Page 4 of Natural Selection

“Aw, we couldn’t,” Kelly says. “You paid for a more expensive room.”

“Please,” Sophia says. “I insist. I don’t need a double bed; I’ll be fine in bunks. Truly, I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want you to have it.”

Kelly gives Sophia a hug. “Thank you!” she says. “Tuck, guess what? Free upgrade!”

There’s a bit of a shuffle with the bags, but it takes only a minute; then Tucker and Kelly close the door to Room One—Sophia can hear them squealing about their good fortune—and Sophia closes the door to Room Two.

The cabin is tiny and cramped with a peeling vinyl floor; it smells of mildew and the chemical toilet. There’s a closet with brass handles and latch, single-mattress bunks with red metal bars across the sides, presumably so Sophia won’t roll out of bed in the middle of the night. She opens the door to the bathroom. It’s muggy but clean. There’s a shower, a tiny metal sink, and the offending toilet. A window is cracked open. Sophia peers out at the bigger, grander yachts, pangas tied off the backs like dogs on a leash. Waves splash against the boat at the level of her chest.

Sophia’s idea of a vacation is staying someplace nicer than the place she already lives. She expected fluffy towels, elegant tilework in the bathroom, pearlescent shampoo and bodywash, excellent water pressure, luxe sheets. She knows, she knows, the point of this trip isn’t the accommodations. It’s the rare ecological geosystem they’re going to be exploring.

She hears a lovemaking moan coming from the room across the hall, Kelly and Tucker, making good use of the bed.

Sophia checks her phone, but she has no service; she neglected to buy an international plan for her phone because she thought it would be unnecessary. Who would she be calling? Sophia turns on her data roaming, though she knows this is the equivalent of emptying her wallet into the harbor.

Immediately, her phone buzzes with a text, then another, then another. JP, she thinks. With an update, wrapped in an apology. She’ll assure him he doesn’t have to be sorry, she understands, she is sending him strength and clarity—and love, of course love.

There’s a text from Pierce: You promised me pictures of boobies!

There’s a text from Sophia’s older sister, Emmeline: You’re away, right? Can I crash at your place? I need a night to myself before I kill Brent and/or the boys. Also, have you talked to Ari?

The next text is from Sophia’s younger sister, Ariadne: I’m pregnant!!!!

There’s nothing from JP.

Sophia feels both nauseated and dizzy. Wouldn’t it be nice if she, too, were pregnant? (It’s embarrassing how much she wants this.) However, Sophia’s symptoms are due to the anxiety bubbling up inside her. Why did she turn on her roaming? She turns it back off immediately.

She’ll text Pierce once she knows what’s going on with JP. Pierce has been her chief of staff where this relationship is concerned; he’ll help her, even from afar.

Emmeline will use Sophia’s apartment with or without Sophia’s permission; she has a set of keys and the sense of entitlement that’s the birthright of every older sister. What’s Sophia’s is also hers, et cetera. Emme is probably, once again, fed up with her suburban life. Her husband, Brent, owns four car dealerships and is one of the last true male chauvinists (he runs a weekly poker game in the back room of a strip club like he’s Silvio Dante; he has never hung up a towel), and Emme’s boys, at this time of year, will be embroiled in hockey tournaments. Emme still lives on Long Island, but in Great Neck, which was her dream growing up. She does all the fancy mom things—meets the other stay-at-homes for coffee after school drop-off, then goes to barre class or hot yoga, nails, hair, MedSpa. She serves on committees at the kids’ school, she watches hella Bravo, she schedules the car to be serviced, the teeth to be cleaned, the skates to be sharpened. She goes to Whole Foods and provisions for dinner, which is a gourmet affair Sunday through Thursday; on the weekends, she and Brent have date night, and Brent gets a blow job. Emme has a bad habit: she wants something, gets it, then doesn’t want it anymore.

