Page 26 of Second Tide's the Charm
I narrow my eyes but return my attention to the pizza dough under my flour-dusted fingers, pressing it into a lopsided disk. “Wasn’t staring.”
“Were too.” Trust Marissa to call me out. “Thought you two agreed to keep things strictly business.”
“We did.” I clear my throat and lower my voice. “We are.”
“Mm-hm.” She packs far too much doubt into those two syllables. “You’re going to have to do a more convincing job of acting like it next time we’re on the boat.”
“I don’t need the reminder.” I haven’t been able to think of anything else, but that doesn’t mean I’m closer to solving it. “Hope was the one who panicked,” I add, right as Marissa shuts off the faucet.
My words hang in the sudden stillness. The only noise is the splatter of droplets pinging into the sink from the colander. Gabe cuts his eyes toward Hope, then back to me, silently saying,Fix this!
Knuckle-deep in pizza dough, escape is impossible. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t...” I find the courage to meet Hope’s eyes and am devastated to see no traces of her calm happiness from a moment ago. My fault. “We should’ve prepped you better. Plenty of the scientists we work with get stage fright.” But I’ve never seen Hope shy away from public speaking, which is what makes her obvious nerves so baffling.
“Happens to the best of us,” Gabe says. “Why do you think I’m the one holding the camera?”
Hope huffs out a chuckle. “Nervous as I was, I’d much rather be the one working with the sharks.” The laugh seems forced, but I know the sentiment isn’t. The work wasn’t what threw her off. Was it me?
Marissa dumps the tomatoes onto a kitchen towel. “The problem is, if people watching notice your nerves, they might attribute it to you being nervous to handle the sharks.”
Hope’s eyebrows go up, like she never considered the possibility. “The sharks were the only thing keeping me halfway chill.” She picks up a basil stem and plucks the leaves off, piling them on the cutting board. Her fingers are long and capable, the nails clipped short and bare.
Those same fingers have locked with mine countless times, massaged knotted muscles in my shoulders after long days in the lab—skin against heated skin—slipped around my waist during sunset walks on the beach, and molded against my body later, on the couch, the bed...
Memories like these, even the innocent ones, make it dangerously hard to maintain a façade of professionalism.
“I did some research,” she says, and I pull my attention back to the conversation. “Watched some of your recent videos so I have a better idea of what to expect.”
My hands go still on the dough, and I keep my head down, but my pulse is racing. She watched our content? That’s what I always dreamed of, catching her attention again, showing her that losing her didn’t wreck me. But she only watched because she’s committed to doing her best, not out of interest in me. She’s sticking to the plan, and I need to get onboard.
“Practice might help too.” I keep my tone casual to let her know I’m trying to find a solution, not find fault. “Filming something that’s not for the channel. Just to take the edge off your nerves.”
She shakes her head. “It’s the idea of permanence, that people will be able to watch and rewatch the video, that makes me tense.” Her shoulders hitch up toward her ears, like even talking about it is stressful. She scoops up the chopped basil and dumps it into a bowl, the golden-brown skin of her arms pebbled with goose bumps that I suspect have nothing to do with the air-conditioning.
“If I know the video won’t be shared,” she says, “I don’t think I’ll feel the same pressure.”
The oven beeps, signaling it’s preheated, and Gabe sets a sheet pan on the stovetop. “Easy solution. We film a shark-free segment to introduce you. Take the boat out to the bay and let you talk a bit about your background, what got you into shark research, that sort of thing. That way you won’t have to worry about doing any actual science while you get your jitters out.”
Hope brightens at this, sitting up higher on the barstool, and her eager look is back. So cute I have to bite down on my lip. “I’m game for that. Could I write myself a script?”
Gabe pauses, clearly giving it thought. “I’m not going to stop you, but it might be a better preparation for the rest of the summer if you don’t. All our content is unscripted, hence why Adrian never wants to livestream. We can edit whatever doesn’t work, but it keeps the consistency.”
“Problem is,” Marissa chimes in, “we’re assisting a team from Charleston next week. They’re performing ultrasounds on pregnant sharks.”
“You’re doing ultrasounds?” The glee in Hope’s voice should be contagious, but it just amps up my anxiety over everything going well.
Marissa nods. “We’ve been hoping to showcase a variety of field research techniques, so this has been in the works for a while.”
“Which means there’s a lot at stake.” All eyes shift to me, but this is the element that unnerves me the most. “Bringing in other researchers means they’re putting their trust in us to show their work in a positive light. We’ve got to make sure everyone is at their best.”
The excitement in Hope’s bright brown eyes hasn’t dimmed, but a new determination shows in the set of her shoulders. “Then if it’s not too much trouble, maybe we could film the practice segment tomorrow.”
But Gabe’s already shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m headed to Bimini. Filming with a buddy of mine. Though of course you could do it without me.”
He dumps the tomatoes Marissa washed onto the sheet pan and drizzles olive oil on them, then turns to us with a slight frown. “I could leave my old camera behind—”
“Won’t work,” Marissa says. “I’ve got the meeting with Roger tomorrow, and weather looks rough the rest of the week. No good filming an intro in rough seas with the boat pitching around.” Roger Bauer is the head of a local ocean conservation nonprofit, and we’ve been trying to partner with them for a series of videos about the work they do. Roger’s got a great reputation, but he’s old-school enough that our first few attempts to set up a meeting were met with polite rebuttals.
“Oh yeah.” Gabe jostles the sheet pan on the stove to distribute the oil, the metal grating against the burner plates. “You’ve been angling for that opportunity for months.”
