11. Chapter 11
Mila
By five-thirty the heat has relaxed its grip on Friendly and the whole world smells like sunscreen and saltwater and hamburgers sizzling on grills. I’m bouncing on my toes at the marina like a kid on field trip day, trying not to grin at absolutely nothing.
“Evening, Turtle Lady,” Jared calls, strolling down the dock with a cooler in one hand and a pair of red-lensed headlamps in the other. “Brought snacks, lights, and my very professional can-do attitude.”
I eye the cooler. “Your can-do attitude had better include Pete’s lemon bars.”
He taps the lid. “Have I ever let you down?”
No. No, you have not.
We launch into water that looks like hammered copper, the sky doing that show-offy summer thing where it layers peaches and roses and a little lavender for flair. Pelicans fly overhead in a line, and I wonder if they’re carrying fish in their giant beaks.
At the island, we drag the kayaks up above the tideline. Waves hush and hurry, hush and hurry, like the ocean can’t decide whether to shoo us away or pull us closer.
“Okay,” I say, businesslike because if I’m not businesslike I will get distracted by Jared’s lips and forget why we’re here. “Nest 9 has shown surface disturbance for two days. The top crust is looser, there’s a central depression, and—”
“And the baby turtles are revving their tiny engines,” he says solemnly.
“Exactly.” I strap on a red-lensed headlamp. “Lights low. No white flashlights, no phone flash. We keep our distance, and let nature do its spectacular thing.”
He clips his lamp around his forehead and gives me a tiny mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
We settle a good twelve feet back on the damp sand like polite audience members. Dune grass rustles behind us. The air hums with insects and possibility.
Jared cracks the cooler. “Carbo-loading,” he says, handing me a lemon bar. “For stamina.”
“For stamina,” I agree, and take a bite. Tart sugar and butter melt on my tongue, and for a second I consider adding “Pete’s secret recipe” to the Methods section of my report.
We eat and watch the world dim. The horizon turns indigo. Stars prick on one by one. The red glow from our headlamps paints everything the color of cozy campfire stories.
And then I see it. The sand over the nest shivers.
“Movement,” I whisper.
The depression quivers again, like a pot about to simmer. Jared leans forward, careful to keep his shadow from the nest. “Is this it?”
“This is it.”
Time stretches into a thin golden string. The nest sinks, lifts, sinks again. The top breaks and a tiny, flippered creature appears, impossibly small and stubborn. My chest aches with the ridiculous bravery of it.
“Oh, hello, little dude,” Jared breathes.
One hatchling becomes two; two becomes four; four becomes a ripple of miniature helmets nosing up through the sand. The surface collapses and suddenly the whole thing is a wriggling mass of baby turtles.
“Take your time,” I murmur, even though they absolutely will not. Because they’re turtles. Because instinct is a drumbeat. Because the sea is calling and who are we to argue.
They organize themselves—if you can call the chaos “organized”—and surge toward the dark glitter of the water.
Jared and I stand and move, slow and wide, guarding without guiding.
We shoo gently at a ghost crab that tries to audition for Villain of the Week.
The wind lifts Jared’s shirt and I catch a glimpse of his muscular abs.
The sight is almost as miraculous as the hatchlings emerging from the sand. Almost, but not quite.
“How do they always know where to go?” he asks.
“They read the world like a map,” I whisper. “Moonlight and the brightest horizon. Natural cues. So, it’s important to do our best to keep the beach dark so the brightest thing is the ocean.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Jared says softly. “You’re the brightest thing on the beach. As dazzling as a star.”
Dangerous, how soft my insides go. I focus on the turtles before I do something undignified, like swoon into a dune.
Wave by wave, the hatchlings hit the shallow wash, tumble, pop up, paddle with fierce determination. Every single one gets a whispered pep talk from me. I am not ashamed.
“You’re very motivating,” Jared says. “Have you considered a side hustle as a life coach?”
“I’ll make business cards. ‘Mila Aronson, PhD: Go, Little Dude.’”
We both laugh, then fall quiet as the last cluster reaches the lip of the ocean and disappears, swallowed into that vast, shining dark. My throat tightens with emotion. Good luck, little ones.
We stand there a minute more, letting the sound of the waves fill in all the places words would be clumsy. When I finally turn, Jared is already watching me, the red lamp turning his eyes the color of warm embers.
“That was…” He exhales. “I don’t have a better word than perfect .”
“ Perfect works,” I say. “Scientific term.”
He steps closer, and the world shrinks to the space between us.
He holds out his arms and I step into them.
His arms encircle me in a strong, careful, full-body hug that says good job and I’m here and I care about you .
I tuck my face against his shoulder and breathe in salt and soap and the faintest scent of lemon.
When he lets me go, he doesn’t step far. “I can’t imagine not sharing this with you,” he says, quiet and simple. “I really don’t want you to leave, Mila. Not ever.”
My heart trips over itself in the sand. “I’ve been thinking,” I admit, words cautious and bright as fresh hatchlings. “About making Friendly my home base. I have no choice but to travel for work. I have to go where the funding takes me. But I can always come back.” To Friendly. To Jared.
He’s already nodding, that sunrise-smile unfolding. “We can work with that.”