Free Wanderlove by Kirsten Hubbard

decorate my home with maps like these. If I ever settle down, that is.”
    “I heard that!” Starling shouts, tossing herself onto the bench beside me.
    “Heard what,” Rowan says flatly.
    “You admit that you’ll never settle down.”
    “I didn’t say ‘ never.’ I said ‘ if I ever .’ ”
    “It’s all in the subtext.”
    “I’m sure he will someday,” I say helpfully, “when he’s ready.”
    Starling shakes her head. “Not when you’re a whore like Rowan.”
    My jaw drops. Rowan, however, just looks exasperated, like he’s dealt with this before. “Starling, give me a break!
    That’s in the past, and you know it.”
    “If you consider a few months ago the past! Bria, tell me what you think.” Starling leans against the wall, looking like a smug Sunday school teacher about to share a moral fable.
    “Imagine being eighteen years old. A fledgling dive instructor in one of the most beautiful places on earth . . .”
    “Assistant,” Rowan says, correcting her. “Assistant instructor. Can we quit this?”
    “With no strings holding him back. From the very first minute, surrounded by a crowd of charismatic hooligans. Influential charismatic hooligans. And an ever-changing smorgasbord of backpacker chicks, all awaiting his instruction . . .” Rowan’s had enough. “Starling, come on !” With perfect timing, our server arrives with our food, distracting Starling from her oversharing session. Rowan looks relieved, but I’m not sure how I feel. Part of me is dying to know the details. But if the details describe another guy like Toby Kelsey—because if the rumors are true, Toby definitely got around toward the end—I think I’d rather travel in ignorance. I scoop chili powder onto my pad thai, wondering if my meal is hypocritical, since I thought eating Paraguyan food was so ridiculous.
    “Careful,” Rowan warns me. “That stuff’s really hot.” I shrug, take a bite, and try not to cry.
    “So where was I?” Starling says, chewing. So much for distraction.
    “Trespassing,” Rowan replies.
    “Trespassing? What do you . . . Okay, I get it. Fine. Fine!
    Forget the girls. I won’t go there. But there’s something else Bria should know if she’s going to travel with us. With you, especially.”
    “You don’t mean . . .” Something like panic passes through Rowan’s eyes. It’s gone as soon as Starling shakes her head, but takes lodge in the center of my chest instead. I’m getting the distinct impression there is something they’re not telling me, and it’s starting to seem sinister. It better not have anything to do with black markets and body organ harvesting.
    “I’m talking about your religion,” Starling says.
    Or cults.
    “May I tell her about it, Rowan? Pretty please?” Rowan leans back in his chair. “You’re going to, whether I want you to or not. Anyway, it’s not a religion. More like a philosophy.”
    “Or an affliction.”
    I glance at him nervously. “An affliction?” Starling spreads her arms grandly. “He’s afflicted with Wanderlove!”
    “Don’t you mean wanderlust?”
    “No. Not lust. Wander love .”
    “Wanderlove.” I try out the word.
    “See, wanderlust is like itchy feet,” Starling explains. “It’s when you can’t settle down. But Wanderlove is much deeper than that . . . it’s a compulsion. It’s the difference between lust and love. Have you ever been in love? Maybe with that boyfriend of yours?”
    Thoughts of Toby bubble up, like acid reflux. I force them down with a shrug.
    “Well, have you ever been in love with any thing ? Not a person, necessarily.” I shrug again, helplessly, and she shakes her head. “Poor baby.”
    Indignant, I keep searching—sifting through the months, back and back—until I find it: the most obvious thing of all.
    “I used to love to draw.”
    I expect Starling to roll her eyes, and feel thankful when she doesn’t. “Okay. Do you remember how it felt? In your gut?”
    I recall the rasp of