Nothing seems plausible, so I just keep panting and say, “I’m fine. Really. Nothing hurt, just—” I take in air to catch my breath. “—winded from running back. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I want to be here. To be with you.”
Benton smiles, showing his relief and his pleasure in my return. He holds my chin in his hand and looks in my eyes. I can feel his warm breath on me. Our eyes find each other and connect. It feels important and impossible to avoid, like gravity keeping us tethered to the earth. He slowly begins to tilt his head to one side, and I mirror him without even knowing it.
“Oh, Michael,” he says, and his mouth reaches for mine, and mine takes him in. We kiss—together in this moment—and nothing else matters.
Benton tenderly pulls away from the kiss. “I have to give a lecture in a few ticks, but I think there is something we need to take care of before that happens,” he says.
I throw my bag on the bed and ask coyly, “Do we have enough time?” even though my heart is racing and I feel like I can’t go another second without having Benton inside me.
“No, but what I’m going to do to you right now is going to be a matter of quality over quantity.” He puts his mouth on mine again, but this time it’s all lust, and he walks me back and pushes me down on the bed.
I love feeling his strong body on top of mine. He grabs my hands and pushes them over my head as his kisses get deeper and harder. I love feeling helpless with him, under his spell. He releases my hands, put his on my hips, and begins to turn me over, but my bag is in the way. He sweeps his arm across the bed to shove it out of the way, and the entire bag falls off the bed with a thud.
“Sorry about that. Be right back,” he says and hops off the bed to pick up my bag. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, preparing myself for the impossible ecstasy that is about to happen until I open my eyes and I snap to attention.
“NO! DON’T!” I shout, realizing what has actually spilled out of my bag.
“Michael,” Benton says slowly from the floor, holding my folder of papers in his hands. “What is all this?” He takes out one of the folders. The white embossed letters spell out Biddle in large simple text against the navy-blue background.
The energy of the room pivots from passion and lust to confusion and anger.
“Michael, what’s going on? You told me you were no longer at Biddle. What are you doing with a backpack full of contracts and spreadsheets?” He starts leafing through them as if he can’t believe what he sees. He looks repulsed.
I’m caught. I should come clean, but I don’t. I get angry.
“Those are mine!” I shout at him like a child. “You have no right to go through them.”
“You are still at Biddle, aren’t you? I asked you point-blank, and you said you weren’t.”
“No, you didn’t ask me point-blank. You asked if I was still an assistant project manager, and I told you the truth. I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing with all these papers?” he asks. Then I can see it hit him, and he looks like a child’s balloon that has lost most of its air. “Oh, Michael, you didn’t. You didn’t become the senior account manager. Tell me you didn’t.”
My heart is racing again, but this time it’s fury mixed with embarrassment. I don’t know what to say to him, but that doesn’t stop me. “Look, I don’t have to justify this to you. It’s a good job. Lots of people my age would be thrilled to get a promotion like this.”
“Michael, you don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what? Full medical and dental? As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Funny but predictable,” Benton says as he bites his upper lip in frustration. “You always make a joke when you don’t want to confront reality.”
“Actually I’m both living in reality and trying to continue to make the payments on it,” I zip back at him.
“That’s not the reality I’m talking about. You lied, Michael. Can’t you see that?”
“I didn’t tell you about the promotion. So what? I didn’t lie to you.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about. It has nothing to do with what you said to me. It’s what you keep repeating to yourself over and over. You keep lying to yourself about who you are. That’s the lie I can’t bear.”
This doesn’t feel like a disagreement anymore. It feels like an ending. I don’t think there is a way of coming back from this. I grab my bag and my papers from him. “Goodbye, Benton,” I say, and the words fall out of my mouth without any control.
I walk out of the room and storm down the hallway with the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder like a punishment. I keep walking until I am alone at the very tip of the ship with ocean in front of me in every direction. I stare at the waves and try to make everything that is at my back go away, but I can’t seem to focus on anything else except how shitty I feel, and the tears pour out of my eyes and into the ocean.
Chapter 29
Sleeping on the floor of Penny’s cabin puts me in almost as much pain as thinking about Benton, but I can’t even face Benton at this point, and there is no way I could stay in the same room as him, not for even a night. Penny always takes the smallest room on her trips, and this one barely has enough room on the floor for me to lie down next to her. She found me crying by myself, staring at the ocean; she put a blanket over my shoulders and walked me down to her room on the lowest deck, which is also a metaphor for how I feel. She got some extra pillows and made a makeshift bed on the floor, where I cried uncontrollably. Penny got ready for bed and stopped periodically to put her arms around me or just sit and listen.
When she finally turns off the light, I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop the debate in my head between who I am more upset with, Benton or myself.
“Yes, I didn’t tell the complete truth. I know that. I should have. But why does it matter to him where I work? Why does he care if I am a senior account manager at Biddle or the King of Burger World?” I ask out loud to the darkness, wondering if Penny will be able to give me an answer to any of my impossible questions.
