Page 116 of Just One More Thing

We laugh. Still a little breathless, pretending laughter is the reason. “Let’s go find some privacy,” Jake says.

“Yes. Before the town installs bleachers.”

Once we clear the pilings, the bay opens wide around us. The water shifts from green to gold as the sun starts its slow drop. A pelican rides a wind current like it has nowhere better to be.

Hank wedges himself against my hip and sighs like the weight of the world rests squarely on his bulldog shoulders. “Hi, baby boy,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. He makes a noise that sounds like it belongs in a whale documentary, not coming from a bulldog. I laugh softly and look out at the ocean.

This is what the water does. It loosens things. Gets into the tight places and pries them open. Out here, distance doesn’t always feel like loss. Sometimes it feels like room to breathe.

Jake steers us toward a small barrier island.

“Please tell me there are no monkeys here.”

“Monkey-free.”

He eases the boat against an old dock that looks one tropical storm away from collapse.

“Wait, is this?—“

We used to come here after watching reruns ofGilligan’s Islandand pretend we were stranded. Jake was always the Professor. I was Mary Ann. Charlie got stuck as Gilligan whenever he came with us, and their friend Nate, who was older and bossy, appointed himself the Skipper. Lainey was Ginger because she had red heart-shaped sunglasses and would accept nothing less.

There used to be a crooked palmetto near the sand where we kept our “supplies,” which were mostly Doritos, Scooby-Doo Fruit Snacks, and one emergency Capri Sun Jake insisted we ration like we were awaiting rescue.

It’s still there, only a little more crooked now, weathered and half swallowed by brush.

“It’s overgrown,” he says. “But yeah. It’s ours. Moke’s Island.”

He hops onto the dock and the entire thing starts to wobble. “Please be careful,” I say. “I am not ending this evening in an ER hearing the word tetanus.”

“If it breaks, at least I’m landing in water.”

“Jake.”

He grins, ties us off to a cleat I don’t fully trust, then lowers the ramp for Hank, who descends like a determined hippo.

Jake reaches for my hand. “Trust me?”

“I trust you.”

And I do.

He leads me down the dock and pushes aside a branch. Beyond it is a stretch of cleared sand and the kind of view that makes you stop walking. I don’t remember it being this beautiful.

Maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe when you’re ten, beauty is whether someone remembered to bring snacks and you get to be Mary Ann without arguing.

In the center of the sand is a blanket, pillows and candles in hurricane glasses. A large cooler is tucked under a tree.

For a moment, I can’t move.

There are no rose petals or string quartet crouched behind the sea oats. No plane writing my name across the sky, which is good because I would instantly die from embarrassment.

It’s better.

It’s thoughtful.

“You did this?” I whisper.

“I did.”