In the morning, the men took off in two canoes to fish and Bette and Marse and I stayed behind. The river’s glassy surface reflected the trees and tall grasses. Marse turned on a transistor radio and found a calypso station that barely came in. I had taken to wearing a swimsuit almost all the time, even when I wasn’t planning on going in the water—this was something Marse and Bette did—and had even bought a new one, an orange-red halter with a zodiac pattern. Over the suit, I wore an old pair of Dennis’s jeans that I’d cut across the thighs without hemming. I was tanner than I’d ever been and several pounds thinner, and had grown comfortable spending time outside in the sun, under a fishing hat Gloria had handed me at Stiltsville. We talked about Bette’s wedding and Marse’s love life—there was a guy from her office, a fling—and they asked me questions about Atlanta. No one asked when I was going home. No one ever asked.

It was South Floridian spring, which meant bright warm days and few mosquitoes, and nights as crisp as seventy degrees. We drank coffee until noon, then switched to cans of watery, ice-cold beer. After we’d been drinking for an hour or so, Bette wandered off to go to the bathroom, and Marse started cleaning up the campsite. I wanted her to sit down and relax with me, to enjoy the sunshine and the privacy and even the strange hollow calls of the wildlife around us. “We should do this again,” I said to Marse.

“Sure.”

“I mean it. We should make it an annual thing.”

She looked at me strangely and started to speak, then stopped.

“What?” I said, but she didn’t answer. I couldn’t see any problem with what I’d said, but then it occurred to me: I’d taken to acting as if I was certain of my future in Miami, but at this point there was no ring on my finger. In Marse’s mind, I might have been a placeholder in Dennis’s life. “Marse,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t a lark. I’m not . . . ” I couldn’t think of the right word. “An affair.”

“I know you’re not.” She took a breath. “I just wish we could forget what I told you when we met, about Dennis.”

“Why?”

She stuffed beer cans into a trash bag. “It was really no big deal. Nothing would have come of it.”

“I understand.”

“I wasn’t in love with him or anything.”

I hadn’t realized all that had gone unsaid between us. I wanted to say to her: I know what a crush is. And I know how difficult it is to look into your future and see nothing real, and how easy it is to conjure excitement out of thin air, just to have something to keep you going. I said, “I behaved badly, I know.” This was something it had taken me a while to admit to myself, though of course I didn’t regret what I’d done. I said, “I was hoping you’d forgiven me.”

There was a streak of mud across her forehead and another on her shorts. She wiped her brow with her forearm and pulled another beer from the cooler. She handed it to me. “I forgave you a long time ago.” She sat down beside me. After a moment she said, “Maybe we’ll do it again next year. But after that I’ll be living in the south of France with my rich husband, and you two will be having babies and all that nonsense—”

Bette, returning from the trees, caught the tail end of Marse’s sentence. “Not me,” she said. “No babies.”

“You don’t think you’ll have them?” said Marse, and Bette said, “No way.”

Bette rummaged through her bag and Marse and I stood up to finish cleaning the campsite. After I’d filled a trash bag, I turned to say something to Bette—I don’t recall what—and I noticed that she had a pair of silver scissors in one hand, and a good-sized chunk of her blond hair in the other hand. “What are you doing?” I said. She smiled, then closed the scissors. Marse and I gaped at her.

“You’re crazy,” said Marse. “Benjamin is going to kill you.”

“Benny doesn’t care about my hair.”

“Your mother is going to kill you,” I said.

“I don’t care about my mother.”

“Why are you doing this?” Marse said.

“Why not?” said Bette. “Do you have a mirror? I want to make sure it’s even.”

“I have one,” I said. I went to my tent and fished a compact from my bag. When I returned, Marse caught my eye and shook her head. I handed the compact to Bette. “Much obliged,” she said. She opened the compact and looked at the part of her head where the hair was gone, then tried to resume cutting while holding the mirror in one hand.

For a moment, Marse and I watched her snip awkwardly behind one ear. Then I sat down on the bench next to her. “Here,” I said, taking the mirror. I held it up, but I couldn’t get the angle right and she kept having to adjust it to keep sight of herself. I said, “Give me the scissors.” She hesitated. “I know what I’m doing,” I said. I’d cut my mother’s hair twice a year for more than a decade. I handed her the mirror and she handed me the scissors. I sat behind her, facing her back.

“Holy Moses,” said Marse.

My hands shook a little. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Let’s not get sentimental,” said Bette. “It’s just a bit of hair.”

The scissors were sharp and cut easily. Her hair fell to the ground in feathery blond bits. I spent a long time making sure all the pieces were even before I stopped. Her new do was less than an inch in length, as short as a boy’s. She looked in the mirror. “Much better,” she said. She stood up and walked a few feet away, then turned around to pose like a model in a catalog, touching her head with both hands. “It’s adorable, isn’t it?”

“It is kind of adorable,” I said.

“Hell of a job,” said Marse to me.

“Let’s go for a ride,” said Bette.

We launched the last canoe and climbed in. Bette sat in front and Marse sat in back, which left me cross-legged in the well between them. As we made our way down the shadowy creek, I leaned against the yoke of the canoe and looked up at the cypress canopy, at the river of sky that flowed between the trees. It was like paddling down the nave of a cathedral. I closed my eyes. After a few minutes, I was jarred by a wild splashing and the tipping of the canoe to port and back to starboard, and when I opened my eyes Bette was standing at the bow, legs wide, wielding her paddle like a jousting stick against a large alligator a foot away. We had startled it—perhaps Bette had bumped it with her paddle when passing—and its top jaw was open and its teeth bared, its tail curled upward, and its strange pudgy claws spread wide against the marshy bank. Above it, Bette stood brandishing the paddle like a warrior and looking straight into its eyes. Marse gave a quick thrust and Bette pivoted as we passed, keeping the paddle inches from the gator’s jaws. Once we were at a safe distance, she sat down. Slowly, the alligator lowered its jaw and settled deeper into the marsh. “Goddamn it!” said Marse. “What the hell happened?”

