Page 27 of Second Tide's the Charm
I groan but Hope chuckles. “Double points for the fishy pun.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn her. “He only does it to get under my skin.”
“A noble endeavor.” Hope plucks an olive from the bowl in front of her. “Adrian cultivates pet peeves like houseplants,” she says.
“Sure does,” Gabe says. “Got any insider tips on how best to pester him?”
Her eyes dart to mine, like she’s realized we overstepped a boundary. Instead of answering, she shoves an olive into her mouth and shrugs. One of her cheeks is bulging, and she looks so innocent that I lick my lips, fighting a smile.
Marissa steps up next to me and leans on the counter, watching us. I don’t like the gleam in her eyes. “Come to think of it,” she says, “you two could film it by yourselves.”
“You two as in—” Hope gestures between herself and me “—us?” She sounds like she’d rather undergo a root canal. “Just Adrian and me?” she repeats, sounding even more forlorn, if that were possible.
Would it be so terrible to be alone together? My mind flashes to our tumultuous reunion—her soaked skin and tumbling curls, the inadvertent embrace on deck. Not terrible, tortuous.
“Yeah,” Marissa says. “It would be a great way to tease the ultrasound series. Talk about the importance of estuaries and how brackish waters serve an important role as shark nurseries. You two should be fine on your own, unless that’s an issue?” She’s calling our commitment into question. No choice but to agree or else appear unprofessional.
“Not an issue for me.” Hope raises her brows, passing the challenge to me.
I swallow. Hope and I alone on a boat. With a video camera to record the drama. “I think we could handle it.” My throat is dry, but I paste on a smile. Teamwork. I can do this, in theory.
Marissa tosses the dish towel over one shoulder. “Good, then that’s settled.”
Settled.Since I met Hope, nothing about my life has ever felt settled. Her infectious ability to dive headfirst into her interests is part of what drew me to her, but also what pushed us apart.
I scoop up a handful of cornmeal and dust the wooden pizza peel, then slide the dough onto it. With that all set and awaiting sauce, I step over to scope out the toppings. Hope’s cutting cherry tomatoes, an array of bowls laid out on the counter in front of her—far more toppings than we usually get. Pepperoni and basil, fresh mozzarella, Kalamata and Spanish olives, sausage draining on a paper towel, and slices of prosciutto.
The sheer variety is another sign of Hope’s influence, of how she’s always up for trying new things, testing assumptions. An excellent quality in a scientist, but on paper, not a good match for someone like me who craves steadiness in their personal life. But we brought out the best in each other, complemented one another. With her gone, I became more cautious. I never would’ve sought out a shift in my career if Marissa hadn’t convinced me the viral moment was a chance to make a huge difference for shark conservation. Hope would’ve seized the opportunity, just like she rose to the challenge of filming with us.
Reaching for a can of artichokes, I pitch my voice low. “About what Marissa said...”
She glances up. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay with it. I don’t want you to feel pressured to work one-on-one with me.” Translation: please change your mind so I don’t have to go through with it. “This can’t be what you signed on for.”
She sets down the paring knife, juicy seeds clinging to the blade. “Being alone with you? On camera?” She makes a face. “Not so much. But she might be onto something.”
“Marissa?” I ask, and Hope coughs out a laugh.
“Don’t sound so surprised. It’s happened once or twice.”
I let out a grunt of grudging affirmation just to wheedle a smile out of her, gratified when it works.
“But yeah, I actually think it’s a solid idea,” she says. “We haven’t worked together in a while, but we know each other well. It’s lower stakes than in front of a boatful of scientists.” She rubs her hands down her thighs in a tense motion, fingers splayed on the bare skin below her cotton shorts. The hem is rolled up, and I swallow against the urge to smooth it down. My fingers curl at the remembered sensation of her skin beneath my fingertips, pliant and soft...
Yeah, we know each other well. But I don’t think it will make me any more at ease tomorrow.
“Besides, who better to talk about brackish waters than your resident freshwater biologist?”
“Can you imagine what twenty-two-year-old Hope would have to say about that title?”
Hope waves that off. “What did she know?” That she loved me, for one thing. “I’d tell her that life is full of surprises. And I’d show her where I am now. Back where I belong.” She’s talking about work, but part of me can’t help but think she’s right in more ways than one.
Every time I stop overthinking and let instinct take over, it feels natural to be around her. But twenty-two-year-old me thought he knew a lot that proved to be wrong as well. He didn’t have the experience of losing her. He still had hope, if only for that summer.
“It would be a cool segue though, right?” Hope asks, and I nod, trying to catch up. “I could talk about coming from the freshwater of my home state to the salinity of the ocean?”
“It would, yeah.” I hadn’t considered that perspective, but trust Hope to see a new angle. To see the value in all her experiences, when I tend to discount any that don’t lead directly to a goal.
