Page 33 of Second Tide's the Charm
Gabe: You uploaded it like two minutes ago.
Adrian: Just don’t post it without my okay.
Gabe: Do I ever?
I thank him and pocket my phone to combat the restless urge to rewatch the footage again in search of any telltale hints of our past connection. To get my mind off it, I reply to a few comments on a video we recently reshared that’s getting a lot of traction. I should catch up on emails and record a quick update for social media, but not in my sweaty, post-workout state.
Every once in a while, commenters ask me to share my gym routine, but they can find that elsewhere. I’m not a personal trainer or fitness coach, and my corner of the internet is meant to be a reliable resource for shark-related content, not unvetted lifestyle advice.
I head inside to the shower and climb in, turning the tap to cool. Once I’m finished, I crank off the water and step out onto the bath mat, dripping, only to realize there’s no towel on the hook because I forgot to fetch my laundry from Marissa’s dryer on pizza night. I wipe myself down with brusque swipes of a clean shirt, then get dressed. After setting a reminder to schedule a washing machine repair tech, I text my cousin.
Adrian: Ok if I stop by and pick up my laundry?
Marissa: I’m in a meeting, but Hope’s there. Just text her.
Just text her? Like it’s that simple.
How do I phrase a text to my ex-girlfriend slash current co-worker?
Besides, I’m dry, no need to fetch the towels right now. Easier to wait until Marissa is back and avoid any precarious alone time with Hope. On the other hand, I promised not to act differently around her because of our history. Marissa will probably ask Hope about it, and then it will make it seem like I made a big deal out of nothing.
My hands are fumbling as I search for the contact I scrolled past for years but never deleted from my phone. Will she still have my number saved? Doesn’t matter.
Adrian: Hi, it’s Adrian.
Adrian: Maybe you already knew that.
I’m sweating all over again. Nothing says nervous like two consecutive texts. And there’s about to be a third.
Adrian: I left some towels there. At Marissa’s place, I mean. Are you there? If so, may I stop by and get them? I don’t have a key.
Adrian: It’s not an emergency or anything.
Make that an even four. I’m the human embodiment of the face-palm emoji. I toss the phone onto my bed before I embarrass myself further. How could it possibly be a towel emergency? Why would she ever assume that?
With a groan, I go out into the kitchen and grab a bag of tortilla chips off the counter and shovel food in my mouth to keep from checking whether she’s responded yet. When the bag’s half gone and I feel like I have a grip on myself, I check my phone.
Nothing.
That’s fine. As I so astutely wrote, it’s not a towel emergency. Heat flares in my cheeks, and just as I’m about to bury myself in data entry to try to obliterate the memory of the most embarrassing string of texts I’ve ever sent a woman, a reply pops up on-screen.
Hope: It might not be a towel emergency now, but it’s always best to act swiftly to prevent catastrophe.
I couldn’t keep the smile off my face if I tried. Another text comes through.
Hope: I’m here, come by whenever.
It’s only when my soles hit the splintery porch that I realize I’ve forgotten shoes. And keys. And any remaining good sense.
sixteen
hope
“Those aren’t mine,” Adrian says. He’s standing outside Marissa’s door, and I plan to keep it that way. Inviting him in would be dangerously close to letting him into my life, the opposite of what I came down here to do.
The first text I sent bordered on flirtatious, but I rationalized it by telling myself I had to ease his obvious nerves. I tried to course-correct with the follow-up, and it appears he has the same plan, judging by the way he took a noticeable step backward when I opened the door, keeping a professional distance between us.
“They aren’t?” I drop my eyes to the towels in my arms. Right after he texted, I searched for them and found them atop the dryer. I put them on the entryway table so they’d be ready to go the moment he knocked. No need for small talk or lingering in the doorway.
