32 Days in May

2

He runs his thumb over the letter embossed on the camera’s leather case, and I feel a pang of excitement deep in my stomach.

Marco’s been monologizing about his camera this entire time. “. . . and then he told me it was actually manufactured in East Germany. It says it right here on the bottom, but I also have a certificate . . .”

I can do this.

It takes fifteen minutes for me to convince Marco he really does not want me there for his haircut. I just keep shouting, “I’m too judgmental! I’m too persuasive!” while he shouts back, “Who cares!”

We compromise, in the end. I sit in the waiting area reading the Cape May Gazette while a middle-aged man in very pointy shoes guides Marco behind a frosted-glass wall where I can distantly hear a symphony of blow-dryers whirling.

The cover stories are a recap of the Miss Teen Waves competition and an op-ed about the environmental impacts of rabid gopher extractions. It takes an entire paragraph for me to realize that one story has ended and the other has begun.

Twenty minutes later, Marco rounds the corner, smoothing a hand self-consciously over the freshly close-cropped sides of his new ’do. I let the newspaper fall to my lap.

I don’t know much about men, but I do know that there are three acceptable haircuts, two unsightly, and then there is one haircut that makes anyone attracted to men go absolutely feral. Shorter on the sides, longer on top. Long enough that it requires constant smoothing, but not so long that it could get caught on a ceiling fan or sucked into a jet engine.

This is the haircut Marco has.

Now I can really see his face, no heavy flocks of hair or a baseball hat brim in the way. Marco’s forehead is perfectly square, his eyebrows thick and placed precisely on the ridge of his brow bone, which would otherwise make him look concerned or perplexed if his eyes weren’t so warm, dark, and liquid, surrounded by faint smile lines. Without the hat and hair, I can see now the articulated angle of his jaw and the way his mouth permanently pulls to the side, like he’s chewing his cheek or getting ready to laugh.

The older gentleman and Marco shake hands mightily, then he turns to face me, holds out his arms, and says: “So?”

The newspaper falls from my lap to the floor. I clear my throat. “Well, it’s no Jonathan Taylor Thomas . . . but still . . . you look . . .”

Marco bites back a laugh. “Great?”

“Yes,” I manage. “You look great.”

He turns to face the beveled-edge mirror hanging in the waiting area, pulling a hand down his neck, kneading at his skin. Jesus. “My neck’s cold.”

I pick up the newspaper, dragging my eyes away from him. “And your head feels lighter, right?”

“Yeah. It’s fucking weird.” He squints at his reflection while craning his neck left and right. I stand and cross the tiny waiting area to stand behind him. His hair is an otherworldly shade of black and without the extra weight, it falls into perfect S-shaped waves. “I think I miss my mullet.”

I let out a sudden bark of laughter, tossing my head back. I think I startle Marco—I definitely startle myself. I haven’t laughed that loud in months. “I think you’ll adjust,” I assure him.

His eyes are fixed on mine through our reflection, a smile on his lips. It’s a very Eyes Wide Shut sort of intimacy, to meet someone’s gaze through a mirror.

I’m wearing my bucket hat again, the brim curled upward, curls flattened to my forehead, coiling around my ears. I cringe internally at the sight of my body. I’ve always been a curvy girl but now my hips pull at the fabric of my short-sleeved green sundress more than they would have six months ago. Marco doesn’t seem to mind, if the way his gaze is straying is any indication.

I yank nervously at the cardigan tied around my waist. “Come on, the boat leaves in forty minutes and I don’t want to miss out on any of the freebies.”

He pivots on his heels, turning to face me as he reaches for my hand, pulling it away from my waist, his fingers grazing the soft inside of my wrist. “You look really nice today.”

I take a half step back, my voice trapped in my throat. “Oh—”

He laughs softly. “Am I making you nervous? It’s just a compliment. That’s what boyfriends are supposed to do, right?”

“Yeah.” Holy shit. “I guess,” I choke out.

“I was really in my head before, otherwise I would have said something sooner.”

He’s watching me, waiting for me to say something. I can’t look at him, can’t handle the weight of his eyes, which matches his words. A double dose of sincerity. You don’t mean that, I want to say, defaulting to my factory setting: self-deprecating, evasive.

But I’m starting to get Marco. He means everything he says whether I like it or not. He’s completely honest, and right now, that’s a good thing. Maybe one day I’ll wish he wasn’t so forthcoming. Maybe one day he’ll realize how good I am at hiding.

