The road to Key West stretched ahead like a ribbon strung over turquoise glass. Michael downshifted the Jeep as they eased out of Marathon, the warm June wind cutting clean through the open cabin—no roof, no doors, no reason to rush. Gina tucked one leg up and let her hand ride the current of air outside the frame. Salt on her lips, sun on her knees. Her smile hadn’t faded in miles.
“This is unreal,” she said, eyes scanning the horizon. “I always figured I’d visit Key West someday, just never… got around to it.”
Michael glanced over. “That’s the trick,” he said. “You don’t wait to find time. You make it.”
She looked at him sidelong. “See, when you say it like that, it almost sounds wise.”
He gave her a small, self-aware grin and kept his eyes on the road.
They crested a low bridge and the view opened up—sky, sea, and the long stretch of Route 1 balancing between them. Then, a few miles later, Michael pointed casually to the right, toward a narrow stretch of old bridge jutting into open water.
“There,” he said. “See that tree?”
Gina leaned forward. Just past the shoulder, growing impossibly from the edge of the decaying structure, was a lone, wind-bent casuarina tree. The roots looked like they were clinging to history itself.
“That’s Fred,” Michael said.
She blinked. “Fred?”
“Yep. Local legend. Somehow took root out there decades ago. Nobody knows how he’s still alive. He’s got fans, bumper stickers, merch. Some people bring him water when they drive past.”
Gina laughed. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. His full name’s unofficially ‘Fred the Tree.’ Symbol of resilience. Locals say if Fred can keep standing, so can you.”
They drove past in silence for a moment, Gina watching the tree until it vanished behind them. Her expression softened.
“I like him,” she said.
Michael reached over and tapped her knee gently. “Figured you would.”
The ride stretched on in companionable quiet—just the growl of the engine, the whip of the wind, and the occasional cry of a gull overhead. Then, out of nowhere, Michael broke the silence.
“So, the Conch Republic.”
“Oh boy.”
He launched into the story like a stand-up routine: the 1982 U.S. Border Patrol checkpoint that blocked Route 1 and choked the Keys’ tourism, the furious mayor of Key West declaring the island’s independence in protest, the symbolic secession, and the infamous one-minute war—where locals pelted a U.S. Navy officer with water balloons and stale Cuban bread, fired a cannon loaded with confetti, and then surrendered immediately. Gina nearly doubled over when Michael described the declaration of war, the surrender, and the foreign aid request all happening within sixty seconds.
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “That might be the most Floridian thing I’ve ever heard.”
Michael nodded solemnly. “We’re nothing if not efficient.”
By the time they rolled into Big Pine Key, her cheeks hurt from smiling. He reached across the console, found her hand without a word, and she laced her fingers into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed. “Okay,” she murmured. “Now I get it.”
He glanced over, one hand on the wheel, the other holding hers. “Get what?”
“Why you don’t wait for life to slow down.”
Michael didn’t answer. He just smiled, and let the road carry them forward.