Chapter Nine
nine
adrian
We moved to the shade under the boat’s canopy, meager defense against the midday temps, but better than roasting out on deck without the ocean breeze to cool us off. Unfortunately, it’s a close fit for two in here, which means we’re now nearly chest-to-chest, and while I may be tied up in knots over the situation, I’ll never be too far gone not to be overcome by Hope’s beauty.
She doesn’t give any signs of suffering a similar distraction. “You want me to leave,” she says. Not true. All I ever wanted was for her to stay, but it’s too late for that. She crosses her arms. “I heard you arguing with Marissa earlier. You want me off the team.”
“That would imply you’re on it,” I say, and hurt flashes in her eyes. “I know it’s not your fault, but Marissa should’ve checked with me.”
“If it’s my qualifications you’re opposed to, you’re welcome to call my previous supervisor for a reference.”
“Hope, c’mon. You know I’m well aware you’re more than qualified.” I studied with her for countless exams, celebrated with her after she defended her thesis. We know each other’s résumés as well as our own, and hers would qualify her for many competitive jobs. Which is why I can’t understand why she’d want to be here.
“Under other circumstances...” My throat is dry, and I break off. If she was a stranger, it would be amazing to work with someone so knowledgeable and passionate about sharks. But I wouldn’t change our dating history, not for all the heartache in the world.
We were bound to run into one another again, but not like this. I can’t handle an entire summer of watching every possible what-if float through my mind. A summer of irrational hope that things might work out, only to be left behind again.
“You mean, like if we hadn’t dated?” she asks, giving voice to my thoughts, and her defiant tone makes my hackles rise.
How is she able to move past it so easily? I rake a hand over my head, forgetting the locs, her nearness transporting me back to when we were dating, and I wore my hair short. The brush of hair against my shoulders is a tangible reminder that things between us have changed, and this isn’t someone I can be open with, not someone who I can bare my soul to anymore.
Hope’s forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat, and I seize on the best way to keep my emotions in check: polite distance. Manners. Southern hospitality can be a two-edged sword.
“It’s hot out here.” I wave a hand toward a small cooler—not the one she tripped into earlier. “Would you like something to drink?”
She blinks at me. “Uh, yeah, actually.”
Gran always said common courtesy is a good place to start in tough times, and this is certainly one of those. I walk to the cooler I stocked with ice and sparkling water for Iris’s visit. Grab two cans and step back into the cockpit with Hope, handing her the blackberry one.
“You remembered.”
I look down at the can, confused. Then it hits me, I didn’t even think to ask which flavor she’d prefer. “Well, yeah. I...” No use covering up, so I shrug. “Yeah.”
The barest smile dents her cheek, but the sight lifts my heart, like the first glimpse of shoreline after a long day at sea. A bone-deep feeling of relief. Joy, even.
“Why’d you come?” The words sound harsher than I meant. An accusation instead of a question, and I try again. “You knew about me, and you came anyway.”
“Besides a job, you mean?” The chuckle she forces out is self-effacing, and I want to reach out for her hand, wrap my fingers around hers in reassurance.
She pops the lid on her water, a cool breath of vapor rising from the can. “I’ve been staying out of shark science,” she says. “Avoiding it, to be honest. Ever since we...” She presses her thumb against the can, denting the tin, but doesn’t say anything else.
She doesn’t have to. The way our relationship dwindled to an end is seared in my mind. After years of long-distance while she earned her master’s degree then worked with a nonprofit in Maryland, I was finishing up my PhD. We’d discussed what life would look like once I was out of school. About how we could finally be together, in the same city. But after years of dreaming and months of planning, when it came time to take action, she told me she wasn’t sure where she wanted to be long-term, and I shouldn’t base my next move on her.
All the breath left my lungs when she told me. Part of me had sensed a hesitancy during our recent calls, but I chalked that up to her aversion to make concrete plans in any area of her life. She’d schedule flights at the last minute, apply for jobs right before the window closed. So I didn’t think it meant anything that she’d always talked about our future in vague terms, because she always told me that she wanted to be with me, however that looked like, and we’d make it work.
And for years, we did. Even though the planner in me wanted specifics, I knew we had plenty of time to figure things out. But I never imagined we’d be apart indefinitely. That we wouldn’t try, at least, to find work near each other. That our relationship might be a series of near misses, getting close enough to touch until life flung us in opposite directions. I wasn’t sure I could live with a lifetime of that, even if the alternative was a lifetime without Hope.
We argued, over the phone, which is the worst. Didn’t hang up on each other, but ended with goodbyes, not I love yous . The hard thing about long-distance—what became the impossible thing—is you don’t see the person the next morning. There’s no breakfast table to make up at, no bed to wind up in at the end of the day, tangled up together until words flow freely and differences are resolved. We had no planned visit on the horizon, and I was too caught up in my head to broach the gap.
The silence stretched for days, until the phone finally rang. But when it did, Hope’s quavering voice was on the other end, telling me she was on her way to the airport, bound not for North Carolina, but Michigan, because her best friend’s husband had died.
Our fight became an afterthought, a complication. And eventually we became that, to each other.
