Shipped(61)

My muscles relax a fraction. Graeme didn’t know about my meeting and reached out to Analisa independently. It looks like great minds think alike.

Graeme shifts his weight. “I don’t know. I don’t want to intrude…”

“It’s fine,” I chime in. “No problem.”

Analisa looks between me and Graeme and then to Walsh, who’s edging away. I grab her arm and tug her back over. “Analisa, I’d like you to meet my sister. Walsh, this is Analisa Mendoza. She’s our regional liaison for the Galápagos.”

“A pleasure to meet you. Would you like to join us as well?” she asks Walsh.

Walsh shrugs one shoulder, shaking her head as she looks between me and Graeme. “I—I don’t want to interrupt…”

“Come on, you’re not interrupting,” I say.

“Please,” Graeme offers.

My sister’s cornflower eyes meet mine, and her perky facade cracks. For an instant, I see uncertainty—vulnerability, even—swimming beneath the surface. I furrow my eyebrows.

One of the younger guests jogs over. She’s about our age and is traveling with her parents, if I remember correctly. “Ready, Walsh?” She nods toward a group that’s already started walking toward the breeding center.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Grinning, the young woman rejoins her family.

“I’m good, thanks anyway,” Walsh says to Analisa before inclining her chin toward me. “Meet you after?”

“Definitely.” We have at least two free hours this evening to explore the town. It’ll be the perfect chance for us to talk.

Walsh flashes me a thumbs-up before she scurries over to join the departing group.

Analisa claps her hands. “Okay then, let’s start the tour.”

We begin walking down the paved sidewalk toward the breeding center. Hitching his bag higher on his shoulder, Graeme leans over to murmur in my ear. “Are you sure you don’t mind that I’m tagging along?”

My phone weighs heavy in my pocket, the first task on my to-do app blazing in my mind.

Task #1: Defeat Graeme Crawford-Collins.



Even now, he’s scuttling my shot at gaining an advantage. I scheduled this meeting with Analisa two weeks ago, while he only thought of it at the last second. I wanted to get an insider’s look at the breeding center and pick her brain in private about the region. I needed this boost.

But excluding Graeme would be a shitty thing to do. He has every right to meet with Analisa, same as me.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Really.”

After searching my face for several heartbeats, he spreads his supple lips in a grin—lips that only three short days ago were pressed against mine. “Okay then.”



* * *



Analisa’s tour is a whirlwind. After the outdoor enclosures, which are full of adult tortoises of various species and surrounded by throngs of visitors, she leads us through quieter areas closed to the general public: juvenile rearing pens (baby tortoises, squee!) and research buildings.

Through it all, Graeme and I engage in a silent dance of nearness and retreat. I touch his forearm to point out a bright yellow warbler hopping on a stone wall behind us. He grasps my elbow to lead me around a mud puddle obscuring the path. But each time, we pull away before the proximity can pull us under.

I listen intently to Analisa, and we both pepper her with questions. She leads us through lab after lab, and we stop in one that’s filled to the brim with cases of creeping, crawling insects.

“Hola, mi querido,” she calls to a lanky man with gray-streaked blond hair who’s hunched over a microscope.

When he spots Analisa, his craggy face splits into a grin. “G’day, love. This is a nice surprise.” He tugs her into his lap and gives her a lingering kiss on the cheek.

My own cheeks warm. Not that I’m opposed to a bit of light PDA, but these two are so clearly to-the-moon-and-back in love with each other that their mutual affection is blinding.

“Friends of yours?” He nods at us.

“No, these are my colleagues. I told you I was giving a tour today, remember? It’s why I asked for this.” She lifts the dangling access badge from around her neck.

Smacking his forehead, the man stands and sets Analisa on her feet again. I notice his T-shirt for the first time: it’s distressed gray and reads Entomologists Fear No Weevil. I suppress a snort. “Right. I’d forget my own head if Analisa didn’t remind me. I’m Doug, her husband.”

He extends his hand and we make our introductions.

“Dr. Douglas Shaw,” she corrects, lifting her chin with pride. “One of the preeminent entomologists in the Galápagos.”

“I take it you’re not from here,” says Graeme.

“You think?” Doug barks a laugh as he motions at his own ruddy complexion. “I’m an Australian import, mate.”

“What brought you to the Galápagos?” I ask, leaning against the table behind me. Something buzzes near my ear and I peer over my shoulder. A case full of flittering ladybugs is sitting on a shelf directly behind my head.

He flashes a wide, bucktoothed grin. “Love and bugs.”