The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Three EMILY

Chapter Three

E MILY

I’m nostalgic, and I find myself scrolling through a file of photos from my time with Jeremy and Planet BlueLove, a lifetime ago. I feel like the shots should be sepia and cracked, but they were taken on a digital camera and uploaded to the cloud, so they’re absolutely pristine.

The first shot is of my old team after the Oregon assignment, before some of us left for Brazil. We’d been kayaking through the Class V rapids on the Deschutes River. We’re wet and beaten up, but you’d never know it from our expressions—just sheer joy.

I enlarge the photo, trying to see what’s so different about me between then and now. Other than finally giving in to societal pressure to shave my legs (Liv was quietly thrilled), not much has changed, at least on the outside. So how is it that I look so altered? I remember one of the best days of my life.

I got it! I finally got the call I’ve been waiting for. This is it. This is the big dance. My chance to effect some major environmental change in the place most desperate for it. I’m so elated that I feel weak in the knees.

We were still in bed when the call came in, since we’re three hours behind the New York central office for BlueLove. The minute the phone rang, I threw on a robe. I felt like I should be at least partially dressed to accept the greatest opportunity of my life.

“You got it? Beauty!” Jeremy exclaims. He’s still on the hotel bed, clad only in a crisp white sheet. “When do you leave?”

“Next month,” I say, my mind already racing with everything I’ll have to prepare before then.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, pulling me close.

“Why?” I ask, wedging in beside him. “You’ll be with me. I’m choosing my own team. I choose you.”

He seems hesitant. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, love.”

“Not the best idea?” I’m incredulous. “It’s everything we’ve worked for. I mean, yes, I can do it without you, but I don’t want to. I want you there. You’re the best there is. I need you. BlueLove needs you.”

“And I want to be with you, it’s just ...” Why is he hesitating? I thought he’d be ecstatic. We’re being called up to the pros, playing first string. It doesn’t get bigger or better than this for what we do.

Maybe we’ve moved too fast, going so far as throwing the L word around of late. “Listen, J, this thing between us, it doesn’t have to be serious. We can stay exactly what we are to each other right now. Nothing has to be formal. We just make the decision to be together, and if one of us wakes up one day and decides that it no longer works, then we’ll still have had what we had. And it was real and true in the moment.”

He scoops me up and wraps me in his powerful arms. “If I go, and I’m not saying I will, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

He squeezes me tight, almost as though he’s afraid I’ll slip away from him. “When you think of me someday, always remember this moment. You and I are real and this love is true, no matter what else happens.”

And then we celebrate.

Then, I come across a selfie of Jeremy and me in Brazil, before ... the thing that happened. We’d been rappelling down a waterfall, against a backdrop that may as well have been the Garden of Eden, exploding with lush tropical vegetation and birds in brilliant hues of blue, yellow, and orange. They’d looked like something Willy Wonka might have created. Oh, to be there again.

The two days of travel via planes, trains, boats, and buses to get deep into the Amazon basin feel worth it when I finally see what I’m sworn to protect.

The biodiversity of the rain forest manifests in an explosion of sounds and colors; it hosts 10 percent of all flora and fauna known to humankind. My eyes trail up tree trunks many stories tall. I see snatches of golden sunlight and patches of cerulean sky.

The leaves form a mosaic of millions of little pieces that appear to be lit from within. It takes my breath away. Being here is like standing under miles of the finest stained glass. This is sacred ground, the church that nature built. Even though I’m agnostic, it’s impossible not to feel the hand of God here.

In my halting Portuguese, I ask Augusto, one of our guides, if he ever takes any of this for granted, ever gets used to it. His weathered face is wreathed in a smile as he answers, “Nunca.”

Never.

Days later, I tell Jeremy, “I want to stay here forever. How will I go back to normal life after this?” We’re lying on the smooth, slick rocks adjacent to the pounding waterfall, sunbathing between rounds of skinny-dipping.

“Why go back?” he says. “You’ll never have an ordinary life; you’d shrivel up and die. The idea of someone like you with, what, a time card to punch? Working for a multinational corporation? It’s hilarious.”

“Ooh, maybe I’d have a condominium full of cats. Maybe I’d have a crossword puzzle addiction.”

He laughs.

I keep scrolling. Here’s a bunch of BlueLovers on the steep face of the still largely unknown Milho Verde. I look so alive in every picture. There’s a shot from when I was free-climbing and lost my grip. I crashed about fifteen feet into some brush, emerging with a small gash on my head, soaking my bandana and shirt collar in blood. There are actual sticks in my hair and my forearms and legs are absolutely shredded, yet I appear to be having the time of my life.

