Page 6 of Natural Selection

There is nothing from JP. She runs through possible scenarios in her mind. They parted ways at ten thirty; it’s now seven. Eight and a half hours have passed. JP would have had to figure out his flight back; he’s probably still on the airplane. It’s been his habit every single time he leaves New York to send her a text before he takes off: On plane, I love you! What does it mean that he didn’t text her when he left Quito?

Sophia types: How’s it going? I’m thinking of you. No, delete. She won’t be another person who needs his attention. Though a part of her feels like she deserves a few moments of his attention. Why did he make her come alone? She never wanted to come to the Galápagos in the first place; she wanted Antigua, Nevis, Tortola. And why did he book them on such a B-rate boat? Isn’t she worth a little luxury? (She sounds like an obnoxious, privileged millennial even to her own ears. She will stop complaining about the boat. She’s sure it was expensive.) She doesn’t want to take the pictures, there is no magazine assignment, JP left her the camera only so he wouldn’t have to lug it back, or maybe he thought of it as a consolation prize.

You can’t come with me, he said.

I’m not sure how long this is going to take, he said.

A knock on the door jolts her from her thoughts.

“Yes?” she says.

DeAndre pokes his head in. “A few of us are going to the top deck to watch the sunset and have some wine. Want to join us?”

It’s the invitation to the clubhouse that she’s been waiting for—but Sophia is so out of sorts that she won’t be good company, and the last thing she should do right now is drink.

“I’m going to chill tonight,” she says. “But thank you for including me. I’ll be fun tomorrow.”

“I get it,” DeAndre says. “Wanda told us you got thrown for a real loop today.” He raps the doorframe. “Sleep well, we’ll see you in the morning.”

Sophia holds it together until he closes the door, then finally, she cries. She did get thrown for a loop today; it feels good to hear someone else acknowledge it.

She won’t text JP, she decides. She’ll just wait. He’ll resurface eventually.

In the morning, Sophia lays one of the skimpy bathroom towels across the vinyl floor and does some yoga poses. When she finishes, she checks her phone.

There’s a text from Pierce: Boobies?

She should have messaged Pierce last night to tell him she’s on this trip alone. She types in: You aren’t going to believe what fucking happened . . . then deletes it. Pierce will have follow-up questions she can’t answer—and speculative opinions she probably doesn’t want to hear.

There’s also a picture from Emme of an ice-cold martini and a silver cup of thin, crispy French fries. Is she at Balthazar? The Nines? Sophia can’t tell, but she’s jealous either way.

She puts on one of the outfits she bought especially for this trip: khaki shorts that she found on Revolve (she googled “hot girl safari looks”) and the whisper-thin T-shirt that she bought in six colors from J.Crew (she’s in white this morning). She and JP bought lightweight hiking boots together at the REI in SoHo. Sophia rolls up the legs of the shorts by two folds until she judges the length to be flattering but not slutty. She isn’t sure who she’s dressing for, though she supposes the answer is JP. She’ll send him photos of herself in a day or two.

At breakfast, Sophia realizes that meals might become something to dread. Again, DeAndre and Grant are sitting with Tucker and Kelly, and Arn and Dolores are with Henry and Wanda, leaving Sophia to sit at a table with Hugh. The two single people, alone together.

“Good morning,” Sophia says.

Hugh has already started his granola, topped with strawberry yogurt. “I was out early this morning on the top deck,” he says. “It’s magnificent.”

Sophia looks out the window and is surprised to see that they’re the only boat around and that, perhaps two hundred yards away, is land. It looks rocky and desolate and, she can’t help thinking, vaguely disappointing.

“You’ll be taking pictures today, I assume?” Hugh asks. There’s a piece of granola stuck in his mustache. Sophia wipes at her own lip with a napkin.

“I will,” she says, with more purpose than she feels. “JP has a list of shots he’s supposed to get, including one of dolphins at sunrise.”

Hugh’s brow lifts in surprise. “Well,” he says. “Maybe with some luck.”

At nine o’clock, everyone but Arn climbs aboard the panga.

“He doesn’t want to come,” Dolores says. “I’m embarrassed to say, he’s simply not interested.”

Sophia sits next to Luis Antonio.

“La reina!” he says happily when he sees her. “Buenas días, la reina.”

Sophia smiles nervously. She thinks of JP, speaking fluent Spanish with the woman at the cambio, and she wants to weep. “Buenas días, la reina,” she repeats softly.

Luis Antonio laughs. “No, no,” he says, pointing to her. “Eres la reina.”

---