Chapter 23 The Distance
The Distance
Eliza
November, British Columbia
The research station sits on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Pacific, all weathered wood and salt-streaked windows.
I've been here for six weeks now, and I've fallen into a rhythm that feels both new and familiar: early mornings, long days in the field, evenings spent processing data and talking to Julian.
Today's sampling got canceled due to weather. Not unusual for November in BC, where the storms roll in fast and mean and don't care about your research schedule. Nessa and I spent the morning reorganizing the equipment shed instead, which was less exciting but probably needed to happen anyway.
Nessa sorts dive weights into size order. "Your husband's the one who runs the foundation, right? The marine conservation one?"
"He does. He's delegated more lately."
"That's cool. My ex couldn't even remember to pick up groceries."
"Julian had his moments." I hand her another weight. "We're still figuring things out."
"Long-distance while you're here?"
"Something like that."
Nessa nods, accepting this without pushing. She's good that way, curious but not invasive. We work in comfortable silence until the shed is organized to her exacting standards, and then I head back to my room to warm up and call Julian.
It's 6 PM here, which means 9 PM in Boston. We've settled into this schedule over the weeks, a nightly check-in that's become the anchor of my day. Sometimes we talk for an hour. Sometimes just ten minutes. But we always talk.
His face appears on my laptop screen, familiar and beloved, slightly pixelated by the station's unreliable wifi.
"Hey." He's in the apartment, the harbor visible through the window behind him. "How was sampling?"
"Canceled. Storm came in faster than predicted." I settle back against my pillow. "We reorganized the equipment shed instead. Very glamorous."
"Living the dream."
"Always." I study his face through the screen. "How was your day?"
"Good, actually. Went to the group my therapist recommended for people who overwork. It's mostly tech executives and one very intense surgeon."
"Did you bond over your shared inability to relax?"
"We bonded over our shared realization that relaxation is a skill, not a personality trait." He smiles. "I'm learning."
"I'm proud of you."
"Don't get too proud. I still checked my email during the meditation exercise."
"Baby steps."
We talk for a while about nothing important, the weather, his mother's relief after her appointment, Naomi's latest bakery creation.
I don't have to hurry to fit a whole day into a pause between his meetings.
He asks about Nessa, then waits while I find the photo I want to show him.
I wish I could put my cold feet under his leg while we talk.
I pull a blanket over my knees. "I talked to Claire yesterday. She called to check in on the project."
"How's she doing?"
"Good. She said I seem happier than I did at the presentation. More settled."
"Are you?"
I consider the question. "Yeah, actually. I think I am. Being here, doing this work, it's reminded me who I am outside of us. Which sounds terrible, but..."
"It doesn't sound terrible. It sounds healthy." Julian leans closer to the camera. "I want you to have a life that's yours. Not just a life with me. I should have understood that years ago."
"You understand it now. That's what matters."
We're quiet for a moment, just looking at each other across the distance.
Six weeks down, about seven to go. The time has passed faster than I expected, but I still miss him.
I miss his laugh and his terrible jokes and the way he hogs the blankets.
I miss the small, ordinary intimacy of sharing space with someone you love.
I reach for my laptop trackpad. "I've been thinking. About when I get back."
"Good thinking or bad thinking?"
"Good thinking. Planning thinking." I take a breath. "I don't want to go back to how things were. Not the apartment, not the old routines. I want something new. Something we build together."
"What did you have in mind?"
I pull up the browser tab I've had open for three days, a real estate listing I've been staring at instead of sleeping.
"I found this place. Near Cape Avalon, close to the water. It's got a separate study space, which I'd need for the lab equipment, and a garden that needs work, and it's probably more than we need but..."
I share my screen, and Julian's face disappears, replaced by the listing photos. A cottage with white trim and blue shutters. A view of the harbor. Rooms that could hold books and research equipment and a life we're still figuring out.
"Eliza." His voice is thick. "It's beautiful."
"I'm not saying we should buy it tomorrow. I'm not even saying we should buy this specific place. But I thought maybe, when I get home, we could look at things together. Find somewhere that's ours. Not yours, not mine. Ours."
The screen switches back to his face, and I can see him trying not to cry. Julian doesn't cry often, but when he does, it's always over the things that matter most.
He leans closer to the screen. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."
I send him the listing link, adding: Save this one for January.
His phone buzzes. He looks at it, then back at the camera, and smiles.
He looks back at the listing. "Saved. We'll see it together."