The cabin is dark and silent. I’m about to shut my eyes and fall asleep when I hear Penny.
“Mike, do you remember Paul?”
The name makes me freeze. Penny never talks about Paul. To her, Paul is dead.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“Oh, don’t get all somber. I know I don’t usually talk about Paul, but I’ve made my peace with all that.”
“I’m glad,” I say staring up at the shadows that dance across the ceiling.
“I was thinking about Paul during Benton’s lecture the other night about that bird. The one with the huge wings. What was it called?”
“You mean the frigate bird?”
“Yes, that’s it. The frigate. That bird needs to fly. To be whoever she is. That bird can barely walk on land. But she can be in the sky for days. When I was Paul, I was like that bird—the ground was an impossible terrain. Each step was a concentrated effort in being something I wasn’t. But once I became me, Penny, everything changed.”
“I know, Penny. I’ve always been glad you were able to transition.”
“Thank you, doll. But it’s not just that the world opened up for me. The sky did too. Like that bird. Mike, you’re like a son to me. You have stood by me when no one else in the family would mention my name. I love you like you are a part of me. But, Mike, you have got to stop trying to walk on the ground when you should be up in the air. Flying.”
Staring at the ceiling so long allows my eyes to see shades of deep blue and purple along with the pure black patches. I think about the boat balancing on the gentle waves in this port in this tiny town in the middle of the Galapagos Islands. I hear what Penny is saying, but I feel very small and very confused.
“But, Penny,” I say quietly, “I have responsibilities and bills and…I can’t just walk out on those.”
“Good Lord, Mike. You are not Peter. You are not your father.”
“I know that,” I tell her. At least I thin
k I do.
“You do. Somewhere in your head you know that you are not. But in another part of your head, you still think you might be. Your father was a complete asshole. He left you kids and ran off because of his own selfishness.”
I can’t help but hear his name and be reminded of my mom crying and crying for what seemed like the next ten years after he walked out.
“What he did was awful, and he put himself above everything else. He always did that. It was who he was. Being a musician did not make him that way. He was that way already. But that’s not what you do.”
“It isn’t?” I ask meekly.
“No. What you do is worse.”
I’m scared to ask, but I know I have to. “What do I do?”
“You put yourself last. Mike, darling baby, I don’t want to see you do that anymore.” I can hear a tremble in her voice that makes me think she might be tearing up a bit, and then I hear her hand wipe something from her face. “You can’t spend your life trying not to become somebody and wind up never being yourself.”
Is that what has happened? Am I so scared of becoming my father that I can’t be me? The quiet sway of the ship pushes me toward sleep, but the questions don’t go away.
Chapter 30
I wake up and have absolutely no idea where I am. I roll over onto my stomach, and a sharp pain penetrates my belly. I scream.
I go to reach down to figure out what kind of porcupine I have rolled on top of, but then I hear, “Fantastic, you found my curler. I need that thing. Hand it to me, doll.”
I realize I am in Penny’s cabin, and my confusion is replaced with sadness and regret. I’ve lost Benton forever, and I’m still stuck with him on this boat for twenty-four more hours. I pull the sheet over my head and announce to Penny I am going back to bed until we dock in the final port tomorrow morning.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, doll. You have the final watercolor class this morning.” She places the curler on top of the wig she is styling.
“Penny, no. You can’t expect me to…to…leave this room, can you?”
Penny combs out the bangs on her wig and answers without taking her eyes off the auburn curls. “Look, I’m late for breakfast. I know you want to wallow all day, but it’s not good for you. Go to town, get some sun, and whatever you do, make sure your skinny ass is on the Darwin Deck ready to teach by 10:00 a.m. You got it?”
“I got it,” I say, grumbling.
“I have to run. Mrs. Lewis wants a poppy-seed bagel without any poppy seeds on it, so the kitchen staff is completely lost.” She pops her wig on her head and makes some last-minute adjustments to the bangs. She stops before opening the door. “Mike, there are two things I want you to remember. First, that I love you and always will. Second, do not be late to the watercolor class, or you will be swimming back to San Diego.”
I stretch out on my makeshift bed and try to calculate how long it would take to swim to San Diego.
I skip breakfast and make my way up to the deck for class like I’m auditioning for a James Bond film. I peek around each corner before I turn. I sniff the air for any scent of Benton before I take a step. I make it up to the deck without a single whiff of him, but instead of being relieved, I’m disappointed.
I grab the materials out of storage and start setting up the stations. With each student who arrives, I get a pit in my stomach. I’m not sure if I want Benton to show up or not.
Fred and Rita arrive and take seats close to the front. Fred pulls me aside and asks, “Did Benton tell you the sad story?”
“Oh, it’s just awful,” Rita adds. “To spend so much of your life alone.” Rita puts her hand on my arm.
I can’t believe Benton would spend breakfast gossiping about me with the other passengers. I can hear him now: “Poor Michael, no companionship because he has that bloody awful job.” Benton should keep his mouth shut.
“I decided my painting this morning is going to be a tribute to him.”