As for Ariadne’s pregnancy news, well . . . Sophia would like to mentally ship it back to the States to be dealt with at a later time, but that’s of course impossible. Ariadne and Seth Spinner (everyone just calls him Spinner) got married in October in Port Jeff; Sophia attended the wedding solo because she and JP had been dating only a few weeks at that point, and JP was away every weekend. She had to suffer both the questions (Are you seeing anyone special? How long do we have to wait until we get the invite to your wedding?) and the labels (City Girl, Career Girl, Miss Independent, Miss Manhattan).

Now that Ariadne is pregnant, she’ll buy a house down the street from their parents and raise little Spinners exactly the way Sophia and her sisters were raised.

All of this would be palatable if JP had simply texted. The whole scene at the airport was so abrupt that Sophia can’t quite believe it was real. And yet her solitude now is very real. She’s here in the Galápagos all by her fucking self.

She opens JP’s camera case. She can’t believe he left it behind—it’s either a show of extreme faith in Sophia, or he was too shaken by his news to make the wiser decision and take it with him. Sophia could have just taken pictures on her phone.

The Nikon lies nestled in foam packing, along with different lenses and a light meter. To Sophia, it’s like lifting the hood of a car and inspecting the engine. She picks up the camera and looks through the viewfinder. (Is that even what it’s called?) She pushes the button on top and hears a satisfying click. The screen shows a crisp, clear picture of the bathroom door. There’s a sheet of lined paper sticking out of the felt pouch on the case’s lid. It’s a list of . . . twenty-two animals that JP wanted to photograph. Blue-footed boobies. Mature marine iguanas. Dolphins at sunrise. He wants a picture of dolphins at sunrise?

“LOL,” Sophia says aloud, imitating Kelly’s accent.

The boat rocks underneath Sophia like a cradle—but before she can feel any more sorry for herself, the bell rings, announcing the first meeting.

Eating, mating, breeding, dying. Food sources of the marine iguana, courtship of the blue-footed booby, nesting practices of the magnificent frigate bird, natural enemies of the fur seal. Miguel has been talking for nearly an hour with Sophia and the rest of the passengers pasted to the buff-colored vinyl sofas in the feebly air-conditioned salon. Everything Miguel tells them about animals living, reproducing, and dying is what fascinated JP about the Galápagos. Life stripped down to the basics, he whispered to Sophia in awe as they scrolled through pictures of the Galápagos’s endemic wildlife online. That’s what we’re going to see.

Give us the goddamned Wi-Fi password, Miguel, Sophia thinks.

The other passengers look bored out of their wits. Tucker and Kelly page through a Spanish-language magazine they found under the coffee table. Henry Ross’s eyelids are drooping. Grant rests his head on DeAndre’s shoulder. Grant is still in his cargo shorts, though DeAndre has changed into tailored blue print shorts with a summer blue button-down in a contrasting pattern and a pair of white espadrilles. He’s dressed for an Aperol spritz on the French Riviera; Sophia is desperate to befriend him.

“You’d never make it in corporate America, Miguel,” Arn says, tapping his watch. Despite the A/C, the sides of Arn’s shirt are looped with sweat. Arn’s bad habit, Sophia decides, is being an asshole. Meanwhile, Dolores is all locked up: arms crossed tight, legs crossed tight, lips a slash of maroon pressed together.

Miguel blows the wooden whistle that hangs around his neck. “Okay, guys!” he says. People peel their thighs off the sofas; the vinyl squeaks. Henry Ross opens his eyes. “At five o’clock we have dinner; then we sail all night to Española Island, got it?”

“Bells and whistles,” Tucker murmurs. “Just like at the fire station.” He winks at Sophia. “I thought I was on vacation.”

That evening, when Sophia enters the dining area, she finds DeAndre and Grant already sitting with Tucker and Kelly, and Sophia thinks: Natural selection. They’re the coolest people here; of course they sat together. Sophia would like to lift a wing and display her bright feathers to prove she’s their species—but the table seats only four. Sophia sits with Henry and Wanda.

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