
key
, by the way.”

“That’s it! You know about it? We heard it’s like booze, pharmaceuticals . . . and easy backpacker chicks. Yeah?” Rowan shakes his head. “Laughingbird’s not where you want to go.”

“It isn’t?”

“That island’s dead. The American tourists killed it. It’s all retirees nowadays: muumuus and dentures and silver chest hair. Sometimes all three at once.”

Pete winces.

“Carambola Caye . . . now,
that’s
what you’re looking for.

It’s even closer to here than Laughingbird. But still remote enough that you can do whatever you want.” Rowan leans in and lowers his voice. “
Whatever you want.
You know that book
The Beach
?”

Pete’s practically salivating. “Book? You mean the movie with Leonardo DiCaprio?”

“Sure.”

“The island’s like that? Holy shit—how do we get there?”

“First thing tomorrow morning, take the boat from Livingston to Punta Gorda. Then catch a bus to Dangriga. From there, you can find a boat to take you out to the cay. Ask a fisherman or something. They might try to convince you there’s nothing there, but don’t listen. It’s all part of the game.”

Rowan scribbles directions on a scrap of paper. As soon as Pete rejoins his friends on the other end of the boat, I squint at Rowan. “Isn’t Laughingbird Caye where we’re going?”

“That is correct.”

“And you didn’t want that guy there.”

Rowan shrugs one shoulder. “It won’t make much of a difference. Plenty of his type make it there anyway. Spring Breakpackers, Starling calls them.”

I think of Olivia, who spent spring break in Cabo San Lucas with Jessa Hanny. They certainly hadn’t brought backpacks. “So does Carambola Caye even exist?”

“It sure does—it’s a wildlife refuge. Completely uninhabited. I think there might be a bathroom hut. Maybe a couple hammocks.”

“You’re kidding.”

He looks pleased. “They can learn about nature.” Nice guy, my ass. I shake my head. I should feel sorry for Pete and his pals, but anyone who approaches strangers asking about easy chicks kind of has it coming. “You and your damned pranks.”

Rowan has the decency to look contrite. “In my defense,” he says, “when I invited you, I was sure you wouldn’t come.”

“Invited me here? Or to dinner at La Casa Azul?”

“Well, both. But in this case, I’m talking about marooning you on the wrong side of the lake. I’d forgotten about boat times when I asked you to dinner.” He pauses. “I was just . . .tossing a stone on the water. Trying to see if it would skip.”

“That’s a really bad analogy.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m a jerk. I usually only play tricks on people who deserve it.”

I guess it’s progress—that he doesn’t think I’m a deserving victim of his travel pranks. I can’t help wondering what kind of trick Rowan would play on Toby, who takes everything so seriously. It sounds boring, but that’s what drew me to Toby: his intensity. His certainty, when it came to his art—and to our relationship. In contrast, Rowan doesn’t seem to take much seriously at all.

Except for his past. I might joke about the pounds of bananas, but I’m dying to know the details. For example, how many bananas? Are we talking Chiquita or Dole?

“Rowan,” I begin, “on the bus, when Starling said you—”

“Hey!” he exclaims, interrupting. “Look behind you!” For how excited he sounds, I expect to see a manatee, maybe skipping on its tail all Flipper-like, but it’s almost as good. The boat has drifted into an undulating sea of white: a floating carpet of water lilies that extends all the way to the far shore.

Rowan comes over and sits beside me. Side by side, we lean over the edge, gazing at the flowers.

“It’s like
The Voyage of the
Dawn Treader,” he says.

“I’ve read that book!” I exclaim. “I remember the lilies.

Right before the ship reaches heaven. And the ocean was sweet in the book, just like the water here. The name of the river, I mean. Río Dulce.”