3. Chapter 3
Jared
I'm awake at five AM, which is really annoying since my alarm isn't set to go off until six.
But I've been lying here staring at the ceiling since somewhere around four-thirty, thinking about today's trip to the barrier island and the fact that I'm about to spend several uninterrupted hours in a kayak with Dr. Mila Aronson.
Professional collaboration , I keep telling myself as I load gear into my truck.
Turtle research. Scientific data collection.
Completely platonic assistance with marine biology fieldwork that definitely has nothing to do with the way she laughed at Pete's yesterday or how she looked in that sundress.
Right.
The marina's quiet when I arrive, wrapped in the kind of pre-dawn hush that makes you want to whisper. The only sounds are water lapping against the dock pilings and a distant shrimp boat heading out for the day. The air smells like sand and salt, familiar as breathing.
Man, I love that smell.
I'm securing the last strap around the kayaks when I hear footsteps on the dock, quick, confident ones that announce their owner before I even turn around.
Mila strides down the weathered planks like she owns the place, carrying what appears to be half a marine research lab: a waterproof backpack that looks serious enough for Arctic expeditions, a clipboard in a protective sleeve, a telescoping measuring pole, and a mesh bag that I'm pretty sure contains enough snacks to survive a week lost at sea.
Her sun hat is the kind they sell with UPF ratings and chin straps, comically oversized yet utterly practical, and somehow, she makes it look like designer beachwear.
"Morning," she calls, flashing a smile that makes my brain short circuit.
"Morning," I manage.
She surveys the gear spread across the dock. "You sure you brought enough equipment there, Captain?"
I glance down at the two kayaks, paddle bag, safety kit, cooler, and dry bags. "This is traveling light for me, actually." I gesture to her things. “But you’re one to talk.”
She shifts the mesh bag higher on her shoulder. "Always prepared—it was the Girl Scout motto."
"You were a Scout?"
"No,” she admits. “But I had a complete field research kit while other girls scribbled in diaries. So, I understand the sentiment."
That makes me laugh, and some of the nervous tension in my shoulders eases. This is good. We can do casual banter. I'm excellent at casual banter.
"You eat anything this morning?" I ask, gesturing toward her substantial but apparently snack-focused provisions.
"I had cream in my coffee," she says with a shrug. “I’m not really a breakfast person.”
"You need the fuel," I say, reaching into my cooler to pull out one of Pete's foil-wrapped breakfast biscuits, still warm from my pre-dawn café run. "Kayaking takes a lot of energy."
Her whole face lights up like I just offered her a research grant. "It’s been ages since I’ve had a good Southern biscuit. You're officially my favorite person.”
I know she’s just excited about the biscuit, but I can’t help but turn her words over again and again in my mind. Favorite person. Favorite person.
Why do I want so badly for her words to be true?
We sit side by side on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the dark water, while we eat.
The biscuit is perfect. Flaky, buttery, stuffed with scrambled eggs, ham, and cheese that melts in just the right proportions.
A gentle breeze stirs the marsh grass behind us, and the shore birds begin their hunt for their own breakfasts.
Mila takes a bite and makes a sound of pure appreciation. "Okay, you win. This might actually be the best breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had."
We eat in comfortable silence, watching the sky lighten from deep purple to soft pink. Mila leans back on her palms and exhales slowly, like she's been holding her breath for years and just now remembered how to let it out.
"It's so beautiful here," she says quietly, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first hint of sunrise is starting to paint the water gold. “I’ve missed it.”
"Yeah." I nod, following her gaze. "Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live in Friendly. It's easy to take it for granted when you see it every day."
"I know what you mean, but we can’t afford to take it for granted.
" She turns to look at me, and there's something fierce in her expression.
"Places like this are disappearing faster than we can protect them.
Every year, more shoreline gets swallowed by development or washed away by storms or choked by pollution.
What we have here—" She gestures toward the untouched marsh, the pristine water, the undeveloped coastline "—it matters. It’s important. We have to protect it.”
She says it with such conviction that I feel it like a physical weight settling on my chest. Like this place isn't just where I happen to live—it's something I've been entrusted to protect.
“Do you remember Hank Heron?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’d forgotten he was called that, but yes, I remember. He was always trying to steal a meal from the local fishermen.”
I nod. “My dad and I started the Hank Heron Foundation years ago to protect Hank, and all the other shore birds. The community has rallied behind us. For the most part, the people of Friendly really do try to protect what we have here.”
She looks at me with a gleam in her eye. “Ever consider expanding your mission to include the protection of turtles?”
“I’ll get right on it.” A smile dances on my lips. "I'm glad you came back," I say before I can stop myself.
Her expression shifts, surprise flickering across her features before she smiles, soft and a little guarded, like she's not sure what to do with the compliment.
"Me too," she admits. "Even if I'm not entirely sure how long I'll stay."
Something tightens in my chest at that, but I push it aside. She's here now. That's what matters.
We pack up the breakfast debris and launch the kayaks, moving with the easy coordination of two people who've spent time on the water. The morning is mirror-calm, perfect for paddling, with sunlight beginning to scatter diamonds across the gentle swells.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm, paddles dipping and pulling in sync, the silence companionable rather than awkward.
"So," I say after we've been paddling for about fifteen minutes, "do you kayak a lot for work?”
"Mostly just for fun," she says, adjusting her grip on the paddle. "I did do a Mangrove inlet study in Florida a few years ago in a kayak. I saw a manatee surface right next to me and got so excited trying to take a picture that I capsized."
I chuckle, imagining her soaked and sputtering but probably still trying to photograph the manatee. "Let's do our best to stay dry today.”
"Deal. Though I make no promises if we encounter any particularly photogenic marine animals."
We slide back into comfortable silence as the barrier island grows larger ahead of us. The water is so clear I can see grass beds and the occasional fish darting through the shallows.
Then, without warning, she asks, "So... have you talked to Mandy lately?"
The question hits like a cold wave.
My paddle hesitates mid-stroke, and I can feel the shift in momentum as my kayak loses its rhythm.
"Not in a long time," I say finally, eyes fixed on the island ahead of us. Not since we broke up in college.
She nods and doesn't press, which I appreciate. But I can feel something change in the air between us. It’s a subtle shift, like when the wind changes direction and you know a storm is coming.
For the first time since we launched, the silence feels loaded instead of comfortable.
And I find myself wishing the paddle to the island was just a little bit longer, so we could go back to talking about manatees and breakfast biscuits instead of whatever complicated history that question just dragged to the surface.