For a woman who threw up six times from nervousness on the way to her seventh-grade science fair, my presentation on Keeva’s surrogacy goes remarkably well. It helps that it takes place in a conference room the size of a football field where hundreds of other people hang out awkwardly in front of their own posters, so there are never too many pairs of eyes on me at once. It also helps that every time I start to stumble over my words or sweat off my mascara, Kai walks by and says, “Wowza, great poster!” in the thickest accent he can muster.
I fought tooth and nail over trying not to appear on camera this summer, and even though I’ll probably never be able to deliver more than a few lines into the lens without running a cold sweat, I can’t help but think that spending so much time outside my comfort zone has helped me expand it by a mile. Daiyu snaps a picture of me alongside my poster and I send it to Sam, who uploads it to the zoo’s Facebook page with a caption that reads, Primate keeper Lucy spreading knowledge and making waves in San Diego!, and although looking at pictures of myself usually makes me cringe, I like this one. I look happy, even confident, in my slate gray power suit, like a woman who’d never ramble about hyena pseudopenises or pass out during a Critter Chat.
I look like I know what I’m doing.
I don’t see Kai for most of the day, because he’s busy doing interviews and promoting Wild Side with Freya, but I mingle with representatives from other zoos and attend two lectures, one on advancements in gorilla cardiac health and another on the effects of anti-inflammatory drugs on the gut flora of colobus monkeys. I mention to other keepers that I’m looking to gather more research on the prevention of intussusception, and I even meet a keeper team from St. Louis that inquires about visiting Columbus to learn more about our surrogacy program. We trade numbers and business cards, and the fact that I’m doing what Phil hoped I would—talking to other keepers, seizing an opportunity—fills me with pride.
The conference’s keynote speaker, Priya Kumar-Tyler, founder of the Global League for the Prevention of Wildlife Trafficking, is scheduled to give her lecture at eight, and the awards and honors presentations will occur just beforehand. At seven thirty, I meet Kai in the lobby outside the amphitheater, and he looks like an absolute snack in a navy blue suit that fits him like a glove.
“Sexy can I,” I mutter. “Want to run back to the hotel for a quickie?”
I expect him to jokingly suggest we find an empty closet instead, but he only flashes me a tight smile. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, patting my purse. “Bobblehead locked and loaded.”
“Great.” He nods, and there’s something in his expression I haven’t seen before: a tension coiled around the tight lines of his mouth and a hard glint in his eyes.
Is he regretting his decision to invite me backstage? Does he find my Dr. Kimber bobblehead embarrassing?
“I don’t have to bring the bobblehead,” I tell him. “I can get my book signed instead.”
“The bobblehead is fine, Lucy.” Kai’s tone is stiff, almost sharp, and I’m not sure anyone’s ever uttered the word bobblehead so tensely.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask, reaching out to touch his hand. “If this is about last night, about what you started to say about this thing between us feeling, you know . . .” Real, I want to say. Meaningful. But Kai cuts me off before I can finish the sentence he left open-ended last night.
“It’s not.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, sighing. “I’m sorry. I know I’m tense, but it doesn’t have anything to do with you. I’m glad you’re here.” He squeezes my hand, and the brief smile he gives me tells me his words are genuine. “I’m just nervous.”
He might as well have announced that he transforms into Bigfoot at every full moon. “Nervous? You?”
How does a man who went cage diving with great white sharks in season four of Wild Side get nervous about presenting his mom with an award?
“You know the saying, ‘Never meet your heroes’?” Kai asks, fiddling with the top button of his shirt. “Well, my mum is . . . she can be . . . difficult. Mercurial. And she’s not my biggest fan.”
He tilts his head from side to side, rolling out his neck, and the anxiety emanating off him is palpable.
“I don’t understand. Why isn’t she?” Based on my experience, moms love Kai more than scented candles and uninterrupted baths. Wouldn’t Dr. Kimber, who dedicated her life to protecting gorillas, be ecstatic that her son dedicated his to sharing that love for wildlife with the world?
Kai glances at his smartwatch. “We better head backstage.” He slips a laminated pass out of his pocket and pins it to my jacket, and I can’t resist the opportunity to place my hand against his cheek.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, trying to solve the mystery in his eyes.
He nods and presses his forehead to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m okay. Just ready to get this over with.” Then he smooths his jacket and nods toward the amphitheater. “Let’s go.”
I want to ask more questions and give him the same steady assurance he tried to give me that first day with the cameras outside the bonobo exhibit but he’s striding toward the amphitheater with a confidence that betrays none of the agitation I saw on his face. I hurry after him, wondering why the silly figurine tucked safely in my purse suddenly feels like it’s made of brick.