Page 82 of Reckless Hearts

“I’ll definitely reply.”

19

Seb

One Month Later

“How are our babies today?” I ask as I come into the room.

Dot, one of the fairy tern volunteers, looks up from where she’s bending over a large container.

“Our babies are hungry,” she replies.

“That’s not much of a surprise.”

I come up next to her and peer into the container, and I can’t keep the delight from my voice. “Oh, they’ve grown so big.”

Only a few days ago, the chicks were fluffy pompoms. Now, they look more like miniature birds. Their small beaks are more pronounced, like tiny forceps ready to snatch up fish.

There are four chicks, each set up in their own commercial paint tray, which just happens to have the right dimensions to make a miniature sandy beach for the chicks, where they can peruse the fish the volunteers put in the water in the deeper part of the tray.

I snap a picture of them with my phone and send it to Marcus.

These chicks don’t know they’ve got a Hollywood movie star following their progress, and I’m fairly sure the rest of the team wouldn’t believe it if I told them.

I barely believe it myself.

In fact, I often scroll through the stream of messages between Marcus and me over the last month just to reassure myself they’re not figments of my imagination. This is actually happening. Marcus and I are messaging almost every day, sharing snippets of our lives.

It started out with the casualhope you traveled safekind of messages but quickly morphed into us talking about anything and everything.

I’m trying to restrain myself from being the person who always messages first, trying to make sure he’s not just keeping contact with me because he feels some weird type of obligation to his best friend’s little brother he shagged almost constantly over a five-day period.

Eleven times total if you’re measuring it by joint ejaculations. Thirteen if you count encounters where something sexual happened, but it never reached the point of both of us orgasming. Not that I kept track. Much.

Marcus doesn’t respond straight away, but it’s afternoon in America and he’s on the set of his new movie. While he’s probably filming some dramatic scene that will make millions swoon, I’m watching baby birds figure out which end of a fish to eat first. We’re clearly living equally glamorous lives.

I put down my phone and start my careful observation of the chicks, recording their feeding behavior.

At the end of my observation period, it’s time to weigh them.

“They’ve put on two hundred grams,” I share triumphantly with Dot, who gives me a high five.

Thanks to the wonderful work of the round-the-clock volunteer team and Auckland Zoo staff, these little guys are almost doubling their weight every few days.

It’s become an important part of my post-doc, looking at the impact the hand-rearing program will have on the population recovery of the fairy terns. Dot is a retired shopkeeper who fusses over the chicks and me with a grandmotherly concern.

And it’s definitely a grandmotherly look she gives me now as she watches me pack my gear.

“Forgive me if this is out of line, but I worry about you sometimes. You seem to spend all your time either here or at the beach at Mangawhai watching fairy terns. It’s not much of a life for a young man. How are you ever going to meet a nice girl?”

I hesitate for a second because this is one of the sucky things about being gay. The constant coming out to new people and the snap judgments you have to make about whether they’re closet homophobes. Dot has been nothing but kind to me, so I go with honesty.

“I actually date men.”

Dot’s eyes widen, and I wonder for a second if I’ve misjudged her before she breaks into a smile.

“Oh, I should introduce you to my husband’s nephew. He’s a very nice young man. And he’s got a steady job now, working at the local dump. Sure, he comes home smelling a bit ripe, but at least he’s not living in his parents’ basement anymore. Oh, and he’s only been arrested for public nudity twice, and both times were on a dare so that hardly counts…”