Page 97 of Reckless Hearts
“That sounds about right,” he says finally, his voice quiet.
I would celebrate his words if it wasn’t for the look of absolute fear on Marcus’s face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He pulls his hand away from me, raking it through his hair.
“I…I don’t want anyone else. I mean, there hasn’t been anyone since Fiji…”
My heart soars. “There hasn’t been anyone for me either. And I don’t want anyone else.”
He swallows hard. “I can guarantee there won’t be anyone else while…while we’re doing this, while we’re in a relationship. But I can’t promise you anything else.” He says the last sentence in a whisper.
“I don’t need promises,” I say softly.
Marcus’s eyes dart away, focusing on some distant point beyond the window, his jaw clenching.
The silence pulses between us before he finally meets my gaze again.
“I’m no good for you,” he says simply.
My heart breaks a little at his words. Because it’s similar to what he warned me about back at the beginning in Queenstown, when he said he wasn’t cut out to be someone’s boyfriend.
And I’m beginning to realize Marcus actually believes that, deep down.
I don’t know why this man thinks he’s no good for me when he is the most brightly shining thing in my life.
“How about you worry about your own heart, and I’ll worry about mine?” I say.
Marcus’s response is to pull me in tighter, wrapping his arms around me, his body curling around mine like a shield against the world.
Later, as I doze off, he whispers words against my skin. “It’s too late. I’m already worrying about your heart.”
22
Seb
Barbados. Flying for two days each way to spend three days with Marcus was a whirlwind of me geeking out over the local wildlife interspersed with hours spent taking each other apart.
The Seychelles. Caught in a hurricane, we watched from our hotel room as the wind whipped palm fronds into dizzying spirals and I fretted about how I was getting home. In the end, canceled flights meant I was two days late and had to go straight from the airport to deliver a bleary-eyed guest lecture on conservation genetics, operating on nothing but airport coffee and sheer willpower.
Rome. Marcus was on location, and I flew in to spend an intense forty-eight hours where I never left his hotel. The Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, Vatican City, none of those tourist attractions had any allure when I had Marcus Johnson in bed with me.
I arrived home to discover we’d lost one of our newly released juveniles to a feral cat with a taste for endangered species and a blatant disregard for the team of volunteers who had spent countless hours hand-rearing the chick.
Between meeting up in exotic locations around the world, Marcus and I message every day, sharing snapshots of our lives. But it never feels like enough. I miss him constantly with an ache that hurts.
Today, I’m at the hide at Mangawhai Beach.
I’ve finished my post-doc project but luckily I got a job as an assistant professor at the university, which allows me to continue my work with fairy terns. Currently, I’m hunched over my weathered notebook as I track feeding patterns.
The parent birds have been making regular trips to the estuary, returning with small fish clutched in their beaks. Each successful feed gets a tick, each missed attempt a cross—creating a pattern that might help us understand why some chicks thrive while others struggle.
When my phone beeps with a message, it’s a selfie from Marcus on the set of the remake ofThe Three Musketeers.He’s in full period costume, looking dramatically into the distance while eating a burrito.
I can’t help smiling.
“You look happy,” Dot says. She’s the volunteer on duty today, and it’s quite nice having someone fuss around after me,
