Page 76 of Better than Yesterday
I mouthed“thank you,”and Harper nodded, settling into her seat with the air of a woman who’d learned to hold space for other people’s important moments. Eli gave me a thumbs up. Austin nodded and stared at me with steady, no-nonsense approval.
The room was a low roar of conversation—locals catching up, tourists who’d somehow heard about the meeting, council members shuffling through papers at the front table. The fluorescent lights caught the salt stains on the windows. My stomach twisted.
6:58.
I scanned the room one more time, cataloging faces. Lila was front and center. Brynn Mercer sat near the middle, her expression thoughtful.
Two minutes until the meeting started. Two minutes until?—
The back door opened.
He slipped in quietly, and for a moment I thought I’d imagined him. The fluorescent lighting caught his almost-blond hair as he moved to the back wall, settling into the space between two standing locals. He wore dress pants and a smart white shirt, like he’d chosen his outfit with care. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes scanned the room. Here, there, seemingly everywhere but at me. Finally, as if he couldn’t help it, his gaze found me.
Adrenaline tore through my system.
Braden was here.
I didn’t realize I’d gone rigid until Harper glanced upand gave me a sharp, assessing look. She tracked my gaze, found her brother, and then looked back at me with an expression that said,well, well, well.
I forced myself to look away. To breathe. To remember that this didn’t mean anything. He could be here for a dozen reasons. Family support. Community obligation. Morbid curiosity about the woman who’d destroyed his life.
Except I knew Braden well enough to know that wasn’t how he operated. If he was here, he’d made a choice. Plus, he was standing alone, not with his siblings.
The council chair called the meeting to order.
The first twenty minutes blurred past—administrative updates, budget approvals for other town projects, discussions about maintenance. I sat in the area reserved for presenters, my notes in my lap, listening with half my attention while the other half kept track of Braden. I could feel him at the back of the room the way you feel heat from a fire even when your back is turned—a low-level awareness that refused to be ignored.
At seven twenty-six, the council chair called my name.
“Dr. Tessa Donovan, Scripps Institution, regarding the Dove Key Marine Conservation Center proposal.”
I stood, smoothing my hands down my navy blazer—professional, polished, completely put-together. On the outside, anyway. Inside, I was a mess of nerves and hope and desperate, fragile need.
I stepped to the podium and pulled up my first slide. For a moment, I didn’t speak. I just stared at the room—at the faces of people who’d known me as a teenager, the skeptics, the believers, the people who were still making up their minds. And I found Braden.
He was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
I opened my mouth and started to speak. “When I arrived in Dove Key three months ago, I was here to do a job. A research project. Three months of diving, data collection, and analysis. That’s what I focused on, and what I thought mattered. But since I returned, I’ve remembered something I’d forgotten in my years away. Dove Key doesn’t just matter because it has a reef system. It matters because it’s a community, and people care. Because there’s a history here and a future. And that future is worth fighting for.”
I clicked to the next slide—underwater footage of the reef, vibrant and alive.
“The reef is fragile. Climate change, ocean acidification, human impact—these are real threats. But they’re not inevitables. We found something incredible out there—a resilient strain of coral surviving against the odds. It’s fighting back. But it can't do it alone. The Dove Key Marine Conservation Center will be a nursery for this resilience. We won't just watch the reef die. We will actively rebuild it."
I outlined my proposal—the facility design, the research infrastructure, the educational programming. I talked about how it would serve both scientific and community needs. I translated the cold data into tangible jobs and tourism. But more than that, my proposal was about pride. Purpose. The sense that we were doing something that mattered.
The people in the room were shifting, leaning in. The skepticism wasn’t gone, but it was softening into curiosity.
“This project isn’t about my career,” I said, addressing the council members. “This conservation center is about leaving something real behind. Something that will protect what matters most about Dove Key.”
I clicked through the final slides—timeline, budget,partnership opportunities with other research facilities and local organizations. My voice didn’t waver. My hands didn’t shake. By the time I finished, the room had gone quiet in that way that meant people were listening.
“Thank you for your time.” I stepped back from the podium.
The council chair nodded at the rest of the table. “We’ll take questions.”
A skeptical council member—Frank Duvall, who owned the hardware store and was always suspicious of anything new—raised his hand. “Dr. Donovan, the proposal mentions funding from a major grant, but we understand that grant was rejected. How do you propose to fund a project of this scope without that financial foundation?”
This was the question I’d been dreading, the one that had kept me up at night staring at spreadsheets and alternative funding sources.