“We got too close,” said Bette.

“Goddamn,” said Marse again. I’d never been around a woman who swore as freely as Marse did. “That thing looked hungry.”

“It might be hungry,” said Bette, “but it doesn’t want to eat us.”

One might assume, given the prevalence of alligators in South Florida, that attacks on humans would be more common. Over the years, there was the occasional anomaly: once a gator chased down and mawed a young boy riding a bike down a boardwalk in Shark Valley, and once one found its way into a private swimming pool in Coral Gables and drowned a full-grown man. But for the most part, alligators eat fish and ducks. Despite their ability to outrun a human, they wait for their prey to come to them. Years after the incident at Fisheating Creek, I saw a photograph of an alligator being swallowed whole by a Burmese python (for some reason, many South Floridians come to own exotic nonnative animals, then release these animals into the wild when they become tiresome, and they multiply) and I remembered that day, when we were inches from an alligator’s open jaw, and I felt sorry for it.

Down the creek, we met the boys head-on. Kyle held up a string of jewel-toned bass, and we turned and followed them back to the campsite. When the boys noticed Bette’s hair, Kyle said, “Wow!” and Dennis said, “Can’t we trust you girls to be left alone?” I thought I heard an undercurrent of irritation in his voice. I supposed he’d witnessed a lifetime of impetuous decisions on Bette’s part.

“God, woman,” said Benjamin, “you went ahead and did it, didn’t you?”

I was relieved to know that the haircut had been discussed prior to that afternoon. I realized that Bette had brought the scissors for this purpose. When we were all standing on dry land, Benjamin touched Bette’s head, laughing, then patted her butt affectionately. “You’re something else,” he said. He turned to me, because I was closest. “Isn’t she something else?”

“Frances did it,” said Marse.

Dennis said, “You cut her hair?”

“I have a little experience,” I said. “I think it looks pretty good.”

He looked at me as if he wasn’t quite sure what to think. “You’re not going to do that to yourself, are you?”

I put an arm around his waist. “You never know.”

That night, Dennis taught me to gut a fish, and I helped him cook it and made potatoes in a skillet. The meal was as good as any I’d eaten in my life. We told the boys about our encounter with the alligator, and Dennis squeezed my knee and told me to be careful, and I caught Marse watching us in the firelight. Also in the firelight, I watched Bette bring a hand to her hair. Her gaze was deep and private. Though she and Benjamin were planning to wed in a few days, I knew in my bones that this would not happen.

We set the timer on Benjamin’s camera and took a group photograph on our last morning at the campsite. Marse, Bette, and I sat cross-legged on the ground and the men stood above us. Dennis was behind me, Benjamin was behind Bette, and Kyle was behind Marse, waving at the camera. I wore a diamond-checked minidress, Marse wore a red Swiss dot jumpsuit, and Bette wore a crocheted halter top and long canvas shorts. The men were shirtless. All six of us were smiling so you could see our teeth. I love this photograph. All these years, I’ve loved it. And one day my daughter found it in a chest filled with other old photographs, and she framed it and propped it up on her bookcase, first in her dorm room and then in her home. Once I overheard her pointing it out to a friend: “These are my parents,” she said. “This is my aunt Bette, and this is my mother’s best friend Marse.” In the way that old photos sometimes do, looking at it makes my heart ache a bit. But also I enjoy remembering my younger self this way: as an adventurer, as carefree. Mostly, I don’t think I was these things, but I guess sometimes, in Miami, I could be.

On the morning of Bette’s wedding, Dennis and I drove from South Beach to his parents’ house with the windows down, trying to dry our hair by the time we arrived. We’d gotten up late, after making love in the warm patch of sun that came in through his bedroom window. Gloria had specifically asked me to be there early to help set up, and I’d promised we would be—in matters of timeliness and politesse, the woman is always held more accountable than the man—and I was panicked to think I would disappoint her. But when we arrived, Gloria was upstairs with Bette and the caterers had commandeered the kitchen and backyard. Flowers were already in vases on the tables, and a row of silver chafing dishes lined the buffet. A bartender was arranging liquor bottles on a table down by the water. Grady called up the lawn from the pier, waving, and Dennis squeezed my arm and took off down the green expanse, his hands in his suit pockets. When I turned toward the house, I saw Benjamin sitting in a chair on the back deck, facing the water. He didn’t seem to notice me. I climbed the deck stairs, and when I stood right beside him he looked up, shading his eyes with one hand. “Hello there,” he said.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Bad luck to see the bride, or some such. The pastor’s late—car trouble.”

“That’s too bad.”

“We were going to practice.”

“Maybe you don’t need to practice.”

“Maybe.” He reached over and opened his palm. In it was a plain gold band: Bette’s wedding ring. “This is it.”

He seemed to want me to take it, so I did. “Very pretty.”

“It’s what she wanted. All of this, even the dress, is what she wanted.”

“The dress is lovely,” I said. The dress Bette had chosen was actually a suit, a fluted skirt and fitted jacket made of creamy brocade. I’d seen it hanging on the back of a closet door at her apartment, and I’d complimented her taste. “I’m airing it out,” she’d said, and I’d said, “Is it wet?” I was always confusing things she said, taking her literally. “It’s soggy with starch,” she’d said, and again I wasn’t sure if she was speaking figuratively. It was an experience I would continue to have for as long as we knew each other.