We progress slowly, keeping an eye on the mostly unoccupied coastline, scanning it for a large, curly, slobbering mass whose color is much too similar to the rocky bits of the shore for my taste. The sky is increasingly dark and ashy, whether because of the weather or the volcano, I’m not sure. Still, it must have dissuaded most visitors from leaving the house.

About ten minutes into our search, we drive past Isola Bella. It’s striking even against the gunmetal sky. The waves around it seem to have turned a deeper blue-green, and the high tide fully submerges the sandbar. I stare, wondering what would happen if someone were to remain stuck on the island after the rise of the water levels—

“There!” I scream. “Conor, do you see him?”

He must, because he stops abruptly. “How the fuck did he get there?” Tiny is on the shore of Isola Bella.

“It must have been earlier, when the isthmus was visible. And now he can’t come back.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, taking off the helmet and running toward the island. Conor yells at me to wait, but I simply can’t.

“Tiny,” I call. “Hey, you spit monster! I’m here, baby! I got you!”

The moment Tiny realizes that I’ve come for him, he barks twice, then once more. His tail wags like a lasso, and he runs up and down the shore of the island, looking for a place to cross. Bless his heart, he’s never been a good swimmer.

“It’s okay,” I yell. “You’re still the best boy!”

“Is he, though?” Conor asks from my side. “The best boy got himself stranded.”

“I said best, not smartest. And tides are hard to understand even for scientists.” I start taking off my clothes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you think?” I slide my shoes off. “I’m swimming to my beautiful, dumb dog.”

“In a couple of hours, the tide—”

“He’s probably terrified and thinks that we’ve forsaken him. Do you think I’d leave him alone for even ten minutes?” I drop my top on the sand.

Conor’s lips twitch, but he starts taking off his sandals. “Can I point out that you’re not wearing a swimsuit?”

I glance down at myself. Sure enough, that’s a bralette. The white lace is going to do great when the time comes to disguise my nipples. “There’s no one around. And it’s nothing that I wouldn’t show you, anyway.”

Our eyes lock, and I’m worried about Tiny, impatient, but I smile.

So does he.

There is a moment—a moment when his T-shirt peels off his abs and chest, when I hook my thumbs under my shorts and pull them down, a moment that’s so painfully familiar, it almost feels like a cliché.

Two people who like each other, standing in front of each other, peeling off layers.

Two lovers scrambling to get undressed because they need to touch, to feel, now.

A helping hand, undoing a tie, sliding a zipper open.