‘No,’ Hugh corrects me. ‘Although I have to confess, I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on finding this fish. You can prove corals can rebound another way. You can emphasise the pollution problem another way.’
‘I could, but people can identify with a fish; fish are less abstract than coral.’
Hugh nods thoughtfully. ‘OK, but coral bleaching is often one of the easiest ways to make people understand what a crisis global warming is because something literallychanges colour. Take what happened in Florida, for example. One hot summer and boom, all the coral turned black – and died.’
‘But most people don’t even know that coral are animals. They don’t even know what dead versus bleached coral looks like! They don’t even know zooxanthellae!’
‘Millie, hardly anybody knows zooxanthellae. They can learn. And that’s beside the point.’
We’re seated so close. I feel more heat under the scrutiny of his gaze than I do from the blazing sun. ‘Why doyoucare so much whether or not this fish exists anyways?’ I ask.
‘Well.’ Hugh sighs and leans back. ‘Because I really don’t think it does. I think coral bleaching killed it, and I think it’s important to acknowledge that. We have to make people see that sometimes there is no coming back from the decisions we’ve made. We can’t turn back time.’
‘I think I’m going to prove you wrong.’
‘We can agree to disagree.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
I don’t want to keep thinking about the wrasse, so I change the subject. ‘If,’ I say, leaning back and closing my eyes against the bright sunlight, ‘you could have had anything for lunch, what would you have?’
‘Every day for lunch or like just today?’
I crack an eye open. ‘Hmmm . . . what about both?’
‘Okay,’ Hugh leans forward. ‘Today, fish and chips. I couldn’t eat it every day, but we’ve been working hard out here and, man, does that sound good. For every day . . . a salad maybe or a grain bowl. Something light.’
‘Something light?’ I tease. ‘You sound like you’re on the cover of a women’s magazine.’
‘Well, you said every day. I can’t be eating a hamburger for lunch every day. What would you eat?’
I pause, mulling it over. ‘Today, I would eat a BLT on an everything bagel. Every day . . . I guess a salad,’ I mumble the last bit.
‘A salad?’ Hugh howls. ‘You hypocrite!’
‘Oh, come on, it was weirder when you said it.’
Our conversation continues as we clear our plates, sneak a couple more Oreos and reapply sunscreen. Casually, Hugh hands me the sunscreen bottle and asks, ‘When you’re done making fun of me, can you get my back?’
‘Wait!’ he says, when I’m centimetres away from placing my sunscreened palms onto his shoulder blades. ‘I didn’t hand you the sunscreen you brought, did I?’
‘Hugh Harris, I swear to God, do you want me to help you or not?’
‘Fine,’ he says, with a chuckle.
Tentatively, I spread sunscreen over his tanned, muscular shoulders. I rub into his neck, and down to the hem of his swimsuit. This is the most we’ve touched, and I ache to think of a way to fill the silence. I feel jittery all over, like I just drank six cups of coffee.
‘Want me to get you?’ he asks.
My mouth is so dry I can only nod in response. His hands are strong and so large that they cover most of my back without even moving. In slow circles, he massages the lotion across my shoulder blades, slides a hand underneath the strap of my swimsuit, and works his way down my back to the hemline of my bottoms. With a single finger, he rubs sunscreen right up against the line of my swimsuit.
I feel so weak at the knees that I grab the table to steady myself as soon as Hugh turns to head upstairs. When I meet him back on deck, he dives back into our back and forth without a second thought. I feel like my head is filled with cotton. We get comfortable, both of us reclined. I listen to Hugh explain to me why coral bleaching is, actually, thebestexample of climate change, and my eyes slowly start to close. The rocking of the boat is lulling me to sleep. The sun is beating down relentlessly. My last thought before I fall asleep is that his accent is melodious, it’s like listening to a song.
I wake up with a start, confused. My copy ofThe Marinistis no longer in my hand, and my head is on a chest. A strong, tanned, hard-as-rock chest, that somehow has just enough give and warmth to be comfortable. It smells like coconut sunscreen and a touch of man’s deodorant. Just as I’m nestling back into it to keep sleeping, I realise what I’m doing and bolt upright. I sit up straight into the edge of the hammock, and my head crashes into Pippa’s bum.
‘Oi!’ she shouts, scrambling upright, causing the hammock to swing erratically back and forth.