The whale watching ferry leaves from the private dock behind Barney’s Sea Shack at 4:30 p.m. on the dot, no exceptions. Passengers are welcome to join Barney and his brother, Captain Bill, for an unlimited buffet of hot dogs, pizza, crab cakes, soft drinks, light beer, and ice cream inside the family-owned Irish pub before boarding Bill’s watercraft and heading out into open waters.

One might wonder why Barney is giving away so much free food. One might even question the quality of such copious amounts of decadent treats. One might even begin to consider that perhaps Barney has a sick, nasty fetish for bodily fluids.

“I didn’t eat meat for like, eight years,” I say between bites of a perfectly charred hot dog. Marco and I are sitting on a bench on the dock, away from the indoor cacophony of our sea-mates getting lightly blitzed in anticipation of meeting Moby Dick.

Marco practically ran outside when he saw the volume of alcohol being handed out willy-nilly inside the pub, and, not to be outdone, I was hot on his heels, hot dog in tow.

“First time I ate a hot dog, I got a massive migraine.”

Marco nods, expertly shoving half a crab cake sandwich into his mouth. “Had to go vegan for season five because they kept wanting me to take my shirt off for all these like, waterfall scenes.” He rolls his eyes.

“Waterfall scenes? What did that have to do with the plot?”

“Bold of you to assume there was any plot at that point.”

I’m laughing through bites of my dog. “So, what happened when you were a vegan?”

“Every time I cheated and ate cheese or ice cream, I’d have these crazy dreams. Like seriously fucked-up, prophetic shit. It scared the shit out of me.”

“And your solution was to just start eating meat again?”

“I was desperate! It only happened to me when I was a cheating vegan, not when I was a regular carnivore. I had to set the universe right.”

I pull back at how serious he sounds. The man is clearly traumatized. “What the hell did you dream?”

Marco considers telling me very carefully. He narrows his eyes at me and freezes, sandwich hanging limply midair, mouth open. Then, he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. “Nah, another time. Too bleak.”

Barney gets on his PA system and gives us a five-minute warning for departure and welcomes us to start boarding the Miss Teak Skye. I’m hell-bent on getting good seats right at the bow of the boat, so I force Marco to trash his final hot dog. We’re in line, waiting to step off the dock and onto the ramp, when I hear a small voice behind me.

“Miss? Miss, excuse me?”

When I turn around, I realize I have to look down in order to make eye contact with the source of the nervous, thin voice: a five-foot-nothing, extremely pregnant woman clutching the hand of a little boy with messy chestnut hair. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your date, but I . . .” Her eyes wander over to Miss Teak Skye, terror bubbling up in her expression as the boat bobs willy-nilly in the reflection of her eyes. “I was supposed to take my son—Emmett, say hi—on the sunset cruise, but I just don’t think I can do it. The doctor said I’m one speed bump away from going into labor and my husband is away for work and this thing is like . . . like, fifty speed bumps.”

“Oh, wow, I—” I start to respond, but the little boy with the chocolate-rimmed mouth interrupts.

“Mommy.” He grips her forearm, pressing his tiny, chocolate-lined lips against her skin. “Mommy, no. You promised we could go.”

She gives him a taut, pained look before making the most intense eye contact I’ve ever experienced. “If I get on that boat, I will go into labor. Could you take him for me? Please? It would be such an enormous help a-and you look so kind and normal. I know it’s a long ride—I can pay you! He’s seven a-and barely uses the bathroom. He’s a really good kid—”

“Mommy.” Emmett’s in a full-tilt panic now. He’s seven, but he’s not stupid. “I don’t know her.” Such a valid point.

“Of course,” I say, hoping to temper the sudden swell of anxiety rolling off both of them. Marco’s lingering at the edge of the ramp, hands in his pockets as he shuffles from foot to foot, eyes averted. Now that I know his triggers, I can feel his anxiety around being recognized. It has a palpable electricity to it. His entire body seemingly buzzes and a part of him sinks away, but I don’t want this woman to be surprised to find out she isn’t just handing her son over to a pleasant-looking woman in a bucket hat. She’s handing her son over to a pleasant-looking woman in a bucket hat and a minor celebrity. “You don’t have to pay us.” I jab a thumb at Marco. “I’m with my friend. We’ve totally got this. Stay here and sit. Please.”

“Oh.” The woman’s big brown eyes flutter shut in relief. She presses a hand to her enormous stomach. “Thank you so much.”

