“Hello,” I say, trying not to stare at the scar. “I hope you enjoyed the Critter Chat.”
I’m used to making niceties with the occasional donor who stops by for a behind-the-scenes tour with Phil. But instead of the awe-struck expression, most people wear when they’re up close and personal with gorillas, his lips are curled into the deep frown of someone who just stepped in dog shit.
His gaze shifts from Phil to me, and I force myself to look into his hazel eyes instead of at his eyebrow.
“I’d hardly call a gorilla a critter,” he says in a deep voice.
His words bear the trace of an accent, but I can’t quite place what it is, and his gruff tone catches me off guard. I glance sideways at Phil, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on any tension.
I shrug. Critter is probably a better term for a pygmy slow loris than a great ape, but I don’t name the programs.
“Well,” I say, “I hope you found the talk informative. Education is a big part of what we do here at the zoo.”
Phil beams, and I award myself a mental brownie point. Take that, Jack and Lottie.
The bearded man says nothing in response. Phil glances from me to the sour-faced guy and clasps his hands together, and I start to wonder if he called me over to help him escape from this dreadful conversation.
I should get double brownie points for that.
“So, Phil,” I say, giving him a meaningful look. “When you’re done here, I wanted to talk about Ozzie’s birthday cake. He didn’t like the pumpkin puree frosting last year, so I was thinking we could try strawberry this time.”
Before Phil can respond, the grumpy man turns toward me again. “You were wrong, you know.”
He watches me with a steady gaze, and I blink at him in confusion. What the hell’s he talking about? Wrong about what? I wasn’t wrong about any of the facts I laid out during the Critter Chat. I know more about these gorillas than anyone, except for maybe Phil. I spend upward of sixty hours a week tending to them and researching every possible method for improving their care. I miss family dinners and nights out with friends because my work with the gorillas always comes first. I love it. I love them.
And I know my shit.
“Wrong about what?” I ask. I manage to keep my tone calm, even though I want nothing more than to reach out and yank his stupid beard. I’ve dealt with enough mansplainers who think watching a single documentary on Animal Planet makes them a zoologist.
He nods toward the spot where I stood to lead the Critter Chat. “You said the locals called Dr. Kimber Nyiramacibiri. ‘The woman who lives alone in the forest.’ They didn’t.”
It takes real effort to keep disdain from crossing my features. My cheeks have a tendency to go fire-engine red when I’m annoyed, and I don’t want to give this guy an inch. I force myself to take a deep inhale and think about enchiladas.
“I’m not wrong.” I’ve read Majesty on the Mountain at least twenty times and watched the movie way more than that. I know everything there is to know about Dr. Kimber, down to her favorite color (green) and what she liked to cook for dinner in her tiny mountain hut (jasmine rice). While other kids my age collected Beanie Babies and played Nintendo 64, I sent my Barbies on gorilla-tracking expeditions and had fake conversations with Dr. Kimber in my head.
So Mr. Eyebrow Scar can take his know-it-all attitude and his stupid beard and shove it. Hard.
“You are wrong,” he insists, running a hand through his thick waves of hair. If I didn’t loathe this dude so much, I’d ask him what conditioner he uses.
Instead, I run my fingers over the zoo badge on my waistband, as if to remind myself that I’m the one in charge here. Technically, Phil’s the one in charge, but I refuse to be condescended to in front of my boss by a mid-thirties manbaby who never learned to double-check his facts. Especially when I’m gunning for a promotion.
“I’m not, actually,” I reply. “And I’m one hundred and ten percent confident in that.” I lift my chin slightly, trying to look as proud and noble as Rock the gorilla statue.
He raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to respond, but a chiming noise stops him. While he grabs his smartphone from his pocket and presses it to his ear, I glance sideways at Phil to see if he’s picking up on the serious douchecanoe vibes. But Phil just smiles at the dude like he’s the second coming of Jane Goodall.
Whoever this asshole donor is, he must be worth a lot of money. “I’ve gotta give someone a lift from the airport,” he says to Phil after the call ends. “We’ll talk more next week.”
“Looking forward to it.” Phil sounds almost breathless with excitement, as if this guy just handed him fifty-yard-line tickets to the Super Bowl.
I glance from a radiant Phil to the surly bearded man and back to my boss. What in the world am I missing here?
The man turns to leave, but before he reaches the walkway toward the main zoo path, he pauses. He turns back to give me a curt nod, as if he’s remembered to at least act like someone who has manners.
I don’t nod back. Instead, I fix him with a steely glare. Because I’m not wrong.
After a moment, perhaps when he realizes I’m not going to back down, he turns away. I breathe a sigh of relief and utter a silent prayer that he trips on his way out.
“What a jerk, huh?” I ask when he’s out of earshot.
Phil, still staring after the man like he’s about to walk on water, doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Can you believe it?” he asks. “Kai freaking Bridges! It’s going to be quite a summer, Lucy.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “What did you say?”
Phil grins at me. “That was Kai Bridges. He stopped by to get a feel for the zoo before production starts next week. Sorry I didn’t give you a proper introduction.”
I’m so surprised that I take a step sideways, as if to regain my balance. “What?”
That was Kai Bridges, son of my all-time, number one, I’d-die- to-meet-her idol? That’s the guy whose wildlife programs have won three Emmys? That’s the guy whose docuseries about our zoo is supposed to make the world fall in love with Ozzie and his troop?
What. The. Hell. The on-screen Kai Bridges is a chipper, clean-shaven adventurer who’s always saying “Wowza!” and flashing a trademark toothy grin. The on-screen Kai has a strong South African accent and isn’t a major asshole.
“Where’s his accent?” I ask Phil. “Why’s he look like he hasn’t shaved in a month?” Why is the incredible Dr. Kimber’s son a total, colossal jerk?
Phil shrugs. “I’m sure he presents himself differently for the show. I met Lady Gaga in an elevator once, and she looked really different than she does in her music videos.”
I’m surprised that my boss is familiar with Lady Gaga’s videos, but not as surprised as I am by the man I just met. Minutes ago, I was beyond excited for Wild Side to start filming. Over the past month, I’ve put together spreadsheet upon spreadsheet of data and created a seventy-slide PowerPoint to help the production crew get acquainted with each of our gorillas.
But the man I just met doesn’t seem like a PowerPoint kind of guy. He seems like a cocky, ignorant mansplainer who tried to embarrass me in front of my boss and doesn’t know basic facts about his own mother. And there’s no way I can trust him to capture the magnificence of the gorillas I love so dearly.
Excerpted from LUCY ON THE WILD SIDE by Kerry Rea published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2022
