Most guys are worried about their boyfriends cruising for a hotter hookup. When I was with Benton, I never had to worry about walking down the beach on Coronado Island and some hunk catching his eye. However, if a sea bird dove into the water in some unusual way to devour its prey, forget it. I would completely lose his attention to whatever wildlife event was unfolding.
“I think we should head out to that clearing there since it seems like a good spot for some amphibian activity.”
“Fine,” I say and follow behind him.
It was always easy for me to forgive Benton. “Forgive” isn’t really the right word because you can’t really forgive someone for being who they are. Benton never seemed to have any problem being Benton. He always knew what he wanted, what he liked, and how he wanted it. It’s part of what made him such an amazing lover.
“Michael, would you look at that. Isn’t it brilliant?”
We’ve made it past a few craggy trees that are acting like a curtain to the clearing. I don’t see a single animal, so I’m not sure what he’s talking about.
“Am I missing some small rodent or high-flying bird?” I ask.
“No, not at all. It’s this view. Look at it. Doesn’t it remind you of something?”
“I’m pretty sure I haven’t been here before,” I tell him.
“No, think about our old bedroom.”
“What about it?” I ask, trying to ignore the growing erection in my pants from just thinking about our old bedroom…and our bed…and the things we used to do to each other there.
“The painting you did of the desert clearing when you went to Mojave Sands. It hung just next to the dresser. It looks so much like this spot. Don’t you think?”
I think back to that painting I did when I was at an artists’ retreat outside Palm Desert. It was the last painting I did before I started my job at Biddle. It always made me sort of sad to look at it because I thought that retreat was going to be the beginning of something, but really, when I see it from where I am now, it was an ending.
“Yes, it does look like that landscape,” I say quietly.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, taking in the view together. Neither of us says a word, but there’s a connection between us. Our knuckles accidentally brush against each other, and there is enough electricity to generate lights for half of Ecuador.
“You should do a show,” Benton says.
I feel the magic fade, or maybe I am forcibly shutting it down since I know where this is going. Still I ask, “What do you mean?”
“You know, you should do a whole show of your paintings based on the Galapagos Islands. You’ll have plenty of sketches, and you have to admit the source material is spectacular.”
That’s it. The grid has melted down. Blackout.
“Stop it, Benton. Just stop it.” I turn to walk back the way we came.
“Michael,” he says, following me. “What’s wrong?”
I turn back to him. “You know I’m not painting right now. I took this gig to help out Penny since I had some time off before…” I stop myself short. I cannot tell Benton about my new position at Biddle. He will hold it over me as selling out, as giving up, as not pursuing my, dare I say it, passion. And he’d be completely right, but I don’t need him to say it.
“Michael, you’re a beautiful, talented painter. I have never understood why you don’t just fully commit to it.”
On the surface Benton is saying something sweet, but it’s so loaded, so triggering, that it just fills me with rage.
“Do. Not. Tell me what to do. You didn’t have the right when you were my boyfriend, and you certainly don’t have the right as my ex, so just shut up,” I say. I’ve had it. I’m storming back toward the panga now. I can’t even look at Benton, I’m so angry.
“Michael, it’s the truth, and you know it.”
Shut up, Benton. Please shut up. If I just can get a few yards farther away from him, I won’t be able to hear whatever nonsense he is spewing.
“We both know we’d still be together if you just faced the truth. You are so talented. Why can’t you trust your talent?”
I hear that, and I really don’t want to.
Chapter 17
I get back to the panga and ask the skipper to take me back to the ship.
“Where is the other man?” he asks.
“He’s dead,” I say. “¡Vamos!”
I don’t really care if Pedro thinks he is helping a murderer escape a crime or just following the orders of a deranged ex-boyfriend. I just want off the same island as Benton. As the panga bounces over the waves, I wonder if I can tell the ship’s captain we need to haul anchor and move on to the next port without Benton. We land on the water deck, and at least I know I’ll have some time alone in the room.
I head straight up the stairs, and when I get to the room, there’s an envelope taped to the door. The front reads Princess Suite. I’m not sure what it is, so I ask a passing crew member wearing a nametag that says Linda.
“Excuse me, Linda, do you know what this is?” I ask.
I’ve seen her serving drinks, cleaning rooms, and lifting things twice her size. She gives me a smile and says, “It’s a telegram.”
“A telegram? I thought those went down with the Titanic.”
“No, we still use them. Out at sea it’s hard to communicate with anyone on land.”
“I see,” I say.
“Have a nice day,” she says and walks off to her next assignment.
I take the telegram off the door and go sit on the bed in the room. Who in the world would be sending me a telegram? I can only think it’s Mr. Biddle ordering me to come back immediately, which, if I could, I would gladly do. I see it is addressed to Benton, not me.
Well, of course I’m not going to open it. I’ll just put it on his side of the bed and let him read whatever urgent message he needs to get. It’s probably from his new boyfriend updating him on his new Paleo-CrossFit-protein-shake ridiculousness.
I put it down gently on his pillow.
And stare at it.
