Page 128 of Reckless Hearts
“I might look familiar because I’m an actor,” Marcus replies.
Dot’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Oh really? I don’t really follow much entertainment stuff. Would I know any shows you’ve been on?”
“Have you seen the remake ofBen Hur?”
Her hand flutters in excitement. “I have seen that. Are you in it? Oh, that’s so exciting. I can’t wait to tell my husband. Were you one of the Roman soldiers?”
Marcus scratches his neck sheepishly. “Ah, no. I was actually Ben Hur.”
And there it is. The moment Dot’s neurons connect in the right pattern, and she realizes exactly who Marcus is.
The discovery seems to impact Dot’s ability to speak. She gapes at Marcus, her mouth hanging open as if she’s just witnessed a UFO landing on the beach.
“Oh, right,” she says finally.
She slides an incredulous look at me.
“Um…so I’m just going to show Marcus the birds,” I say.
“The adults are away feeding at the moment,” Darleen chokes out.
“Hopefully, they’ll come back soon.”
Turning away from the two shell-shocked volunteers, I move to the side of the hide closest to the fairy tern nest.
I raise my binoculars to my eyes. Unfortunately, the nest is virtually impossible to spot without an adult bird there because of how well-camouflaged it is.
But then, like a tiny fighter jet, an adult bird swoops in. Its marigold-yellow bill and black mask are unmistakable. I nudge Marcus, pointing as the bird drops to a shallow dent among the shells.
“Look through here,” I murmur, offering him the binoculars. As he peers through, I watch his face.
“Can you see the chick?” I ask.
Marcus gives a triumphant smile. “Yeah, I can. Man, it really blends into the shells.”
“I know. It’s basically invisible unless you know what you’re looking for. Camouflage is their survival strategy. Every other tern species nest in a colony. Only the fairy terns decide to go it alone.”
Leave it to New Zealand’s rarest bird to be the antisocial one. Although given how most group living situations turn out, maybe they’re onto something.
Marcus brings the binoculars back to his eyes, returning to where the fairy tern stands sentinel over its chick, a picture of fierce devotion.
We come homesandy from the beach. The university owns an old house at Mangawhai, which looks like it’s playing dress-up as a vintage postcard among the shiny new mansions, its weathered wooden planks and slightly crooked porch a defiant middle finger to the march of progress.
I don’t care about the level of comfort. It’s ours for the weekend.
After we’ve showered, we make dinner together. Marcus grates the zucchini for fritters while I whisk eggs and flour for the batter.
We talk about the conservation genetics and the other challenges fairy terns face due to their nesting sites overlapping with a human summertime playground.
As Marcus carefully mixes the zucchini into the batter, I’m struck by a sudden realization.
This is what I want. Exactly this. Marcus and I in mundane life moments together.
The force of my want knocks my breath away.
I want to spend my evenings and weekends with him. I want to make dinner and go to sleep with him and wake up with him and have him look after me when I’m sick and look after him in return. I want to argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes and compromise by doing them together. I want to build a life where our clothes mingle in the closet and our toothbrushes stand side by side.
Marcus’s phone starts to chime.
