She has the feeling he got up at nine a.m. London time and started working his phone—if he went to sleep at all, that is. He was absolutely delusional yesterday, promising her money like he was ready to take a hammer to his own piggy bank.
She waits until the sun’s at a decent height before slipping out of her quarters to make coffee. The air is cool and damp, the spiderwebs in the long grass extravagantly bedecked with dewdrops. A scattering of fossilized needlefish scales—the crew’s substitute for poker chips during Friday-night Texas Hold’em tournaments—decorates the picnic tables.
When she was young, on Saturday mornings like this, she used to pour herself a bowl of cereal and go outside to find her dad. He’d be sitting on the stairs, sipping from a chipped mug that saidOld Mechanics Never Die, They Just Need a New Starter Motor. “Hey, Pip,” he’d say, his tanned face breaking into a smile. “What adventures should we have today?” The days felt summery and golden, rich with possibility.
This Saturday, she feels like having the dig to herself for a quiethour before everyone else wakes up. Once she and Cara break the news, nothing will be the same.
Some of the crew will stick it out for the whole two weeks—Jordin, she’s guessing, and Griff. She suspects the twins are already looking for new jobs.
Smithson will be gone by Monday.
Since he didn’t find the money, she isn’t strictly obliged to help him, but she’ll send him a list of friendly contacts on the private side. She’ll call some people herself, considering how hard he tried to get her the funding.
Is it wrong to admit she’ll miss him? Not because of the moment at lunch yesterday. That’s nothing she needs to worry about. She’s had a thing for science nerds since she sat next to Declan Patterson in AP physics. Declan thought being named after an alien hunter in a horror movie was cool; Ripley was intrigued by a boy big enough to join the football team but sure enough of himself not to. One night in the spring of their senior year, outside the long, low public library that managed to look like a trailer even though it was made of fieldstone and yellow bricks, he’d somberly bent down and kissed her. She remembers thinking,Oh.Thisis what kissing is supposed to feel like.
So it’s really not Smithson she’s attracted to, only an archetype that he happens to embody. She is not swayed by the brilliance of his smile with the one slightly crooked, rather endearing lower tooth or the reverence in his gaze when he looks at Beauty. She’s curious about the tattoo on his scarred leg because it’samystery, not because it’shismystery.
He’ll go back to California. She’ll put all her energy into getting Beauty’s wing to market. If they think of each other again, it’ll be an accident.
Ripley sighs and pours herself a second cup of coffee—notparticularly hot anymore, but she’ll take it. She’s in the mood to head down to the canyon.
The dig feels anthropological this morning, like Ripley’s discovered an ancient settlement and all that’s left of it are the objects that show what people did, what they cared about, what they believed.
The whitened earth is where the villagers let the plaster buckets drip dry after being rinsed. The brown hump is where they sifted the dirt from their excavations and filled Ziploc bags with stray fragments. One villager—Matteo, obviously—dropped a hammer and never picked it up. And down the canyon, that’s where—
What the fuck?
Ripley left Beauty securely covered. Sheknowsshe did. But her cover is neatly folded and set to the side. A figure in dark clothing sits next to her.
Ripley’s down the stairs and halfway to the creek when her eyes and brain start working together.
She pulls up short from a dead run, heart slamming in her chest. Coffee drips from her right sleeve. She can’t remember how she got here.
Jesus Christ.
Smithson is dressed warmly, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, ripstop pants tucked into his socks in the height of paleontology fashion. His spiral-bound sketchbook rests on his bent knees. A thin line of white dents his full lower lip where it’s trapped between his teeth.
He switches pencils, and his soft shading motions are replacedby loose strokes that twist one way, then spiral finely back the other, like the movements she makes when she’s brushing Beauty.
He looks up, his eyes shadowed with dark circles. “Is that for me?” He leans forward, reaching for the mug.
Ripley surveys the half-full mug, her dripping hand, her spattered pants. “Sure.”
“You’re literally an angel,” he says after a long, ecstatic sip. “By God, this is the best coffee I’ve had in years.”
“It’s shit,” she says matter-of-factly.
“It’s good shit, even without milk.” He sips again, closing his eyes in pleasure. She wishes she hadn’t seen that particular expression on his face. It evokes a sharp twist of want in her chest for reasons she’s not convinced are related to a general appreciation for male nerds.
“Whatcha drawin’?”
“I thought I’d do a few concept sketches of Beauty. This one’s not finished, but…” He hands her the notebook, downs the rest of the coffee, and pushes himself to his feet.
He’s drawn Beauty in flight, wings extended, pinions spread. Powerful legs and clawed feet trail from her belly. Her dinosaur jaw is elongated into a beaky shape.
She has teeth. Like a tiny dragon.
He’s good. He’sverygood. There’s something so familiar about his style.