Now I don’t even drink a glass of wine without taking an Advil.

“What happened to me?” I ask aloud.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Miles returning from his morning bike ride. Though he has his own key, and most of his stuff—including his ridiculous egg cup and even more ridiculous bike—resides in my place, he insists on acting like a guest.

“Don’t make me get up, Miles,” I call, hesitant to end my journey down memory lane.

I hear his key in the lock, then Miles pokes his helmeted head in the doorway and says, “Knock, knock!” He’s in head-to-toe spandex and covered in protective padding, more suited for a running back than for an associate dean on a casual spin down a tree-lined bike path. It’s not his best look. “Mind if I come in?” He stays over four nights a week, and he just left here for his ride an hour ago; it’s not like his being back is a surprise.

“Stop asking, Miles. Just come in.” He wheels in his recumbent bike with a massive orange flag on the back. I snap my laptop shut. “Good ride this morning?” I ask.

He nods enthusiastically. “I felt the burn!” I know it’s weird, but I am overcome with the irrational desire to pants him and stuff him in a gym locker. I realize this is not a healthy feeling, nor does he deserve my ire. He’s done nothing wrong but be his lovely, sweet, sane self.

“Nothing like a slow workout to really get the blood pumping,” I deadpan as he undoes his chin strap.

“I concur!” he replies. When he doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm—which is my love language—I feel like the meanest person in the world. I hate it. Why can’t he just banter a little bit? I watch as he fills his ever-present stainless water bottle from my filtered tap and takes a couple of delicate sips. He’d be as likely to buy a bottled water as he would to fly to Mars. I used to appreciate that about him, but now, like the egg cup, its presence annoys me.

He must be feeling refreshed, because out of nowhere, he announces, “I’m about to kiss you all over” and approaches me.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events. It’s not even the weekend! I close my eyes and tilt up my chin and ... I feel him sweep up my Devon rex cat, Chairman Meow, from his perch on my shoulder. Miles hugs the cat tightly, planting a series of dry pecks all over his pointy face and abnormally large ears.

At least the Chairman enjoys his affection.

The Chairman hops out of his arms and returns to my shoulder, nudging my cheek with his face, a sweet reminder that he loves me too. Meow got me through some lonely times when I first moved back to Chicago and didn’t know anyone but Liv. I adopted him because he was the oddest-looking cat at the rescue, his giant head out of proportion with his slender body. People would pass his cage, beelining directly for either the fat and fluffy cats or the tiny kittens. No one wanted the one that looked like an alien life-form who’d just crash-landed at Roswell.

Miles places his helmet in the basket on the back of his bike. While the storage area is large enough that he could take Chairman Meow on rides, this is where I draw the line. I cannot imagine voluntarily having Saturday sex with someone who takes cats for bike rides. It’s a slippery slope from there to pushing a cat around in a screened-in stroller.

“Guess what?” he asks. “No, don’t guess. I’m too excited. Something special for the Great Helmsman!” He rips the plastic off a package he must have picked up at his place two blocks away, revealing first a man-sized argyle sweater vest and then one in a cat size, plus two pairs of horn-rimmed glasses and two pipes. “It’s for our Instagram. We’re celebrating our academic realness.”

What I initially thought was a one-off joke has morphed into a phenomenon. #MilesandMeow has become an internet sensation. I thought the business with Chairman Meow was funny, especially because Miles was so serious about it. The internet was built on cat pictures, and while Miles might not be my normal type, he really owns the dorky-sexy look. He’s super photogenic. Plus, he thought having an online presence would make him more relatable to his students, make them more comfortable with him, like he was one of them. Of course, Meow was a willing participant because nothing makes him happier than being made the center of attention. (I feel like he’d have thrived in ancient Egypt.) But instead of posting a couple of Instagrams and losing interest like a normal person, Miles ramped up their joint social media, adding music and learning to edit video. He brought in a stylist for the cat .

That’s when it stopped being cute to me.

Once the university brass found out about his account, I felt relieved, like, Whew, enough of that. But turns out, they love it, especially when Miles and the Chairman demonstrate scientific principles in their videos. The one where they’re both in Einstein wigs and lab coats has a billion views. With a b . He got a plaque from YouTube and a huge check that he signed over to the cat rescue group where I found him. The school credits #MilesandMeow for an uptick in our department’s enrollment, and Meow seems to love being dressed up, so the account isn’t going anywhere. Argh.

“Did you have to pay for those?” I ask, gesturing toward the costumes. I don’t know what’s worse: his forking over hard-earned USD for such things or being so well known in the cat costume space that he may have realistically received them gratis.

