Page 37 of Second Tide's the Charm
He grins. “You are allowed to. Just so happens to be that our way is the correct way.”
“Oh, please.” I push his arm in a friendly,get-outta-herenudge that doesn’t feel so platonic when my fingertips connect with his solid bicep. My breath catches, and I pull away, remembering I’m supposed to be keeping my distance.
His answer is a throaty laugh and I narrow my eyes, which only seems to encourage him. “Since you brought it up...” He lifts his chin toward my sandwich. “I notice you’re getting your fill of real seafood.”
“Real seafood, really? We have amazing seafood back home.”
“Can it really be called seafood if it’s not from the sea?”
“Semantics,” I say. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had fresh caught bluegill fried up with some boiled potatoes on the side. And up in northern Michigan they make the most amazing smoked trout.”
“Smoked? As in not fresh?” His dark eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“As in delicious.” I settle back in the chair. “Now, back to business.” After a steadying breath, I gesture toward the tablet. “Let’s do this before I get second thoughts.”
He glances sharply at me, then must think better of saying what came to mind. Instead, he tilts the screen in my direction.
On-screen, my hair is up in a ponytail that fans out behind my head, face framed against the blue-brown water and cord grass, the green fading to a tawny yellow below the high-tide line. My eyes aren’t on the camera but something above it—Adrian’s face, I realize as he pushes Play. The clip starts with a few shots of me gesturing, my muted words overplayed by music, then transitions to Adrian’s introduction.
It’s excruciating to watch myself at first, and I forget to listen for slip-ups I’d like edited out. But next to me, Adrian’s presence is calming. Steady but not intrusive. Slowly, I settle in, allowing myself the space to watch objectively. He sips his sweet tea and I munch my sandwich and try to absorb the footage like it’s a stranger and not my own self.
The wind shifts, blowing in off the ocean and the strings of lights sway in the gust, causing a glare. He adjusts the tablet and leans closer, bringing our legs into contact below the table.
I do my best to regain my concentration, but it’s hard to ignore the enticing contrast of his twill shorts and the hard muscle of his thighs against my freshly-shaved skin. My jean shorts, which I didn’t give any thought to before, now feel like only the barest scrap of fabric, rucked tight against my thighs, and I squirm, skin pricked with goose bumps in defiance of the humid warmth.
Adrian glances over. “Cold? I’ve got a sweatshirt in my SUV.”
I shake my head. No way will I risk accidentally keeping another one of his hoodies. We return our attention to the screen. Gabe’s edited out the lulls and awkward takes and condensed the video into a concise ten minutes and eighteen seconds.
When it ends, Adrian clicks the screen dark and settles back in the chair. The muffled rush of gentle waves takes over, the sun nearing the horizon. Twilight hovers outside the patio; the server comes to bus a nearby table, and still Adrian keeps quiet, his breathing a comforting rhythm next to me. He’s giving me space to evaluate, to think. This is what I wanted from him when I asked to put our plans for the move on hold, and which he gave me in a permanent form when he stopped calling and stepped out of my life for good.
The thought breaks the spell of connection, and I finish the last bite of my sandwich. “It turned out well.”
“I think so too.” He pulls the tablet into his lap, and his arm brushes mine, all rigid muscle and soft skin. “You did a fantastic job of breaking down the information into palpable pieces,” he says.
“Is that a fancy way of saying I dumbed it down?”
“For making science accessible?” He shakes his head, loose locs slipping over his forehead, and he swipes them back with a reproving grin. “C’mon now, Evans. Don’t go Ivory Tower on me. Not everyone has the time or expertise to plow through peer-reviewed articles every day.”
“And this is why misinformation abounds.”
“Agreed, but we’re meeting people where they’re at with actual science. Don’t tell me you’re still on team ‘Social Media and Science Don’t Belong in the Same Sentence’?”
I smile, remembering our discussions on this topic in the past. I didn’t have a strong opinion on it, and Adrian was still forming his, but we liked to play devil’s advocate with each other, testing each other’s argument for weakness. Debating as foreplay, I realize, looking back.
He straightens up, pivoting toward me, eyes gone bright with passion, and it’s impossible not to be captivated by him. “Sharks don’t get their fair shake in the media. And with all the bad press and downright unscientific material being shared, we’re offering easily digestible, factual information.”
When he puts it like that, his decision to share these videos makes a whole lot more sense. Basically, my one-woman paddleboard speeches, but with efficacy and a broad reach. Being a part of this outreach could actually benefit my career in a bigger way than typical field experience.
I hesitate, though. This is the point of no return. Once our video goes live, I’m in it, officially a part of the crew for the summer. Stuck with Adrian and my hurricane of emotions, with no choice but to ride out the storm.
“If you’re okay with it, I’ll upload it.” The screen has gone dark, and he taps in his passcode. My mouth goes dry at the digits he typed. Our anniversary. Maybe it’s practical, not sentimental—why change it and risk forgetting?
But I wanted to forget. Tried to forget.
And yet here we are, both of us remembering.
“Unless you’d rather we reshoot?” He looks up, and I realize I haven’t answered. “We can try again when everyone is available, now that you’ve gotten the jitters out.”
