Page 60 of Second Tide's the Charm
“Darling, we all do.” I glance around to see who the “we” is, expecting a legion of librarians to materialize, but none do. “Adrian has been incredibly generous with his time,” she says. “He does a program at least once a month at one of our branches, and it’s a huge draw for the community. Gets folks in the door and utilizing the library system.”
She adjusts her purple reading glasses. “I grew up in Charleston and never much liked the idea of sharks swimming around. But now that I’ve learned what an important role they play in the ocean—” She stops herself with a small smile. “What am I saying? You’re the expert. Don’t need me to tell you anything.”
Tipping forward in her chair, she uses a pen to point off to the side. “Children’s Services area is toward the back. Won’t be able to miss it.”
I thank her and make my way through low bookshelves toward the rear portion of the library. Sure enough, I hear him before I see him, his always-deep voice tuned to the rich, scholarly tone I remember from sneaking into the seminars he led in grad school, a lush timbre that invites you to hunker down and absorb.
I step past a glossy green shelf, and a semicircle of children seated on a rug comes into view, a smattering of adults on plastic chairs behind them. Adrian is perched on the edge of a low dais in front of the group, forgoing the armchair behind him, no doubt to get on their level. He’s swapped out his work clothes from earlier for an aqua blue polo and gray chinos, the first I’ve seen him dressed up since our night out, and I sweep my eyes away, lest he catch me staring.
Each child is holding a plush shark in their lap—or on their head, in the case of one boy near the front—and listening with rapt attention to Adrian reading from a picture book about Dr. Eugenie Clark, a pioneering marine biologist. I recognize it as the same one I bought as a present for Zuri’s kids last Christmas.
Adrian must have it memorized. He barely glances at the pages, instead making eye contact with the crowd, not rushing through, but pausing to let the text sink in, and I find myself mouthing the words along with him, throat suddenly tight.
To see a whole roomful of kids eager to hear about my personal hero, a leader in the field at a time when women were expected to stay out of science, is a huge pick-me-up after this emotional day. Adrian turns the book around to flip to the next page and glances up for the first time.
His eyes land on me and a broad smile lights up his whole face. His unguarded happiness in seeing me, despite our argument makes my eyes sting. Smile fading, his brows tug together and he mouths,I’m sorry.
A whole room full of people in front of him, and his first thought is to apologize. The smile I muster is watery but genuine. A few adults turn my way to see who Adrian’s looking at and he clears his throat, hastily returning to the book to pull attention back to him, and just like that he melts my heart all over again. Looking out for me. Shielding me from the crowd.
His next smile is for me, though he’s looking at the page. Awareness settles as I watch him, taking in the steady set of his shoulders, how he puts his all into the reading, voice clear and resonant. There’s an intangible bond between this man and I, and in this moment, I don’t want to deny it. Don’t want to reason it away or dissect it. Some things are deeper than flesh and bone. Deeper even than cells and neurons.
Love isn’t quantifiable. Hope isn’t quantifiable. And suddenly that doesn’t seem like a bad thing.
I watch the rest of his performance in a haze, caught up in the story of promise. At the end, one girl with blond curls raises her hand but doesn’t wait to speak. “Our family took a trip to the Mote Aquarium. Did you know Eugenie Clark used to train sharks?”
Adrian sets the book on his lap. “Pretty interesting, huh? Her research showed that sharks have intelligence far beyond what people thought back then.”
The girl nods, curls bouncing. “I can’t even train my puppy.”
The grown-ups chuckle and I join in, tears dry and heart full.
“Y’all want to meet another real-life shark scientist? My friend Hope just showed up, and she’s a marine biologist like me.”
Friend.First the librarian, now him. Maybe Zuri was right, and we could stay in each other’s lives. I have a feeling no platonic title will ever feel right—not friend, and certainly not colleague. But maybe I could get used to this new normal. The next moment, twenty-some pairs of eyes swivel in my direction and banish any thoughts about our relationship status.
“Do you train sharks?” a boy asks.
I shake my head. “No. The bulk of my research was based on shark migration along the Atlantic coast. I used a combination of acoustic tags, satellite imagery, and ocean monitoring to ascertain whether there’s a correlation between shifting migration patterns and extreme weather.” Eyes start to glaze over so I add, “I wanted to know if sharks are affected by changes in the weather.”
“You mean storms? I love thunder,” a girl says.
“I hate it.” Another chimes in. “Gives me the creeps.”
I smile at them, not picking sides, though I love the energy of storms. One reason I was drawn to study this behavior in sharks was my own fascination with watching blizzards blow in off the lake, the juxtaposition of angry clouds and swirling, powdery snow. The literal electricity in the air during summer thunderstorms.
“Sharks have senses that we don’t,” I explain. “Those give them a special heads-up about changes in the weather that humans wouldn’t notice without the help of technology.”
“Like spidey senses?” The question comes from a kid in a Spiderman costume, complete with a mask. I do my best not to laugh.
“In a way, yes. They can seem like superpowers to us, but in sharks they’re biological features. I bet there are a lot more books here you can check out to learn more if you ask one of the librarians.”
Adrian stands up, drawing the kids’ attention back to him. “Ms. Lucinda has free books for you to take home as well, so be sure to stop by the front desk on your way out.” He pulls a basket out from under his chair and makes his way around the room, passing out tickets to the local aquarium. A few people linger to ask questions, and he gives each of them his focus, head inclined, listening intently.
I hang back, watching him interact with the parents and caregivers. He’s effusive and kind and it’s plain to see he didn’t get over a million followers for his pecs. He got them because he cares. And he has an exceptional knack for making other people care too.
I’m on my way over to him when a boy with short brown hair zips past me and grabs Adrian’s sleeve. “My grandpa says I’m supposed to say thank you for the shark.” He pronounces itsark, and I can’t help but grin at the cuteness.
Adrian squats down to get eye-level. “You’re very welcome.” He points to the array of white spots on the stuffed animal’s back. “Know what species this is?”