The telegram stares back.
“Screw you, telegram,” I say.
The envelope is silent. It says nothing. It just keeps staring.
It is wrong to read someone else’s personal correspondence. I will not do it. After all, there is no way I would be able to open that telegram without Benton finding out I snooped.
If I were going to open it, I’d have to rip it open and pretend it never came. That’s the only way.
But I’m not going to do it.
Until I decide I have to.
I leap onto the bed and rip into it.
The message reads:
Congratulations. You’re a dad. Thanks for your donation. Hurry home to see your baby!
Benton. Has. A. Baby.
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?” I scream so loud there is a knock on the door.
“Señor, is everything okay?” a woman I think is Linda asks through the closed door.
I take a half second to regain some composure. “Sí,” I yell back. “Uhm…ah…just a spider. Thank you. All fine now. The spider is muerto!”
I hear her walk back down the hallway.
Benton has donated his sperm and become a father.
I shriek again, but this time I cover my mouth.
I sit down on the bed and put my head in my hands to try to wrap my mind around this. Benton always wanted a family. He talked about it all the time, and at first the idea scared me. My own father was a complete disaster, so the thought of repeating that disaster was something I had pushed out of my mind a long time ago. But as Benton and I grew closer, it was easy to see what a good father he would be, and he made me think maybe I could overcome whatever genetic predisposition I had to being a horrible parent and raise a kid with him. When he left he took all my hope of that ever happening with him, but seeing him here and realizing I still have feelings for him made me think that door might still be open.
But has this telegram slamm
ed it shut?
Is he raising this baby with his new boyfriend, or did he donate his sperm to a couple of lesbians needing additional DNA? It doesn’t matter. Benton now has a biological heir in a country about seven thousand miles from where I live. Even if he does still have feelings for me, he won’t be able to leave his daughter or his son. My life and obligations are so permanent in San Diego. My mom barely makes ends meet. Even though my sibs are old enough to take care of themselves, I know they look up to me, and there is zero chance of our dad coming back. They need me, don’t they?
Benton is a dad.
I can hardly believe it. I picture him playing rugby with the kid, walking around town pushing what he would call a “pram,” and showing up at the wildlife research center with baby burp stains on his shirt.
I’m inexplicably hurt, angry, and jealous.
Chapter 18
I hear the lock on the door open, and without thinking, I shove the telegram into my pocket.
Benton’s eyes flash at me from the doorway. “I see you made it back in one piece,” he says curtly.
I want to show him the telegram and see his delighted reaction to being a father, but I can’t let him know I opened his private communication. I’ll just wait until he leaves, and then I’ll tape it back to the door like I never saw it before.
“I’m fine,” I say without really hearing what he said. I go to grab my watercolors from the drawer, making sure my expression is totally blank.
“What the bloody hell is your problem? I had to wait another hour for Pedro to return to get me. I had no way of knowing if he would even return at all. And what were you thinking—” Benton stops midsentence. He looks me over carefully. I freeze my face so I don’t give anything away. “I know that look,” he says.
“What look?” I ask, turning away from him so I can hide and see myself in the mirror on the wall. I study my face quickly. I look like a White House press secretary after a particularly deceitful announcement. It’s all over my face. I have to get out of that room. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I say and shove my paints into my bag.
“Michael, you have the poker face of a toddler with gas. Something is going on.”
“Benton, you always were so suspicious. There is an extraordinary cloud formation building over the water, and I just want to capture it before the wind changes.”
The room is so small I have to sidestep past the bed. Benton is standing next to the bathroom, and to leave I have to brush my chest against his. His T-shirt is sweaty from his hike, and I can feel the dampness across my nipples as I brush past him. He grabs my waist and I feel the strength of his hands.
“Michael, I’m sorry about back there,” he says. His voice is husky and raw, tired from his excursion across the island but still deeply sincere. “I didn’t mean to be so…so….”
“Obnoxious?” I ask, pulling my body away from his.
“I’m trying to apologize for being so honest.”
“That’s not an apology. You must realize that. ‘I’m sorry for being so honest.’ What is that even supposed to mean? Are you a Real Housewife?”
“What do you want me to say, Michael? I’m trying to make amends, but clearly everything I say is wrong. What do you want me to do? Tell me. What do you want?”
I want to start over. I want to go back to the art supply store and let you buy me that set of brushes. I want to share two orders of guac and chips with you at the Crest Cafe as we tell each other about everything that happened that day at work. I want you to rip off your sweaty T-shirt like a porn star on Viagra and throw me on the bed and fuck me like you did daily for months when we first met.
But most of all I want you not to have a baby and a boyfriend and a family waiting for you back in the UK.
“Michael, what do you want?” he repeats.
“Nothing,” I say quietly. The word barely makes its way up my throat and out my mouth. I put my backpack over my shoulder, turn, and walk out of the room. The moment the door closes behind me, my heart takes over and sends a rush of tears to my face like an emergency sprinkler system has been released over my emotions.
