Page 38 of Second Tide's the Charm
“You mean now that I’ve gotten my feet wet, so to speak?”
He shoulder-bumps me. “I should’ve never reminded you about my aversion to puns.”
“You think I’d forget?” I could never forget any facet of him, even if I wanted to, and I’m beginning to wonder if I really want to, after all.
Heart racing, I say, “Upload it.”
seventeen
adrian
248k views.
High numbers should make my heart soar, but with every upward tick my mood trends downward. Each view represents another person behind the screen who might spew venom at Hope. Something that she’s strong enough to endure, but I’m not sure I am.
The idea of bringing another scientist onto the team made me wary, and that was before I knew it was Hope. With her here, there’s more at stake than ever. She’s brave to seize this opportunity, and I’d never stand in her way, but just because she’s onboard for this doesn’t make it easy to stand by and watch.
Jaw clenched, I minimize the browser window. Around 4:00 a.m. I gave up on sleep and brought my laptop out to the sofa, where I’ve sat navigating between work and the video. Dinner was a success, but what’s kept me up is the memory of our legs pressed together underneath the table, her bare skin against mine. How I held my breath, waiting for her to shift away, and instead she pressed just the slightest bit closer, uncoiling the rope of professional distance between us, until I had to bite my cheek to keep composure.
Such small touches, compared to the passion we used to share, yet enough to have my fists bunched in the sheets, wishing she were here in my bed and not on a damn air mattress across town. Seems like a waste, but the whole thing is really. What we threw away. What we lost. But I didn’t trust her enough to come looking for her. I’m still not certain she wanted me to, and it’s too late now to make a difference.
All I can do is work hard to ensure this summer is a success for both of us. For a while after I went viral, I was sucked into social media in an unhealthy way, mindset tied to the comments and how I’d be perceived. Being the new kid countless times taught me the importance of making a good first impression. I didn’t have the luxury of years to build friendships.
But my followers aren’t friends, and their esteem isn’t tied to my self-worth. To keep the distinction clear, I had to set clear limits. Treat social media like a job and not an extension of my personality, but launching Hope into the cyber ether has yanked me right back into the toxic cycle of worrying over comments and likes.
She’s strong, but I know firsthand how trolls worm their way into your mindset, screwing with your self-esteem even when you try to brush them off. The urge to scour the comments to delete any negative replies has my fingers itching, but so far the reaction’s been positive, and I force myself to close the tab.
My phone chimes from the side table and I stretch over to check it, knocking a stack of books to the floor in the process. A calendar notification covers the top of the screen. TURTLE SHIFT. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. How is it time to head to the beach already?
Still, it’s a welcome interruption. Fresh air and a task will help me stop worrying. Hope is committed to seeing this through, and I need to focus on supporting her, not protecting her.
I grab two protein bars from the kitchen cupboard and click off the lights. The seafood platter from dinner is a distant memory and breakfast is a long way off. The porch light flicks on when I step outside. Crickets chirp in the long grass and the low thrum of a bullfrog comes from down by the river. I take a moment to breathe in the serenity, letting my stress seep away.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the beach lot. I arrived ahead of schedule and am surprised see another vehicle parked in the darkness, though soon enough, the parking lot will fill up with beachgoers and other volunteers. The sea turtle patrol is led by scientists with the aid of trained volunteers who work to protect and monitor sea turtle nesting sites. We also help raise awareness about the importance of protecting the marine reptiles.
Hope got me involved in volunteering down in Florida during the internship where we met, and I connected with a local group the spring after I moved here. Filling my free time helped keep my mind off her in the early days after our relationship ended.
I convinced Marissa to volunteer with me this summer, and we filmed a series highlighting the work of the sea turtle conservation group. But I’m not sure if she’s signed up for this shift, since I swapped last-minute with Helena, a chatty retiree who’s out of town for the birth of her first grandchild.
The tang of salty air hits me the moment I step out of my SUV. A low dune stretches in either direction, the hiss of waves audible in the darkness beyond. I blink to let my eyes adjust, but my cell phone stays in my pocket. Artificial light disturbs the nesting turtles and can disorient hatchlings.
The light breeze stirring the sea oats is cool on my cheeks as I make my way toward squared-off wooden posts marking the access point for beachgoers. My intent is to sit on the steps for few minutes in silence before the others arrive and let the ocean settle me.
But once I reach the landing, my shins bump into something large and solid. I stumble backward and my heel slips on the top step.
A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, steadying me. “Adrian?”
Recognizing her voice in an instant, I find myself staring into the face of the woman with a knack for knocking me off my feet. Once again, Hope’s turned up where I didn’t expect her. But this time, instead of chaos, her presence brings a profound sense of equilibrium. Like my life has shifted into balance. Or maybe realignment.
Her hand is still around my arm, her fingers cool and slender, damp with the mist rolling in off the waves. My forearm flexes involuntarily and she lets go in an instant. Takes a step back. The sense of rightness fades but doesn’t disappear.
A hood is pulled up over her head, curls framing her face, the strands stirring in the breeze. She eyes me up and down and I feel exposed, bare underneath her gaze. “You’re not a five-foot-one elderly woman,” she says. “And where are the promised treats?”
“Treats?” Even though I’ve been up all night, I’m fairly certain Hope is talking nonsense.
“Last night Marissa got home late and was complaining about having to wake up to volunteer at dawn. I offered to take her shift because who would turn down a chance to see baby sea turtles?” She sounds affronted at the notion, and I chuckle, the sound carried away by the wind.
“The organizers okayed it since I’ve done this before,” she says. “But Marissa told me I’d be paired up with someone named Helena who always brings along a giant tub of homemade baked goods.”
