Page 28 of Second Tide's the Charm
“Then I’m down for it.” She taps the top of the can of artichokes. “Mind handing me the can opener?”
“I’ve got it.” I slide it toward myself, but she places her hand on mine, stopping me.
When I look up, her eyes are alight. “Sure you can handle it? We all know your track record with can openers.”
I cannot believe she’s bringing this up, but I’m ready to defend my honor. “That was not my fault.” One rainy night, we decided to make soup, but I’d recently moved, and my can opener got lost along the way. The only place open that late was a dollar store, so we bought one, but I couldn’t get it to work. “That can opener was faulty.”
“Worked fine for me,” she says, eyes sparkling, and her words bring me back in time. I was standing at the counter, exhausted and grumbling. Hope took it from me and opened the can on the first try. I’d slipped my arms around her waist and bent to kiss her neck.“Where would I be without you?”
Now I know where I’d be, and I’d wish away the knowledge if I could. Take us back to the beginning and start over. But I don’t see what I’d do differently. We were long-distance for half a decade, and Hope wanted to prolong that, indefinitely. Our breakup was inevitable from the moment we met. Different relationship goals, even though our life goals align.
I blink away the memory, embarrassed I can’t seem to forget these small moments, and open the can with quick turns, then drain the artichokes over the sink and return them to her in a bowl. Step back, away from her tantalizing nearness. We’re better off sticking to the boundaries of work. Her joining the crew was just what I needed to finally get over her.
fourteen
hope
No outline. No notes. Just myself and the camera. And Adrian.
I rub my clammy hands down my shorts, wishing for the comforting weight of a stack of note cards in my pocket, or a remote ready to click through a rehearsed presentation. We’re anchored in a secluded cove, with no onlookers except for passing boaters and shore birds, and yet my fight-or-flight instinct is in full effect.
Filming a video that will be viewed by thousands of people—bare minimum, Gabe cheerily assured me last night—is my personal nightmare. I conquered my fear of public speaking through preparation and practice, none of which will help me on the spot.
Add to that the very near presence of my ex—the rich shea scent of his moisturizer envelops me any time he brushes past me on deck, a performance tee draped on his muscles like a sheet thrown over a chiseled marble statue, highlighting dips and ridges that are no longer mine to explore—and I can barely remember my name, let alone the bio I attempted to memorize last night.
“Brickish water—shit.” The wordbrackishcomes out jumbled again. I scratch my clavicle, hot and itchy under the afternoon sun. A faint breeze sends ripples lapping against the hull and stirs the marsh grasses on shore but isn’t strong enough to budge the sweat-drenched curls that cling to my temples and nape.
We’re on our third take of this straightforward intro segment, but with Adrian behind the camera and the looming reality of thousands of strangers watching in the future, it might take another twenty tries for me to relax enough to get it right.
I would’ve loved to have memorized this whole talk, but like Gabe said, that would’ve defeated the purpose. The crew films in real time. This is my chance to get comfortable with the camera so I can focus on the sharks.
After my lackluster—read: embarrassingly inept—performance the first day, I need to prove I’m up for this job. Marissa took a chance offering me this position and even though I didn’t know about Adrian’s celebrity status, I did sign up to work alongside him.
One ex-boyfriend in the role of cameraman is nothing to be scared of. I just need to relegate the potential viewers to a hypothetical and our relationship to the past where it belongs. Here, we’re just two researchers, ones who used to work well together.
Really well, a smarmy voice pipes up, but I shut her down. Those kinds of thoughts won’t help me any more than simmering resentment.
A deep breath, and I try again, sweeping my hand in a stiff imitation of Vanna White. “Marsh grasses and brackish water probably don’t make you think of sharks.” We’re anchored near the shore, the waves lapping against thick mud etched with bird tracks. The grasses at the water’s edge are bleached to a pale yellow by the briny water.
The ecosystem is reminiscent of freshwater marshes back home, but the pervasive odor of pluff mud exposed by low tide reminds me I’m back where I belong, even if things between me and Adrian are murky as the nutrient-rich water flowing in from the rivers.
“In fact, the toothy creature you most likely have in mind is an alligator, but we’re—” I freeze. Should I put it that way? I’m the only one who will be in the video. “I’mhere today to talk about how estuaries play a vital role in the life cycle of many shark species.”
Adrian nods encouragement despite my halting delivery. His eyes are fixed on the screen, fingers holding it tight but gently. I know that grip. I’ve felt his fingers circling my ankles, thumbs pressed to the joint, felt it on the pulse in my wrist with his lips on mine... And now I can’t remember the rest of my speech.
The drone of a passing boat fills the silence, too loud to film over, but when it recedes and I don’t start talking again, Adrian lowers the camera to his knee, a slight frown tugging his dark brows together. “This is hard for you.”
His matter-of-fact statement makes me bristle. I hate this feeling of incompetence.
“You noticed?”
A smile dents his cheek. “But I’ve seen you corner fellow shoppers in the canned goods aisle and lecture them on the dubious credibility of some online petitions to save sharks and what they can do to make a real difference in ocean conservation.”
I pull my lips to the side. “Am I that bad?”
He chuckles. “It’s not bad. It’s you, and I—” He clears his throat. “It’s wonderful. You’re passionate about sharing your knowledge about sharks.”
“But this isn’t a conversation. It’s going to be recorded and shared.”
