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Eight

The pontoon boat hums steadily beneath us as it glides down the river. By the time we settle onto the bench seat along the rail, the dock has already disappeared behind a curtain of cypress trees.

Max is sitting close enough to me that the warmth of his arm brushes against mine whenever the boat shifts. I catch myself leaning into the contact. I should move over a few inches to give us both some breathing room, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, so I’m staying put.

Max has ditched his sunglasses and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. He’s looking at the shoreline with focused intensity.

The boat captain’s voice drones on about the history of the park and points out some of the wildlife. “And to your left, basking in the sun, you’ll see some of Florida’s famous American alligators. This reptile species has changed little since the days of the dinosaurs.”

Max snaps a few photos before sliding his phone into his pocket. “You okay?” he asks. “You went quiet back there on the boardwalk. For a second, I thought you were going to jump into the water.”

“You can technically swim and snorkel here,” I say, finally finding my voice. “But I wouldn’t. I trust the manatees, but not the other things you might find in there.”

“The alligators?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.” I let out a soft laugh, shifting my weight. “It’s funny. Being here brought back some memories of when I first moved to Florida. I’d forgotten how much my tennis ruled my parents’ lives too.”

Max tilts his head. “Do they still live here?”

I shake my head. “No. They’re in Germany.”

“That’s a rather large change from Florida.”

I shrug. “My dad’s in the Air Force. We moved around a lot when I was growing up, but we were in Florida the longest. What about you?” I ask. “Where’s home?”

“Mum, Dad, and my brother and sister are in High Wycombe.” At my blank stare, he adds, “It’s a commuter town, about a half hour from London.”

“Got it. And are you the oldest?”

He nods. “Rupert is eighteen and Georgia is sixteen.”

“Are they like you? Performers?”

“Afraid not. They’re both proper introverts,” he says, his eyes crinkling. “Growing up, Georgia used to try and bribe me to do her school presentations for her. She had the brains, but she couldn’t stand being the center of attention. I, on the other hand, never met a stage I didn’t like.”

I laugh, picturing a mini Max performing a geography report as if it were Shakespeare.

The radio crackles. “Well, I’ll be darned, folks. Look off to the right. We have a calf and its mom. Manatee mothers are incredibly dedicated. They’ll stay together for up to two years.”

We watch the tiny calf float up for air, staying glued to its mother’s side. As they swim past us, the mother’s eye seems to track our movement through the water.

Max leans forward for a better glimpse. “Incredible,” he murmurs.

“They are,” I agree. “They’ve always reminded me of golden retrievers.”

He laughs. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Tell me I’m wrong. They’ve got huge gray eyes and a permanent puppy-dog expression.”

He studies the pair drifting through the water. “You know what? I see it.”

We both fall quiet. The only sounds are the low hum of the engine, the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, and the hushed conversations of the people around us.

Eventually, I can’t help but laugh. “I think she’s judging us.”

“Of course she is,” Max says. “She’s probably thinking we’re the most entertaining thing she’s seen all day. I can just see her taking her baby to go and see The Lion King.”

“No way,” I tease. “She’s a Florida local. She’d take the little one to see something sea-themed. The Little Mermaid, definitely.” Another thought hits me. “What if she has a babysitter? I bet she’s a Hamilton fan.”