Up ahead, a naturalist in a single kayak is paddling toward the approaching group. He waves his arm. Heads turn from every direction. “Flamingoes,” he calls in a hoarse shout. “On shore, over there. But be careful not to startle them; they are migratory birds, not endemic to the Galápagos, so they are wary of people. Rarely do we see them on the beaches. Come, this is a special treat.” Paddling in a circle, he takes off in the direction he indicated.

As we round a jutting edge of shoreline, the flamingoes come into view—a flock of about fifteen of them, all the brightest pink I’ve ever seen. Half a dozen other kayaks bob at varying intervals along the shore, along with two Zodiacs full of guests. We paddle forward slowly.

“Emily would love this.” Nikolai’s voice is so low I almost miss it.

Twisting around, I stare at him.

His smirk is gone. And so is the mischievous gleam from his eyes. His entire aspect has drooped, from his eyebrows to his gut. Sucking in a sniff through his nose, he straightens. “My ex-fiancée. Her favorite color is pink,” he explains.

That sure doesn’t sound like a man reveling in the cast-off shackles of a doomed marriage. More like a man who only has Scotch tape to hold himself together.

Seeming to snap himself out of it, he puckers his lips into his usual smirk. “She is not here. But I am glad you are.”

Forcing my lips into a tight smile, I start paddling again.

We’re close to the flamingoes now—maybe thirty feet away. Their cornstalk legs step through the shallow water, long necks bowed, while their curved, black-tipped beaks flutter over the surface.

Next to and a little in front of us, Walsh and Graeme’s kayak floats nearby. Walsh’s voice catches on the breeze. “Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

I swivel my head so fast my neck cricks. Perched on the edge of her seat, Walsh is so close to Graeme she’s practically sprawled across his back.

Leaning away from her, he extends his selfie stick toward the flamingoes. “Huh?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

With an arm curled over his shoulder, she whispers something in his ear. Carefully, I lean over the side of our kayak, listening for all I’m worth.

“What are you doing?” Nikolai asks.

“Um, trying to get a better view.” Sticking my oar into the water, I attempt to swirl it in such a way that we drift closer to Graeme and Walsh… but no dice. Each pump of the current takes us farther away. I set the oar across the kayak in front of my knees.

Graeme rotates to say something to Walsh. His eyes are as dark as an oceanic trench.