“But Mommy.” Emmett’s on the verge of tears. “I don’t wanna go alone!”

“Not alone, sweetie.” She leans down as best she can to meet his eyes. “With a new friend.”

“Hey, we’re gonna have fun,” I say, moving into a half squat to also meet Emmett’s eyes. But he refuses to be so easily convinced—and rightfully so. He buries most of his face into his mother’s long hair. I try again. “Do you know the names of all the original Pokémon?”

Suddenly, Emmett gives me a deathly skeptical look, peeling his face away from his mother’s side. “Kind of.”

“Really? Maybe you can teach me. I always forget at least fifty.”

His eyes dart back and forth between me and his mother. She gives him an encouraging pat on the head, and finally he detaches from her, like an octopus from the side of a ship.

“Maybe,” he whispers from behind a hand, the majority of which is now lost in his nose.

“Cool.” I reach for his unoccupied hand. “Come on, let’s see if we can spot any Magikarp from the boat.”

Emmett’s mom and I exchange phone numbers, and I promise her repeatedly that she can call at any moment, for any reason, guilt-free. She doubts herself for one nanosecond, but I assure her I’m not a serial killer or a kidnapper by letting her scroll through my Instagram feed, which is functionally a promotional page for the produce stand. Lots of pictures of me in my work boots with cartons of peaches. It’s humiliating, but it does the trick.

We board Miss Teak Skye and from the deck, we wave at Emmett’s mom the entire time passengers load on. Marco makes a beeline for the bow of the boat, securing an area exactly where the helm comes to a point. When Emmett and I finally make our way over, as the ferry pulls away, Marco is watching me with an eyebrow cocked.

“I saw that kid absolutely destroying an ice cream sundae,” he whispers, leaning close to me when I settle onto the bench beside him.

“Hush,” I hiss, tossing my tote bag into his lap. “His name is Emmett, and he’s a very good listener.”

“Just saying. When we hit a rough patch, you’re in the direct line of fire.”

I glare at him. “Says the man who ate a crab cake, an ear of corn, and two hot dogs.”

“One and a half hot dogs.” He corrects me, looping one arm through the handles of my bag and bringing the other to rest behind Emmett and me on the railing. It’s a small and paternal gesture that leaves me feeling weirdly protected—as if Marco’s elbow could do anything to keep me from going overboard.

Miss Teak Skye gains speed as we pull away from the southernmost tip of New Jersey, heading out toward open water. Above us, the sky is a soft celestial blue, streaked with cotton candy clouds. It’s five and the sun is still warm underneath the ocean breeze, but neither is strong enough to leave us uncomfortable. As we pull away, Emmett twists around to watch the shoreline grow thinner and thinner, his mouth falling open in awe.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

He nods. “My mom loves dolphins. She has my baby brother in her tummy.”

I nod back. “Your mom’s very cool. I’ll make sure we take a lot of pictures of the dolphins. Right, Marco?”

Marco peeks around my shoulder. “Of course, pal.” He holds up his camera. “I’ll get the best picture I can.”

Once we make it far enough from shore, Captain Bill begins his one-man show. I don’t want to laugh, but he’s pretty good at delivering a litany of dad jokes—lots of I’m not the whale you’re supposed to be watching type of stuff. Marco’s fully chuffed, basically slapping his knee. This delights Emmett endlessly and he switches spots to be between us, so he can get an instant replay from Marco without having to lean over me. He’s entered that specific type of kid hysteria where words like chum bucket send him into a delirium of giggles. He’s so gassed by the end of Bill’s ten-minute set, we’re basically holding him down to keep him from breakdancing on the deck.

“Alright, folks. We’re coming up on our first big sighting of the evening. Usually around this time of day a pod of dolphins makes their way across the horizon. I ask that everyone stay seated as we are going to drop anchor and things can get pretty bumpy. Now, all I need is a little help from my crew—when I say heave, everybody shout ho! Ready? Heave!”

Everyone under the age of twelve is inebriated with joy, riding the free-sundae-bar sugar high, drunk on fresh ocean air. The first ho! is loud enough to split an eardrum and Emmett is nearly beside himself.

Marco, the world’s greatest hype man, has Emmett by the armpits and with each ho! he tosses him into the air.

Heave . . . ho!

Emmett is hysterical, doubling over with laughter.

“Catch your breath, bud,” I say, once Marco sets him down. “Maybe you can sit this next ho! out?”