“To me?” I ask, touched by the sentiment, but it does seem a bit too much.
“No,” Fred says, perplexed. “To the turtle, Lonesome George. He was the last of his species. He lived to be over a hundred, but the wildlife conservationists spent over fifty years trying to find another Pinta tortoise so he could have a mate, and they never found a single one. Can you imagine, Mike, spending the rest of your life alone?”
“As a matter of fact, I can,” I say with a tone as dry as a desert wind. I smile widely to cover my edge and tell them how glad I am they came back for part two.
I’m on autopilot to start class. It feels like I am out of my body, reading a script I wrote but someone else is performing. But once I wet my brush and start painting, something else kicks in. I’m able to connect to the views and the colors and the paints. It doesn’t take me long to get in the zone, even though there are pangs of longing when I think about how Benton watched me so intently as I taught just a day ago. He wasn’t just watching. I could feel his supportive presence, and it felt wonderful. I refocus on moving the pigment across the paper. This helps me find a balance. It puts my brain in alignment.
Of course once the class is over, the magic disappears. I chat with a few passengers, but it takes all my effort to not let my feelings over Benton intrude.
“Hey, Mike, are you going on the hike today at Cerro Brujo?” Rita asks.
“No,” I say. “I need head into town this afternoon. I have some work I need to catch up on before we get back to the real world.”
Fred puts his arm around Rita. “Mike, don’t you know? This is the real world.” He gives her a kiss, and they walk off. They have no idea they will be hiking all over the island with the man who broke my heart.
Chapter 31
I wait until I see the panga with Benton leave, and then I go back to the suite to gather my things and head out for the day. I see my folder from Biddle still on the floor. I have a flashback to the moment where it all changed from passion to anger, then disgust. I grab the folder and shove it in my bag like I’m bagging evidence from a murder scene.
I walk into town, and the water in the cove seems duller than it did yesterday, and rather than sparkling under the sun, the sand just seems to bake. I walk past the small promenade and down the street. I walk past Cucuve Street, and I remember how I wanted to go to the galleries yesterday, but I got so caught up in my work that I completely forgot.
I turn down the street, and it seems almost abandoned. Yesterday it was full of activity. At first I think it is just my mood playing tricks on me, but as I walk down the street, I read the signs in front of each gallery. I happen to be here on the one day of the week all of the galleries are closed. It figures. If I had just ignored my work for Biddle, I would have been able to enjoy my time here by seeing some art, and I might not have missed my date with Benton.
I walk down the street for lack of something better to do, and I see a sign for an opening that was yesterday. The name of the artist is Gerardo Serrano. I knew the name of this street sounded familiar. When I was at the museum in Quito, I read Serrano’s bio, and it mentioned he often showed at a gallery on Cucuve in Santa Cruz. I walk closer to the gallery to see if there is a window I can peek in.
The low stucco building seems completely locked down. There are two high windows in the front with bars on them. I loved seeing his work in Quito. It was inspiring, and I can’t help but wonder what this work looks like. Is it similar to the black-and-white images or something entirely different?
I notice an old wooden fruit crate in an alley close by. No one is on this street, and I have nothing to lose, so why not? I put down my bag with my laptop and papers from Biddle. I grab the crate, place it under the window, and put my fingers on the ledge. I steady myself on the rickety wooden box and stretch my neck to see inside.
Color. Turquoise. Lime. Cayenne. Rich vibrant hues buzz with energy and seem to almost glow beyond the gallery walls. I pull myself up on the ledge so I can get a better look, but the old stucco begins to cr
umble under my fingers, and I lose my balance. I look for something, anything to grab on to. I see a prickly cactus to one side of me, so I sway to the other. I hear the wood beneath me crack and…
“Aaaahhhh,” I scream before crashing down on the ground.
I’m not hurt, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at me. I’m covered in dirt. As I get up I hear someone unlocking the door to the gallery. A portly older man with a dark beard and perfectly round thick glasses opens the door.
“¿Está herido? ¿Está bien?” he says with a look of great concern.
“Sí,” I say, then, “Yes.” Did he ask if I was all right or hurt? “I mean no. I mean I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you. I was just trying to see the paintings. I shouldn’t have—”
“Please, then, señor. Come in. I’m just cleaning up from the opening last night, but you are welcome to look around.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, please. Come in,” he says as he opens the door for me to enter. “I’m burning some trash out back. We have to incinerate our own waste around here. Take your time. Look around as much as you wish.” He exits to the back, and I am left alone with the art.
The paintings in this show couldn’t be more different than the ones in Quito. Small canvases with incredibly intricate designs using sharp lines and bold, clashing color. While still abstract, there is something about each one that has an almost animal feel to it, like it is based on some distinct species. They are playful paintings but also complicated. I slowly study each image to figure out its particular spell. I get lost in them, but not in a way that makes me shut down. It’s the opposite. I am lost in them in a way that makes me feel more connected.
“What do you think?” the man asks, returning to the gallery space.
There Galapagos My Heart Page 10
