Page 80 of Second Tide's the Charm
Hope: Would be better with you here.
Adrian: Give me ten.
Another notification appears, obscuring his text. I move my thumb to flick it away, then freeze, sunrise forgotten. An email in response to my application to the California white shark research internship.
Subject: Internship Interview
Greetings Hope,
Thank you for your interest in the great white shark research program internship. We would like to continue to the next stage of the process and invite you to participate in an interview next Wednesday, July 31. If you no longer wish to be considered for this program, please let us know as soon as possible.
I continue reading, eyes scanning the email, but my mind goes immediately to Adrian. He doesn’t even know I applied. Whether I get this job or not, I don’t know where I’ll end up next year. My future has always been fluid—water and waves—and I’m worried Adrian needs me to be stone.
thirty-one
adrian
I pause at the top of the dune steps and watch Hope. She’s on her knees near the water’s edge, scooping wave-wet sand into a crooked tower, her shoulders working under the crisscross straps of her swimsuit. A hoodie lies on the sand next to her. My hoodie. The one I lent her and she held on to. Even when life pulled us apart, she held on.
I was in line at the café when I opened her text. Watching the clip on repeat made me miss hearing my number called, and I lost out on the last cinnamon bun, but it was worth it. We used to send each other photos all the time, and I know things will never be the same, but maybe this is a sign they can be even better.
“Pardon us.” A cheerful voice jostles me out of my musings. I step aside to let a group of women in floppy hats and overstuffed straw totes descend the weathered wooden steps. I kick off my canvas slip-ons, then stoop to retrieve them and head toward the water. A gaggle of fleet-footed sandpipers dart away at my approach, and Hope lifts her head and looks around, smiling when our gazes lock.
“You brought breakfast?” Curls whip across her face and she uses a sandy thumb to push them aside.
With a nod, I lift my chin toward the horizon. “How was the sunrise?”
She leans back on her heels and smiles up at me. “I love how that’s a standard greeting in beach towns, though it’s all about the sunsets where I come from.”
My heart trips at the wordlovelike a metal detector calibrated to signal the tiniest hunk of iron. “Still jealous that you got to grow up with a beach in your backyard.”
“Not my backyard. But yeah, close enough.” Holding her hand out, she lets me haul her to her feet. “But you saw your share of summer vacation sunrises out here. No one wants to watch the sun set over a frozen Lake Michigan in January.”
“Not even you?”
“I mean, it’s still pretty gorgeous,” she says, and I don’t bother trying to hold my smile at her unabashed love of her home state.
“And cold.” Just thinking about the frigid evening she dragged me down to the beach to watch a winter sunset in Shoreline Dunes has me grateful for the hot July sun.
“Freezing,” she admits. She’s so beautiful in the soft morning light that I can hardly believe how lucky I am that we found our way back to each other. Filled with affection, I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her sandy knuckles.
A smile crinkles her eyes. “I thought you hated sand in your mouth.” Clutching my arm to steady herself, she brushes her thumb against my lips, but that just spreads it around. I try to hide my grimace when the sand grains trickle down into my beard, but she clucks her tongue.
“Hang on.” She bends over to swipe the hoodie off the ground and pops back up with a coy grin when she catches me looking. Lifting one of the sleeves to my mouth, she wipes at my face. “That’s better.” Placing her hands on my shoulders, she presses her soft lips to mine.
I keep my eyes open, watching hers flutter shut, vulnerable. On instinct, my free hand drifts to her waist and I gather her against me, wanting to keep her close, but the bag of pastries crinkles between us.
She lets out a groan against my mouth. “Please tell me we didn’t just crush a cinnamon bun.”
Loath to let her go, I step back and open the bag. Hope peers down into it with a forlorn expression. “Good news and bad news,” I say. “They ran out of cinnamon buns, but peach muffins are much more smush-resistant. No frosting to ruin.” Digging inside the sack, I procure a muffin with the buttery, ginger crumble topping mostly intact.
She makes a gimme motion and sinks her teeth into the top without bothering to remove the cupcake liner. I use my thumb to swipe a sugar crystal from the corner of her mouth, then lick it off, intrigued when her eyes track the movement.
Drawn by the food, a seagull swoops down and she gives the bird a glare that would make Marissa proud. Its only response is to cock its head.
I pull out a second muffin, making sure to hold it close lest the bird get any ideas.
“Another peach one?” she asks, once she’s swallowed.