Too slow. It’s already happening again.

Heave . . . ho!

Emmett throws himself across Marco’s lap, shrieking, “Again! Again!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I warn Marco, but I’m not loud enough—or fast enough.

“Here we go!” Marco sings, grabbing Emmett around the waist and hoisting him upward.

Heave . . .

But now, Emmett is turning green.

“Marco,” I warn him, urgency pushing my voice up an octave. “How about less swinging on the next one?”

“What?” Marco says through laughter. “He’s fine! He’s loving this.”

“He looks gray.”

“Heave!” Bill shouts, drunk with power.

But Emmett can’t get out the next ho! He’s standing statue-still, clutching a hand to his stomach, eyes tearing.

“I need . . . Mommy,” he manages.

“Buddy?” I reach for his arm, and he stumbles forward toward me, his face waxen.

With the swiftness of an Olympic hurler, Marco scoops Emmett up under the armpits once again, but this time he aims him at the ocean.

“HEAVE-HO!” Bill crescendos with the rest of the passengers on Miss Teak Skye, and in that exact moment an arc of milky vomit bucks free from Emmett’s mouth, cutting through the late-evening air. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s powerful. Majestic, even.

Everyone on the deck gasps.

I leap up, grabbing our jackets and my tote bag, and stand there, slack-jawed, at Marco’s side. There’s no way for me to help. There’s nothing I can do.

Thankfully, the wind’s on our side and Emmett’s spew cuts cleanly through the air as we all watch on in horror. Marco cringes and recoils, evading the rare, rogue vom droplet that’s flying backward.

While Emmett’s blasting vanilla ice cream and hot dog chunks into the ocean, Bill’s back to yukking it up over the intercom. Jesus, read the room, William. Isn’t that the number one rule of comedy?

Marco pulls Emmett back into his chest, turning him around into an embrace while I rush over and wrap the boy tightly in my cardigan and Marco’s flannel. My arms find their way around Marco’s shoulders as I rub Emmett’s back and promise him everything’s okay, that he’s okay, that we all just got a little too excited.

But the kid is traumatized. “I need my mommy,” he blubbers over and over, throwing his head back to the sky as snot streams down either side of his mouth. “I need her! Mommy! My nose burns.”

“Call his mom,” I order Marco, pulling my phone from my purse and shoving it into his chest while scooping Emmett out from his arms.

“Are you sure?” Marco has a faint sheen of sweat gathering on the fresh, clean edges of his new haircut. “What’s your passcode?”

“One, two, three—”

Nerves gone. He rolls his eyes. “I think I got it.”

Before I have time to panic about what the hell we may have gotten ourselves into, a flock of moms descends on us. Forget about the Green Berets, we need to think about militarizing moms. These ladies are on me in minutes with wet wipes, a teeny-tiny bottle of mouthwash, ice water, a cold compress, hand sanitizer, a ginger candy for Emmett to suck on once he’s stopped full-body sobbing. As I hold him steady in my lap, wrapped in my gray cardigan with a hive of mothers around us, I find myself drifting out of the chaos and staring at Marco. He’s on the other side of the deck, pacing back and forth, pulling anxiously at his bottom lip while he talks to Emmett’s mom on the phone. I can hear him, faintly.

“They’re all taking good care of him. No, I promise. I promise. Hey, Jen. Listen.” Jen. I’m not sure how I hadn’t gotten her name before. He’s better at this stuff, isn’t he?

“You poor thing,” a blond woman with kind eyes and one million freckles says as she rubs my back gently, pulling my attention back. “Your little guy’s all worked up. You probably thought you were just having a nice afternoon at the beach!”

“Oh, no—he’s not—”

“Oh, Daddy’s back,” she announces suddenly, eyes doubling as they settle behind me. Who the fuck is Daddy?

“Hey, baby,” Marco interjects. Oh, got it. Marco’s Daddy and Emmett’s our son. Everyone on this boat is insane. The cabal of women around me parts immediately as Marco sits down beside me. “You okay? How about you, champ?” Emmett’s resting his head against my shoulder, no doubt with cartoonishly big tears in his doe eyes. Marco thumbs his button nose. Champ. Baby.

“My stomach hurt,” Emmett murmurs.

“It sure did, buddy. All you have to do now is keep an eye on the horizon for dolphins, okay?”

Emmett nods, sucking noisily at his special ginger candy.

