“Cord…” said Wyatt.
“What?”
“The technology. You’ve…there’s something there…right?”
Cord paused, rubbing his eyes. “Third Eyez is going to change the world,” he said.
“Okay.”
“It is.”
“Sure, I said okay,” said Wyatt.
Cord hung up and stared into space for a moment. In front of him was the Excursions Desk; a woman in pink pants drinking a beer from a can; swirling carpet; and a glass staircase. But in his mind’s eye, Cord saw his face in the mirror of his Orlando hotel bathroom the morningafter the 3rd Eyez presentation: gray, skittish, freaked out.
Was there something there, inside the warehouse in Florida? Cord sure as hell hoped so. Uselessly, he tried to remember—what had he seen? He cast back into his memory again and again, like a fisherman running on faith.
But there was nothing.
VIEWED FROM THE LIDOdeck, the Grand Harbour was a medieval wonderland. This was Malta—a ninety-five-square-mile island between Africa and Europe, land of knights and secret World War II tunnels. The sky was pale blue, the sea a deeper blue, and in the middle, Malta was the color of honey. Like Rhodes, Malta was a scene from another time, as if modernity—with all its skyscrapers and McMansions and pollution and cellphones—had not yet happened.
“Well,” said Matt. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Sure,” said Regan.
“What does that mean?” said Matt. “It’s not enough that I have to hear it from your family?” Regan didn’t respond, and he grabbed her shoulder. “Answer me,” he said.
Regan turned around. With one good shove, Matt would go over the protective railing, breaking his legs, or maybe his neck. Her hands twitched. She smiled as sweetly as she was able. “I just wish you could come,” she managed. “To Malta.”
Matt watched her, his expression calculating. He wasn’t stupid, and she needed to remember that. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said Regan. She made herself stay still. He would need to be the one to say goodbye.
“Well, have a good time,” said Matt. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, and she allowed it.
As she joined the excursion line with her mother and brother (Lee had never shown up for breakfast), Regan tried to calm down. Her exchanges with Matt were so fraught—they left her shaken. They disembarked, and Regan spotted a short man holding a sign that saidPERKINS. The man wore cargo shorts and a Yankees cap.
“Look! It’s our guy!” said Cord.
“I’m not a fan of all those pockets,” noted Charlotte. The way she immediately judged their guide based on his shorts infuriated Regan. It was so shallow!
“Welcome, welcome to Malta! I am Kiko,” said the man as they approached.
“Nice to meet you. Very nice to meet you,” said Cord, shaking Kiko’s hand. Not for the first time, Regan wondered if Cord was gay. But he would have told her by now, wouldn’t he? Still, she was not imagining it: Cord’s eyes lingered on Kiko’s lips. They were beautiful lips—plump and pink. They looked like they would be soft to kiss.
Regan watched Cord watch Kiko. She wasn’t homophobic, but she didn’t have any gay friends, either.
Regan could remember her father laying into Cord, as if Cord’s inability to catch a baseball were a statement about Winston’s own masculinity. Regan felt tenderness toward her brother. The difficulty she encountered as a bigger, voicey woman must have been increased a hundredfold for Cord. No wonder he had ended up in New York. Maybe Regan should do the same.
“I am honored and pleased to show you my home. This is a magical island with so much history,” said Kiko, interrupting Regan’s thoughts. “Would anyone like to begin with a coffee orpastizzpastry?” he asked.
“I’d try apastizz,” said Cord. He’d slid on mirrored sunglasses, making his eyes impossible to read.
“Good, wonderful,” said Kiko. He led them through a busy square to a food cart. Next to the cart, a man sold fish from a bucket to passing cars, haggling loudly. Kiko approached the cart, ordered, then handed Cord a pastry on a napkin. Cord tentatively bit and chewed. “This is…?” he said.
“Peas and ricotta,” said Kiko.
“Pungent,” said Cord.