If I thought there was a possibility of reconnecting, it has evaporated. It doesn’t matter how I feel or, for that matter, how he feels. I already went through this pain once. I will not be twice buried. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the bottom of my shirt and walk away.
Chapter 19
At breakfast I’m standing in the buffet line when Fred asks me, “How’s your vacation going?”
Vacation? He has no idea. So far I have spent most of my time rigorously avoiding Benton or stuck in some hell situation that feels like it was designed by an underworld demon. I’ve recently realized I am still in love with my ex-boyfriend, who might even be interested in me, but he just happens to have started a family and has a baby and a new boyfriend back in the UK.
“It’s great,” I say, pouring myself a glass of mango-orange juice.
“You must try this,” Rita says, putting some slices of pineapple on a plate for me. “It’s heavenly. You missed such a wonderful walk yesterday afternoon. We went to Bartolomé Island, and we saw the Galapagos penguin.” Rita is absolutely giddy with excitement.
“Your friend Benton gave the most informative walking tour of the island. Did you know the marine iguana spends twenty hours a day sleeping?” Fred asks me.
“Or that the pink flamingos are pink because their diet consists mostly of shrimp that colors their feathers?” Rita adds.
“As a matter of fact,” I tell them, “I did know that.” When you live with a wildlife expert for a year, you pick up a few things. “I hope I will see you both at my watercolor class tomorrow.”
“We wouldn’t miss it. I’d love to capture this setting. It’s so magical. It feels like anything can happen here.”
“Great, see you then,” I say and take my juice to a quiet table off to the side of the dining room where I can sit by myself and don’t need to pretend I’m a happy-go-lucky member of the cruise faculty.
I have not spoken a single word to Benton since our fight on the island almost two days ago.
Yesterday we were docked at olivine crystal–rich greensand beach of Floreana. Benton went off on a long hike with a group of passengers. I stayed behind with another group and visited the famous Galapagos Post Office, which is just a wooden barrel on a pole covered in colorful bits of driftwood, but in the eighteenth century, sailors from whaling vessels used the spot to drop off letters, hoping other crews would take them in the opposite direction. I wondered if I hid in the barrel if some big sexy sailor would find me and take me wherever he was going.
After, we snorkeled in Devil’s Crown, a shallow sunken crater with vibrantly colored fish and coral. A few sea lions even joined us, but all I could think about was having to spend another night in my tiny cabin only inches away from Benton.
There is no pre-sleep entertainment anymore or even a nod or a smile. I’d be fine with this situation except for the small fact that when I’m alone in the cabin, I’m still jerking off fantasizing about him. I could forgive my lust, but it’s fantasizing about bringing him breakfast in bed after a night of uncontrolled sex that is most troubling since I have to actively block out the fact that he has a new boyfriend and baby waiting for him back in London. At least the new boyfriend will have someone to whom he can relate.
The sparks that started the trip have now been replaced by an icy tension that surrounds us like a blizzard with sudden whiteout conditions.
Across the deck, I spot Benton walking right toward me with an unusual swiftness considering how he has been avoiding me. Right behind him I see Penny, who might have a butter knife held tightly against his back. Why else would he be approaching me? Benton stops a few feet from me, and Penny pushes him closer.
“Penny—” I start to say in protest, but she cuts me off.
“Ah, no, no, no. I’ll do the talking.” She clears her throat and gives an exasperated sigh. �
�Mike Davis, I would like you to meet Benton Aldridge. Benton Aldridge, this is Mike Davis.”
I wait for a brief silence to know if it is okay to speak. “Penny, what are you doing?”
“My job,” she says curtly. “Everyone on this ship knows the two of you are at odds with each other. Even Pedro, who skippers the panga, sheepishly asked me if the two of you are okay, and this is a man I have personally seen beat down a shark with his bare hands.”
Benton and I start talking at the same time. “Look, he is the one who…” I start to list all of the things Benton has done wrong.
“Stop it!” Penny yells a bit too loudly and then regains her composure. “We have three days left on this floating tin can, and I want them to be fabulous. That’s what I’m known for. Fabulous events. Not two ex-lovers doing the freeze-out from breakfast to dinner. I don’t care who did what to whom when. I want the two of you to pretend you have never met.”
“Pardon me?” Benton asks.
“You heard me. I just introduced you, and I want both of you to hit the reset button and reintroduce yourself to each other as if you have never met before. You can’t talk about your past relationship; you can’t talk about your life waiting for you at home. You’ve just met.”
“Penny, this is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Do it!” she says with an edge so sharp I startle alert and do what she says.
“Hello, nice to meet you, Benton. I’m Mike,” I say and stand up to shake his hand.
Benton gives us both a look to convey how silly he thinks this is when Penny bumps her shoulder against him, using all the force from when she was an All-State lineman. Benton hops to it.
“A pleasure,” Benton says, and we smile at each other.
“Now see,” Penny says, “that wasn’t so bad. I’m going to remind the chef to make sure all the peas on Mrs. Klein’s luncheon plate are arranged in size order. The two of you carry on.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
There Galapagos My Heart Page 6
