Chapter 14 Showing Up
Showing Up
Julian
Mid-August, Thursday evening
The lecture hall at the Cape Avalon Marine Institute is smaller than I expected, maybe a hundred seats arranged in rising tiers around a central podium. The walls are covered with photographs of ocean life, and the air smells faintly of salt, like the sea has seeped into the building itself.
I sit in the back row, as far from the podium as possible, because this isn't about me. Eliza texted the details three days ago, brief and businesslike: Thursday 6pm, Institute main hall, dress casual. I showed up in khakis and a button-down. I nearly wore a jacket before rereading her message.
The seats are filling up with what looks like a mix of academics, students, and interested locals. Claire Huang is in the front row, talking to a younger woman with a clipboard. She glances back, spots me, and raises an eyebrow. I can't tell if it's approval or warning.
At exactly six o'clock, Eliza walks to the podium.
She's wearing a dark green dress that makes her eyes look even brighter, and her hair is pulled back in a way that makes her look professional and accessible at once. She's not wearing the wrist brace anymore. When she moves her hands to adjust the microphone, the movement is easy, unguarded.
She adjusts the microphone. "Good evening. I'm Dr. Eliza Morrow, and I'm here to talk to you about kelp."
A small laugh ripples through the audience. Eliza smiles.
"I know, I know. Kelp isn't sexy. It doesn't have the charisma of a whale or the drama of a shark.
But I'm going to try to convince you that kelp is the most important thing in the ocean, and by the end of this talk, you're either going to agree with me or you're going to be very tired of hearing about photosynthesis. "
I lean back in my seat and watch her work.
This is what I've been missing. This is who she is when she's not waiting for me to come home, not adjusting her schedule around foundation events, not playing the role of supportive wife.
She's brilliant. She's funny. She's commanding a room full of strangers with the same ease I apply to boardrooms, but with none of the artificial polish.
She talks about kelp forests as ecosystems, as carbon sinks, as indicators of ocean health.
She explains the research she did before we met, the discoveries she made, the questions still unanswered.
She has slides with data and photographs and one memorable video of an otter using a kelp strand as a napkin.
I take notes. Not because I need them, but because I want her to know I was paying attention. Real notes, in my own handwriting, with questions in the margins.
When she finishes, the applause is genuine and sustained.
Claire stands up to lead a brief Q&A, and I watch Eliza field questions with the same confidence she showed during her presentation.
Someone asks about funding. Someone else asks about climate projections.
A student in the front row asks whether octopuses really dream, and Eliza laughs and says she's still working on that one.
Afterward, the crowd disperses slowly, people clustering around Eliza to shake her hand or ask follow-up questions. I stay in my seat, waiting. I don't want to intrude on her moment.
Eventually the room clears, and Eliza looks up at the back row where I'm still sitting.
She pauses beside the podium. "You stayed."
"You invited me."
She walks up the aisle toward me, and I stand to meet her. We're only a few feet apart now, and I have to resist the urge to reach for her.
I pull out my notes. "I had questions. About the holdfast attachment thing."
"You took notes?"
"You told me to pay attention."
She takes the notebook from my hand, flipping through the pages. Her eyebrows rise as she reads my handwriting, the genuine questions I scribbled in the margins.
"These are... actually good questions." She sounds surprised.
"I was actually paying attention."
"I see that." She hands the notebook back. "We can go over them at dinner. If you still want to."
"I still want to."
We end up at a small restaurant near the harbor, the kind of place with paper placemats and a menu that changes based on what the fishing boats brought in. Eliza orders the grilled fish. I choose the grilled fish too and pass her the basket of bread.
She lays her napkin in her lap. "The interview went well. The final panel. I got the offer today."
My heart lifts. "That's amazing. Congratulations."
"It's not official yet. I haven't accepted."
"Why not?"
She pushes a piece of fish around her plate. "The position includes a research trip. Three months, early October to early January. Kelp forest ecology in British Columbia. It's exactly the kind of work I've been wanting to do."
"That sounds incredible."
"It does." She meets my eyes. "It also sounds like being gone for three months when we're still figuring out what we are."
I set my fork down. "I want you to have this, Eliza."
"It's not that simple."
I lean forward. "Tell me what worries you. I don't want you giving up work you love because of my mistakes."
"I don't know if our marriage can survive three months of distance when it barely survived six months of proximity."
I hate that she's having to weigh this at all. She got the offer. Tonight should be easy champagne and her talking too fast about the fieldwork, not another calculation about whether I'll let her down.
I set my hand flat beside my plate. "Tell me what you need. What would make this work for you. Video calls, scheduled times, whatever. I'll do it."
"I don't need you to manage this like a project."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm asking what support looks like for you. Not what I think you should want. What you actually want."
She's quiet for a moment, studying the edge of her plate. "I want to know that you'll still be here when I get back. Not because you're obligated, but because you want to be."
"I want to be."
"I want to know that three months apart won't be an excuse to fall back into old patterns. That you won't fill the space with work and then act surprised when I'm hurt."
"I won't."
"I want regular calls. Not obligatory check-ins, real conversations. About your day and my research and stupid things that don't matter except that we're sharing them."
"Done."
"And I want..." She hesitates. "I've been looking at rentals. Near Cape Avalon, month-to-month. I found one I like. Small, close to the water. I can afford it myself."
"You don't have to..."
"I want to. I need somewhere that's mine. Not Naomi's, not ours. Mine. At least for now."
I draw a slow breath. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"If that's what you need, then okay. I don't have to love it to support it."
She looks at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in her expression. Not forgiveness, not yet. But something softer than wariness.
She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
It's the first time she's reached for me since the water. The first time she's chosen contact instead of distance. I know better than to make it into more than it is, but I let myself feel it anyway, the small victory of her hand in mine.
Her fingers settle between mine. "Thank you. For coming tonight. For actually listening."
"Thank you for letting me."
We sit like that for a while, hands joined across the table, watching the harbor lights flicker through the window. It's not a reconciliation. It's not a promise. But it's something.
It's a start.