Read Online Wanderlove by Kirsten Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B

Starling says. “But sometimes, you just need some tempeh. You know what I mean?” She looks at me, and I shrug. The three of us are sitting around a table, jammed against a wall papered in vintage maps. In that unspoken way of theirs, Starling and Rowan strolled straight to the restaurant, a colorful hole-in-the-wall specializing in vegetarian global cuisine. They selected the table without discussion, fell into the seats as if they were overstuffed recliners, snapped open the menus with indolent flicks. I guess it’s cute in a sitcom sort of way. But their synchronization keeps reminding me that I’m still a stranger. A whim tacked on to their colossal history. It makes me want to hug myself.
    “Actually,” I say, “I’m allergic to tempeh.”
    Starling glances at me. “Oh yeah?”
    “It makes my face itch.”
    “That’s too bad. It’s good stuff.” Starling’s pocket starts to jangle. She pulls out her phone, checks it, and stands. “I’ve got to take this call. Ro, can you order for me?”
    “That depends on who’s on the phone.”
    “Oh, come on,” Starling says. “It’s my boss in Flores! Not Jack, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, you’re the one who’s started buddying up with him again, not me.” Rowan glares at her. “Marius has strep throat. I told you.
    There’s no one else available on the island to cover his dive class. Everybody else is booked because of Lobsterfest. And the shop pays better than La Casa Azul.”
    “Wow, you’re so practical ! Now you’ve made me miss my call. If you’ll excuse me.”
    I feign interest in my fork as Starling storms off. Rowan doesn’t explain anything, even though their exchange was packed with questions. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all, except when a woman comes to take our orders. As he watches the traffic on Calle Santander—the cyclists, the tourist vans, the tuctucs, like red ladybugs—I scour my brain for an electrifying conversation topic. “So who’s Jack?” I ask finally.
    Rowan blinks at me, like I’ve yanked him from a nap. Remarkable—he’s already forgotten I’m here. “Who’s what?”
    “Jack.”
    “Oh,” he says dismissively. “Just a dive buddy.” I count to ten, then try again. “So what’s the deal with all the maps?”
    “Maps?”
    Is he dense? “All over the walls.”
    “Oh, right. Take a closer look.”
    I swivel in my seat and focus on the world map behind me.
    On closer perusal, I discover it’s wildly distorted, like planet Earth on acid. Indonesia and Papua New Guinea are as large as a vertically swollen Africa. North and South America are tiny. A swarm of Asian islands crush a shrunken Europe.
    There’s a legend, but it’s in another language.
    “What is this?”
    “It’s in Swedish,” Rowan says. “The sizes of the countries correspond to the number of different languages spoken there.”
    “Eight hundred and sixty in Papua New Guinea,” I read.
    “Wow—that’s ridiculous.”
    “They’re all like that.”
    “Like what? Linguistic?”
    “Unique.”
    I cross the room to examine a map of the United States.
    “Leading church bodies by county,” I read out loud. With my finger, I find Los Angeles County, colored blue for Catholic. I move to a second map of the United States This one features UFO hot spots, predominantly concentrated in the South-west. I assume another world map depicts Pangaea, the ancient collective continent, but the caption explains it’s the opposite: a NASA rendering of the earth 250 million years in the future. Other maps are designed to look like mythical creatures or political figures.
    When I glance back at Rowan, he’s smiling. Finally.
    “Pretty neat, right?” he asks.
    “They’re incredible!” I join him at our table. “Who owns this place?”
    “He’s a Guatemalan world traveler.”
    “Is he here?”
    “Not now. He’s traveling, as usual.” Rowan nods at the distorted map above our table. “I always thought I’d