8. Chapter 8
Jared
I should have checked the weather radar. That's the first rule of taking someone out on the water, and I've been doing this long enough to know better.
But I was distracted by the way Mila looked this morning with her hair pulled back in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, completely absorbed in her work like the rest of the world had faded away.
So instead of checking the forecast like a responsible guide, I spent my time watching her measure turtle tracks and trying not to stare too obviously at the little frown of concentration she gets when she's taking notes.
Now, one glance at the slate-gray clouds rolling in over the marsh tells me we're about to get soaked. The breeze has shifted from warm and lazy to cool and urgent in the space of ten minutes, whipping across the dunes with the kind of intensity that makes every cell in my body go on high alert.
Mila is fifty yards down the beach, crouched beside a nest with her clipboard and measuring pole, completely absorbed in documenting some kind of sand disturbance pattern.
She's biting her lower lip in concentration, hair escaping from her bun and dancing in the increasing wind, utterly unaware that a popup storm is rolling in.
"Hey!" I call, waving both arms and pointing toward the horizon where the clouds are roiling now. "We might want to think about packing up!"
She straightens and shades her eyes with one hand, following my gaze to the churning mass of clouds bearing down on us. Her frown deepens as she takes in the darkening sky.
"How long do you think we have?" she shouts back.
As if the universe wants to answer her question personally, the wind kicks up hard enough to send sand skittering across the dunes and tug at our clothes. The air pressure drops so fast I feel it in my ears. Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, low and ominous.
"Not long enough!" I yell, already jogging toward her. "Let's get to shelter!"
We abandon the kayaks—they're far enough away from the surf to be safe, and getting struck by lightning isn't worth worrying about watercraft—and sprint for the old fishing shack tucked into the tree line.
It's not much more than a weathered lean-to with a tin roof and walls that have seen better decades, but it's the only structure on this part of the island.
The door groans in protest when I shoulder it open, hinges rusted from years of salty air and neglect. But it swings wide as the first fat raindrops hit the sand behind us.
We tumble inside just as the sky opens up.
The sound is incredible. Rain hammers the tin roof like bullets, wind screams through the trees, and thunder cracks directly overhead with enough volume to make our bones rattle.
Mila pushes her hair back from her face and surveys our makeshift shelter. She raises her voice over the percussion of rain on metal to shout, “Do you think this is safe?”
The shack is maybe ten feet square, walls lined with ancient fishing nets and rusted hooks that look like they haven't seen action since the Clinton administration.
The floorboards creak ominously under our weight, and there's a stack of crab traps in one corner that appear to be held together by nothing but hope and a prayer.
Is it safe? Um… probably not. But it’s safer than being outside.
“I doubt it’s up to code,” I joke, trying to ease the tension. My words have the opposite effect, and all the color drains from Mila’s face.
Crap.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I add quickly. “It’s stood the test of time and weathered many storms. It’s not going anywhere.” To my relief, the color returns to her face.
I slide down to sit on a weather-beaten bench against the far wall, careful not to disturb what looks like a tangle of fishing line that's probably older than both of us. The bench groans but holds.
Mila sits beside me, knees drawn up, shoulder just barely brushing mine. Close enough that I can smell the salt spray in her hair and catch the faint coconut scent of her sunscreen. She digs into her waterproof pack and pulls out a granola bar.
"Emergency rations?" she offers, breaking it neatly in half.
"Only if you're willing to share with a humble kayak guide."
She hands me half with a grin. "To surviving impromptu weather events."
"Cheers." We clink our granola bar halves together in a toast, laughing.
Outside, the storm unleashes everything it's got. Rain drums against the tin roof in a frantic rhythm and thunder crashes close enough to make the walls shake. But inside our little shelter, it's strangely peaceful. Just the two of us and the ambient chaos of a Georgia summer storm.
Mila laughs. “This reminds me of a time I sheltered from a storm with Houdini. Remember him? That big orange cat and I huddled together beneath the boardwalk to escape the rain.”
“He’s a lot less adventurous these days,” I say, smiling.
Mila's eyes light up. "He's still around? The escape artist extraordinaire? He has to be pushing twenty by now!"
I chuckle. In his youth, Houdini was such a troublemaker that there were town meetings about the cat.
"Still kicking, though he's slowed down considerably in his old age. No more great escapes. No more roaming all over town. He’s officially retired from his life of crime and lives with Uncle Tuck, Margo, and their kids. They spoil him rotten.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the small space with warmth. "That cat used to drive me absolutely crazy. I'd spend twenty minutes setting up a perfect tide pool observation, and he'd appear out of nowhere and stick his paw in the water to swipe a minnow."
"Sounds like Houdini. He's always had impeccable timing for chaos."
We fall quiet again, listening to the storm rage outside. It's not uncomfortable silence—just charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
"I used to love watching storms like this from the attic window in our old house," she says softly, staring at the rain streaming down the single grimy window. "Mandy would hide in her room with her headphones on, but I thought they were incredible. All that energy and power…” Her voice trails off.
"That’s the scientist in you.”
She snorts. " Scientist is a nice way to put it. I was the weird kid with the magnifying glass and the tide pool identification journal. The sister who noticed things. Mandy was the sister who got noticed.”
I think about her words. Were they true?
She was younger than me, so I never saw her in a romantic way back then. But I did notice her.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say. “You were brave.
Curious. You always wandered farther down the beach than the other kids.
You'd disappear for hours, exploring. I remember one time when there was a shark in the surf.
Everyone else ran away. You stood as close to the water as you could to watch it. " I pause, remembering. "I noticed."
She turns her head, eyes locking on mine with something like surprise. “I can’t believe you remember all that.”
I shrug. “Like I said, I noticed.”
The thunder outside rumbles again, closer now, and the moment stretches between us like a taut string.
I want to kiss her.
The thought hits me with startling clarity. I'm looking at her mouth, at the way she's unconsciously leaning slightly toward me, and the urge is so strong it surprises me with its intensity.
Would she kiss me back?
“Mila…”
She clears her throat. “Mandy is still in France. She…”
“I don’t want to talk about Mandy,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice.
“Why not?”
“I have nothing against your sister. I’m friends with her on social media, so I know she’s still in France. I’m happy she’s happy, but beyond that...” I shrug.
Mila exhales slowly, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Did I say the wrong thing?
I struggle to find the right words. “Mandy is a part of my past . I want to just be in the present right now. Here, with you. Can we just… be ?”
For a moment, I think I’ve made things even worse, but then Mila nods, visibly relaxing.
We sit like that for a long while, sharing space and silence and something that feels like the beginning of understanding.
The storm gradually loses its fury, rain gentling from torrential to steady to intermittent.
When it finally passes enough for us to venture outside, I find myself wishing it would last just a little bit longer.
Because something almost happened in this fishing shack. Something that felt like a door opening.
And I'm not quite ready to walk back into the regular world just yet.