“Of course not. A sponsor sent them.” He gives the sweater a closer inspection, rubbing it against his cheek. “Ooh, it’s cashmere!”

Free is worse.

I glance longingly at my closed laptop. I need the me from those pictures to be sitting on this couch. The cool girl. The fun one. The brave one. How do I find her again?

I want the kind of purpose and empowerment I used to feel. I tried antidepressants, but they did nothing but give me dry mouth and constipation. Miles and I both need a big refresh, something that gets our blood pumping in a way that recumbent biking definitely cannot or doing the Dougie with the cat cannot. Is it possible for us to get to that place together?

That’s when I realize the answer is right in front of my face . I may have a way. I need to find that girl in Brazil again. And if Miles did it with me, we’d add that element of danger and excitement that I’ve so missed. Maybe this is what we need.

“Hey, Miles? What would you think if I went back to Planet BlueLove? Not to work, just to volunteer?” Before he can answer, I quickly add, “And not just me, you too. They can always use people with our skills—especially someone with your knowledge and passion.”

He glances up from his academic cosplay. “What do I think?” I can practically see the wheels of his brain churning, weighing out all the possibilities. Miles really does have good raw material for Planet BlueLove: a scientific background, a logical approach to problems, unparalleled risk assessment. The BlueLove way could help harness what he knows and turn him into—

“I think that we’re too old for ecoterrorism.”

“No, seriously,” I say.

Miles looks puzzled. “I’m always serious. You used to be so reckless before you cut ties with that group. Honestly, I worried the university wouldn’t hire you because of your past, but fortunately, everyone voted with me. Anyway, might I use the bathroom to freshen up?”

Like that, I feel my energy leach out. “Just say you’re showering, Miles.”

I open my laptop when I hear him collect his shower caddy (why, God, why?) and carry it into the bathroom. I seek out my favorite shot of Jeremy as Meow purrs in my ear. It’s almost sunset, and we’ve just built a fire on the shoreline. His whole face is lit in the pink and gold hues of the magic hour, and he’s staring into the camera like he’s seeing the very depths of my soul. I run a fingertip over the small scar on his chin, from the time that he crashed his motorcycle and—

The screaming rips me from my memory, and Meow scatters at the noise. I rush into the bathroom, where I find Miles naked but wrapped in a towel. Miles looks great in clothes, like they’re made just for him. But pale and wet, I can’t help but compare him to a plucked Cornish game hen. He shaves everywhere, believing it makes him more aerodynamic. Apparently, speed is important on noncompetitive bike paths.

Miles is cowering on the tub’s lip, pointing at something in the corner. I spot the object of his abject terror.

A spider.

Just a regular old house spider, smaller than a dime. It’s definitely not one of the dinner-plate-sized goliath birdeaters I ran across in the rain forest. Despite the name, they rarely eat birds, mostly snakes. Imagining Miles witnessing a spider eating a snake gives me a perverse stab of joy, but I keep this to myself and instead try to sound patient. “Again, Miles? They’re harmless.” I gently sweep it out of the corner and into my palm, planning to deposit the tiny guy in one of the planter boxes on my balcony.

This moment feels like a Bizarro World photo negative of Jeremy.

I remember running my hand over Jeremy’s solid bare chest and arms. “How’d you get this one?” I asked, pointing to a jagged line on his forearm.

“Bar fight in Pamplona.”

“Did you start the fight?”

He laughed. “Nah, but I finished it, didn’t I.” He lifted his hair by his ear, showing a two-inch-long raised strip of white skin. “Caught a bottle right here that night as well. Didn’t stop me from running with the bulls the next day. That’s where I got this.” He revealed a crescent-shaped mark on his left shoulder.

“Were you gored?” I asked.

His laugh was the best sound in the world. “Yeah ... by a fence post when I stumbled. I may have been overserved the night prior.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed movement by the tent opening. Then I spotted a small scorpion making its way up Jeremy’s calf.

“Reckon it’s looking for a threesome?” Jeremy calmly asked.

“Not on my watch.” I quickly grabbed the scorpion at the tip of its tail and flicked it out of the tent. Then I returned my attention to Jeremy. “Two’s all we need.”

As for Miles, I can understand his paranoia. He was bitten by a brown recluse on a Boy Scout trip and he never got over it. I hold the spider up on my flattened palm so Miles can get a better look. “See? He’s totally chill. This is the kind of beneficial spider that—” That somehow flies out of my hand and directly into Miles’s thick hair. He shrieks, stumbles, and brings the whole shower curtain with him.

