Page 22 of Second Tide's the Charm
I snap my head up, but she dodges her eyes away. “Pencil snapped.”
Gabe digs in his pocket and holds out a pen, keeping the camera aimed steadfastly toward the shark—and away from Hope. He’s been silent, which isn’t normal for him. Usually, he likes to chime in with funny comments to coax explanations out of us when we forget that what’s just another day of fieldwork for us is new territory for viewers. Seems like he’s trying to remain unobtrusive for Hope’s benefit, but his lack of chatter only adds to my nerves.
Marissa glances over her shoulder and frowns at Hope. “You got those measurements down?”
“Yup, 98 centimeters.” She sits back, cross-legged, and makes a notation.
“Eighty-eight.” Marissa turns her focus back to the shark. “Pay attention.”
It’s a reminder for me as well. Hope doesn’t need my eyes on her, and normally I’m so focused I tune everything else out. But I don’t understand how the camera’s got her so off her game. These are basic steps we mastered years ago, and not only did she say her prior job involved fieldwork, she also did all this ten minutes ago with the first shark.
Is it me? I hate to think she’s that bothered by my presence. Then again, a few hours ago I did try to send her home.
Gabe steps forward to get a better angle of Marissa, and Hope sits up straight, like I used to when my piano teacher called out my poor posture.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” he says, eyes on the viewfinder.
“Yeah. Of course.” Hope nods so vigorously I’m worried for her vertebrae. “I’ll just stand out of the way and—”
“We need to wrap this up,” Marissa interrupts, saving Hope from rambling. “Can you pass me the case of syringes?”
Hope steps forward, freezing when Gabe swings the camera her way. She lifts one hand in what might be either a wave or gesture of surrender and sidesteps her way toward us.
She hesitates, not close enough to step in if need be. I gesture her nearer with a jerk of my chin, and she squats down. She doesn’t look at me, but I can’t help but catalog her profile in the flat light of an oncoming storm. Upturned nose, rounded cheeks, full lips parted with rapid breaths, like a landed fish trying to draw in oxygen.
Voice low, I say, “He’s not going to bite.”
“It’s a female,” Hope hisses, “and I’m not worried about that.”
“I meant Gabe.”
Her warm brown skin has turned ashen, a match for the overcast sky. She grips the side of the boat like she’s about to lose the contents of her stomach, but her next words make it clear that seasickness isn’t the culprit. “What about the people watching?”
Before I can formulate an answer, Marissa barks my name, calling my attention back to the task at hand. Good thing my back is to Gabe, or else the lens would probably capture a wide-eyed look of panic not at all suitable for a scientist handling a shark.
The wind is picking up, clouds lowering, and a chill drips down my nape with the first drop of rain. She has every right to worry. I do, every time we upload new content. The potential for a positive impact was enough for me to risk my professional reputation and privacy to launch this channel, but despite our complicated past, I’d never choose to risk Hope.
But she’s made her choice. Sink or swim, we’re in this boat together. And right now, we’re pulling each other under.
twelve
hope
“I low-key wish we hadn’t caught any more sharks after the first one,” I tell Marissa. I never in my life thought I’d say this, let alone think it. A day without sharks is normally a big disappointment. Typical, yes, but with months or years of preparation and the constraint of narrow windows in which to complete field studies, every day counts. But coming up empty would’ve been preferable to my nightmare performance.
A few steps ahead of me on Adrian’s driveway, Marissa spins around, canvas bag of supplies twirling in an arc with the force of her movement. “You did not just say that to me.”
I dodge my eyes away from her incredulous look under pretense of checking out the property. We drove over to Adrian’s house to stow gear, and my first impulse was to rush and be out of here before he arrives. But I can’t help lingering in the dappled sunlight at the foot of the stairs leading up to his raised cottage.
The house sits on stilts, a porch swing tucked invitingly underneath, along with more practical items like a boat trailer and storage locker. Overhead, a live oak with trailing Spanish moss sways in a breeze tinged with the loamy scent of the Waccamaw River, just visible through cypress trees. There’s a screened-in front porch at the top of the steps, and if things between us were different, I’d already be up the steps to see if the deck offers a clear view of the water.
No surprise that Adrian’s a homeowner—our last few months together were spent browsing condo listings—but this place is the stuff of dreams. Idyllic, perched on a waterfront lot with neighbors close enough for comfort but far enough for privacy. The sort of home we used to dream about when the lights were off, and practicality faded away. When our future together could stretch as wide as imagining.
Seeing the manifestation of those dreams, being here, I begin to grasp what my hesitancy must’ve cost Adrian. How putting the first step on hold poked holes in our watertight trust. How the leak of my doubts worked against his trust to erode our relationship.
But whatever state our breakup left him in, it’s clear he’s moved past it, and the insecurities that plagued me on the boat come roaring back. All this time I’ve been tied up in knots over him, while he was building a home. A future. I pass the inviting steps, into the shade underneath the house, ready to ditch the supplies and get out of here.
Glancing around the open space, intersected by sturdy support beams, I catch sight of a pair of kayaks, and next to them, a set of weights and a jump rope. An image of Adrian in a sweat-soaked tank top, rope spinning, lips pursed in concentration, drills into my mind, and I slash my eyes away from the gym setup to find Marissa watching me.
