Page 62 of Just for the Cameras
“Yup,” I answer. “They’re actually born gray or white, and as they grow and feed on carotenoids, their diet reflects in their color. We try to offer them a diverse diet that helps them maintain their color but also offers them the nutrients they need to stay healthy.”
Big Hermy squawks over in the corner, pulling our attention. Ugh, I love him so much. I toss him a few pellets to satiate him. “They’re also loud. They’ll growl and they’ll bray like a donkey too.”
“And they smell.”
I roll my eyes. “Any animal’s going to smell, especially when it comes to captivity. We try to offer them the most natural habitat. When I was in Peru observing them—”
“You were in Peru?” he asks, surprised, the tension between us easing for a moment.
“For a few years,” I answer. “I was studying them in the wild.” I stare off at the flamingos. “Best few years of my life. I miss it so much. I miss the chilly early mornings, the dew just lifting off the mud. I miss the sounds they make at night, the stars above us being the only glimmer of light. I miss the people…”
“The people?” I can feel his eyes on me. “What, did you have like a boyfriend or something out there?”
I push my hand through my hair. “No.”
“Well, that’s a lie. I could see right through that bullshit answer.”
“He wasn’t a boyfriend, just…just a guy who I got along with.”
“Who liked flamingos as much as you.”
“Yes,” I grumble and try to remain neutral. People are watching us. “Other people like flamingos just as much as I do. I know that’s hard to believe.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, it is.”
God, what an ass. And here I thought we were getting along for a moment.
“But I do understand that the work you’re doing is important. I don’t know why anyone would volunteer to be around these fucks, but you’re brave to do it. It’s admirable that you want to protect them.”
Did he…did he just give me a compliment?
Unsure what to do or how to react, I remain calm and steady and hand him some more pellets and direct him to toss them toward the center of the lagoon. I snap a few pictures of him. I might hate the man, but if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it properly.
When he’s done, he looks up toward the crowd that’s formed, taking pictures not of the flamingos but of him. He turns toward me, his back to the crowd. “This is what I’m talking about,” he says. “You’re going to end up in a fishbowl, people watching everything you do, taking pictures to share on the internet.”
I lift my gaze to his dark one. “I understand the ramifications.”
“Yet you’re still going to do it?” he asks quietly.
I glance behind him, at the chicken-wire wall that separates the visitors from the flamingos, the painted wall that’s supposed to look like a natural habitat off to the right. They deserve so much more than this. If they have to live in a fishbowl, why can’t I for a moment in time?
Bringing my attention back to him, I say, “Yes.”
He nods. “Okay, just…just be warned, Maple.”
The sincerity in his voice almost makes it seem like he cares.
But that can’t be, right? He can’t possibly be caring toward me.
I let my eyes trail over him for a short moment, his eyes connecting with mine as well.
What are you thinking inside that head, Graydon St. John?
Snapping away from our eye contact, he turns back around, only to find Lester inches away. “Mother of fuck,” he squeals, quickly moving behind me and using my body as a shield. “Get me the hell out of here.”
Chuckling, I lead him out of the habitat, hoping and praying that someone caught theMatrix-like move he just made to scramble away from an innocent bird.
I’ll be scouring social media tonight, hoping the algorithm finds me.