A couple of EMTs deem Miles to be fine, as there’s not a scrape, bump, or bruise on him, but Miles takes the day off anyway. He’s cocooned himself in quilts and wrapped his head in ice secured by an ACE bandage and a roll of gauze. He looks like he fought in the Battle of the Somme; though, between his shower curtain parachute and the tub pillow and mat he moved into my bathroom (don’t ask), his fall was nicely broken.

“You didn’t even hit your head,” I say, setting him up with herbal tea, chicken soup, and a sleeve of crackers. He also requested that I place bottles of ibuprofen, Tylenol, Tums, and an antidiarrheal within arm’s reach. I stack one of my many New York Times crossword puzzle books next to him, as well as a pencil, the TV remote, his phone, and his iPad. I should feel sorry for him, but all I can think is, I can’t keep doing this for the rest of my life. Something has to change.

Miles wraps his arms around his legs and begins to moan and rock. Concerned, I ask, “What just happened? Are you in pain? The guys said you were unscathed.”

“I’m having psychosomatic pain over what could have happened. It’s like Camp While-A-Way all over again. The potential danger is just too much for me.”

I grit my teeth. As if he’s ever been in real danger.

Jeremy’s voice is rough and hoarse as he strains to whisper in my ear. “I reckon they’ll spare you, but you have to go.” He’s pleading with me as the guerillas frog-march us away from the campfire. But that doesn’t make sense. He’s not our leader; I am. I’m the target of value. I’m the American. I’m the better bargaining chip.

“I won’t leave you.”

“Be serious, love. It’s our only chance.”

The underbrush pulls at my clothes and my skin as they force us down the path, but I barely feel it. I remember what I said to him the night he braided a vine and placed it on my ring finger. “Whither though goest, I will go.” It wasn’t an engagement so much as a promise of more to come.

I’ve mentally prepared for this. Hostile actions have always been a possibility with the work we do. We’re trying to stop deforestation, and billions of dollars are potentially on the line, between the value of the natural resources and the criminal enterprises that operate out of here. Getting between someone and their money involves risk.

BlueLove trained us on what to do if we’re taken. Unless there’s an extraordinarily strong chance of escape, the protocol is to submit, obey, and try to establish a rapport. If the taken gain their kidnappers’ respect, they’re less likely to be injured.

I don’t know specifically who’s got us; it could be anyone from drug and arms traffickers to illegal hunters to emissaries of those who profit from deforestation, like the chocolate companies that destroy orangutan habitats to harvest palm oil. These men could be anyone. Most outside groups haven’t gotten in this deep. Usually, the violence here is aimed toward Indigenous people, guardians like the Uru-Eu-Wau-Wau.

I guess we just got lucky.

“You have to try to escape,” Jeremy says. We bump along the trail in the dark, surrounded on all sides by captors in ex-Soviet camo gear, faces concealed, carrying heavy-duty weaponry and equipped with night vision apparatus.

“Even now, it’s cute that you think you’re in charge,” I reply.

Though his wrists are bound, Jeremy’s able to pass me the small switchblade he keeps in his sock. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Cut your hands free. When we get to the fork in the brush, I’m going to create a distraction. I’ll stumble and you will run. You will run and run and you will not look back.”

“No, we’re in this together.”

“Emily, no.” When I look in his eyes, I see fear. This fear throws me off my axis; it sends me reeling, scrambles my judgment. He implores, “Promise me you’ll run. Promise me you’ll run and you’ll never come back here. I’ve never asked you for anything, but I’m asking you for this. Promise me you’re done here.”

I don’t say anything.

We’re almost to the fork.

Decision time.

I go against my gut. “I’ll run, but only because I’m faster than you and I can find help.”

When we get to the fork, Jeremy stumbles and plows into the men on our right flank. While the men swarm him, I break free and run, even though every atom of my being tells me to stay and fight. Under a blanket of stars on a moonless night, I run for hours until I reach a village with a satellite phone fifteen kilometers away.

I never stop regretting this action.

“It doesn’t hurt, per se, but it’s the potential for pain that gets me,” Miles says, snapping me out of my memory.

I bite my tongue. It’s not just me. Even Chairman Meow has had enough of him today. He’s currently lounging on top of the fridge, watching the nonsense from a distance. I am vaguely concerned that Miles will try to wrap gauze around his head for an impromptu twins selfie. I’m trying to figure out how best to respond to this foolishness when my phone pings. It’s a text from Liv:

meet me for coffee? now? please??

Miles rocks and keens, racked with his imaginary aches. Meow’s tail twitches, and he shoots me a look that telegraphs, Go ahead, I got you, girl. I glance back and forth from Miles to Meow to my phone:

on my way