The woman looks back and forth between Marco and me. She begins to mouth, Is he the guy from . . . ?

I shrug playfully. “Maybe,” I mouth back.

“Well.” The blond woman sighs loudly, looking at us with the most ooey-gooey, honey-covered, sickly sweet smile I’ve ever seen. “Ain’t that a good man? We’ll leave you three to your family time.”

Marco gets to his feet, as if she’s a guest in our home that needs to be walked out. “Thanks so much . . .”

“Katie,” she demurs. “I loved Dude’s Ranch, by the way,” she adds with a shyness I know Marco appreciates.

“Ah.” He smiles sheepishly, extracting a hand from his pocket to rest gently on her back as he expertly guides her away from us. “You’re too kind.”

I pivot Emmett and myself toward the ocean, letting Marco and the woman have their private conversation about the healing properties of Vinny Baldacco learning to ride a horse.

“Hey,” I whisper to Emmett. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?” he asks, mimicking my soft tone.

“Heave.”

“Heave who?” I wait a beat and then he lets out a stream of giggles. “That’s not a real joke.”

“You’re right. I made it up just for you.”

We’ve de-anchored, and we’re on the move. Bill’s promise to us is that we will see at least one dolphin, guaranteed. If not, we can come back tomorrow for another sunset cruise, on the house. We bob in place, in an uninterrupted stretch of blue identical to everywhere else we’ve been today, for a good forty minutes before Bill announces he has a foolproof spot. The subtext being: no way in hell am I hauling you all out again tomorrow night.

“Why the eff did you call me baby?” I demand as soon as Marco returns from the snack bar with two Diet Cokes and an apple juice.

He shrugs a shoulder, popping the tab on my drink before handing the can over. “You’re my girlfriend.”

My jaw tightens. “Why did I think I’d get a real answer out of you?”

He takes a noisy sip before crossing his foot over his knee, draping an arm over the boat ledge. “You’re easy to rile up.” I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, but I know he’s looking right at me. I can feel it, the way his eyes work over me. “I like it.”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “Am not. You just wanted to call me baby.”

He shrugs. “You’re right. I wanted to call you baby. I want to call you baby again, right now, actually.”

“Please don’t. This is all too wholesome. I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do it. Let’s see if you’re as cute as Emmett when you puke.”

I laugh. “No way. This’ll be some real Exorcist shit.”

“Hey, look—” Marco leans over to point and his arm finds its way around me and Emmett. He points out at the open, calm water. “Dolphin.”

“Oh my goodness. Emmett, look—” A pod of tails break through the surface, one after another, catching the late, low sun.

Emmett gasps and twists around in his seat to get a better view. He’s suddenly feeling agile and awake. “Dolphin,” he gasps. Pure joy.

I pull my phone out of my bag and begin snapping a thousand pictures of Emmett pointing and laughing and clapping, leaning backward to get the best angle. I’m leaning deeper and deeper into Marco’s chest but he doesn’t move. He keeps his arm idling around me, fingers resting on the metal rail. He’s laughing softly, chest vibrating against my back while I yell, “Smile!” over and over.

“Keep your phone still,” he chastises me, tone playful. “Can you take one that isn’t blurry?”

“I’m going for something avant-garde. Abstract. Dadaist.” I tilt the phone and snap a sideways picture of Emmett with the extra-long zoom on. Marco’s hand is in the corner, barely visible, and I catch myself thinking about how nice his fingernails are.

“Let me do it,” he says, engulfing me in his arms, hands coming over mine. His lips are right next to my ear now. His grip is firm without being forceful, and the smell of him—human and smoky, with a hint of something petal-soft—overwhelms me. I’m releasing my breaths slower, slipping microscopically into his embrace. “See,” he nearly purrs, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. “Hold. Steady.”

I wonder if the blond woman is watching us, and I wish I could see what she sees. I want to know how I look leaning backward into Marco’s chest, his chin resting against my shoulder. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen what I look like with someone’s arms around me, let alone someone like Marco. Someone who calls me baby and pops my Diet Coke open before handing it over. There’s a slickness in my stomach that drips down, snaking through my abdomen into my thighs. Something inside that’s foreign, long dormant, waking up.

Emmett suddenly tries to stand on the bench, gripping the railing with both hands. “Easy, buddy,” I say, lurching out of Marco’s arms as he also immediately adjusts his hand to steady Emmett, chin grazing my exposed shoulder.

Now I’m aware of how close we’ve been. How any micro-movement would make it so obvious how close we are, hurtling us head-first into self-awareness and then an acknowledgment that maybe we want to be this close. Or that Marco wants to be this close and I don’t have it in me to move away.

My skin goose-bumps and he must notice because I can hear him doing one of his little laughs. I ignore him, focusing all my attention on keeping Emmett from slipping between the railing and the ledge of the boat, soaking in the look on his face as he watches the pod before anyone else. Bill will get on his PA soon announcing the dolphins’ arrival and everyone will rush over, shrieking. We’ll be surrounded on all sides by bodies and noise.

But for right now, only we know about the dolphins.

After the raucous and highly successful dolphin sighting, Bill says we can finally head back to toward solid land. The sun is setting and the early-May warmth has evaporated, sending almost everyone inside the boat’s main cabin, a large room outfitted with old, moss-colored carpet and muck-crusted windows. Marco asks if I want to go inside, but I can’t imagine trading our perfect seats for anything, let alone a stuffy, noisy room.

Now the deck’s all ours. Emmett lies down on the bench, resting his head in my lap, and falls asleep tucked under my cardigan. I’m texting with Jen, sending her picture after picture of her son pointing at the dolphins. She’s apologizing profusely, no matter how much I reassure her that Emmett is actually an angel—the type of kid that tricks you into thinking you want your own.

I have to ask, she pivots.

Yes, I write back immediately, he is the guy from dude’s ranch

Omfg. I knew it!!!!! Vinny Baldacco!!!! Wait are you two dating???

I bite my lip to hide a treacherous little smile. It’s a long story.

Marco’s on the other side of the deck, staring out at the ocean. He’s put himself on whale watch duty for me. After Bill threw it in reverse, I’d made a small comment about how I’d really hoped we’d see at least a sliver of whale.

Marco had shrugged. “It’s not too late.” And then he planted himself across from me, staring out at the horizon. The wind is ruffling his hair, blowing it backward and sideways away from his face. Every once in a while, he raises the camera from around his neck and snaps a picture.

For now, yes, I say to Jen. I tuck my phone into my tote bag and rest my head on the metal railing, letting my eyes fall partially shut. I don’t want to miss a second of this calm, but I can feel the day catching up to me. Exhaustion seeping into my bones along with the happiness, making me feel heavy and drunk.

I blink my eyes open slowly and there’s Marco—standing in front of me, camera held to his eye as he maintains his balance with tensed legs.

“Don’t move,” he instructs me.

I groan. “Why?”

“Because there’s a whale right behind you.”

“Behind me?” I lift my head and he lets out a stream of eh, eh, ehs like I’m a dog.

“Almost got it.” The camera shutters once, twice. “Perfect. Quick, look now, before she’s gone.”

I turn just in time—just as a tail breaks through the water’s surface, bringing with it a burst of water. Elegant and enormous, big enough to produce a rainbow, sun rays catching and exploding from marigold into prismatic Technicolor. The air smells like summer. I press my forehead to the railing and watch the whale as she grows smaller and smaller, as we speed farther and farther away.

Marco drops down next me, so close I can feel the warmth of his chest, the flapping fabric of his T-shirt. His arm slips around me.

“Why whales?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve just always felt connected to them. They’re beautiful and powerful, but hunted—constantly in danger. You know how sometimes kids think all dogs are boys and all cats are girls? I think I’ve always felt like all whales are women.”

“All whales are women,” Marco repeats with a nod, pushing out his bottom lip, satisfied.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice soft. Knowing he’s there, I let my eyes fall shut, let myself sink deep into the moment. “All whales are women. Boats are also women. Stingrays are men.”

He lets out a soft laugh. Memories from today flicker through my mind. Marco lifting Emmett to see the ocean, Marco managing and handling Jen over the phone, keeping her calm. Marco popping the tab on my soda. It’s all too much to resist, isn’t it? And it’s nice to know sometimes you aren’t facing a crisis alone. That if you’re tired, you can lean on someone.

So, I lean back into his chest. Immediately, I feel Marco shift to welcome me, the rise and fall of his chest against my back. He doesn’t touch me; he lets me fall into him.

“Tired?” His voice is warm, gentle against my ear.

I nod, only a sliver of the ocean visible now through my closing eyes.

As I lie perfectly still, I feel his arms snake around me. I’ll let myself pretend, I think. Just for now. Just until we reach the shore.