The bark of a dog on a nearby boat shatters my musing, and I blink away the memory to find Hope biting her lip, the can clenched in her fist.
“I’ve been ready to come back for a while,” she says, running her thumb up to catch a drip of condensation on the can. My fingers curl against the memory of the same touch against my own skin. “But I was putting it off. Hadn’t searched job postings. I figured telling Marissa would be a good first step. Accountability. Motivation to quit worrying about how to pick up where I left off and get on with it.” She meets my eyes. “I never expected she’d invite me down here. But I couldn’t turn down such a great opportunity. And when she mentioned you—”
“I was the fine print you were willing to sign off on?”
Her mouth parts, but then she nods, never one to back away from the truth. “Pretty much. Gosh, that sounds terrible.”
I shrug. “I can relate, except I never got the chance.”
“To come to terms with seeing me again?”
Icy condensation from my own drink trickles down my palm, the droplets tepid as sweat by the time they reach my wrist. It’s baking out here, and I wish we could have this conversation while cruising the bay with a brisk wind to wick the sweat that’s settling into my skin, and the task of navigating to keep my hands busy, instead of here at the dock with nothing but heavy air between us. “A heads-up would’ve helped. But that’s not on you.”
“I thought about calling. Or texting. But it had been so long.” She raises the water to her lips, takes a long drink, throat working in a swallow. I shouldn’t stare, but after three years I’m greedy for the sight of her. She lowers the can and I look away, picking at the tab on my own drink. “Would’ve been nice to know I was walking into a movie set.”
It’s nothing like that, but in the end, it adds up to being in the public eye, which isn’t something she expected. “You really had no idea?”
She shakes her head, and it shouldn’t bother me that she never watched. Never saw how my life changed. But hearing Hope say how little I factored into her decision to join the project burns afresh. I should be happy that our breakup didn’t rock her world like it did mine. Should be glad to hear she’s unaffected, but I’m not. I’m shook.
For three years all I’ve thought of is Hope, and she didn’t even so much as spare me a Google search. She could be lying, but I know her tells. She was shocked as hell to see my page.
“I thought you blocked me at first,” I say. “When I stopped seeing your posts.”
“Blocked you?” Hope looks confused. “I didn’t—” Her eyes drop to her mug, fingers spinning the cup. “I don’t follow anyone anymore. I’m not on social media.”
“I know.” I asked Marissa to check when Hope disappeared, horrified by the idea that she’d been upset enough to block me. But finding out she’d deleted her accounts altogether made no sense. She was never a big fan of social media, but it seemed like such a drastic step. “Why though?”
“Is it so hard to think someone might want a break from all that?” she asks. “Surface-level connections? The urge to keep up, put on a good show?”
Her quick reply doesn’t ring true, but I’m on the defensive after Iris’s comment earlier. “So you think this is all a waste of time? Just an ego trip?”
“What? No.” She looks surprised that I took her comment that way, and I’m instantly embarrassed. “It just wasn’t for me.”
There’s more to it. I can hear it in the way she bites off the last words, like she’s pruning a branch before it bears fruit. I don’t want to push, but if she’s got a problem with social media, this job isn’t a good fit, regardless of our history. “What we do involves a lot of visibility. You sure that won’t be a problem for you?”
“Are you asking if I’m ready for my ten seconds of internet fame?” Her eyes shoot to mine in an instant, hesitancy replaced by a fire that kindles an answering one in my own chest, the spark that once united us eager for a match.
I lick my lips, afraid to ask, but desperate for the answer. “I’m asking if you left social media because of me.”
“You think I gave up social media for you?”
The incredulous for you is a scalpel, excising what meager hope I carried that she might still have feelings for me. Maybe she means to assuage my fears, tell me I’m not to blame, but all I hear is that I’m not worth the trouble.
She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, but it immediately springs free. “Despite the timing, I can assure you my departure from social media had nothing to do with us.” Formality is Hope’s tell. She’s no-nonsense, straight to the point. Maybe it’s the truth, but there’s more to the story.
Her face clouds over, mouth tightening. “Marissa may have been circumspect about the scope of your online presence, but she did let me know filming the shark work-ups was a component of the work y’all do. I figured it was for a blog or campus initiative. Not something of this scope.” She leans back and kicks out a leg, her knee brushing mine and I go still. “But regardless, I’m cool with it.”
Part of me is worried about what she’s left unsaid, but a bigger part is panicking now that there’s no way out. I’m going to be trapped on this boat, all summer, with her.
Silence stretches between us, a longline threaded with countless hooks. Diving into the waters between us seems foolhardy, but for this to work, we have to get comfortable with one another, and fast. She’s fidgeting, tapping her nail against the can, foot bouncing in a rhythm I feel under my soles.
I touch her wrist to pull her attention, a small brush of my fingertips, meaningless with anyone else, but Hope goes still, pupils flared, a visible manifestation of the thrum of my own telltale pulse.
“Why are you really here?” I ask. “Of all the places to start over. Why here?”
She frowns. “Isn’t it obvious? The sharks.”
I laugh at how quickly the reply came. “You haven’t changed.” Discovering she’s the same Hope I fell in love with is bittersweet.
“You have.” Her reply knocks me off-balance. “Here, at least.” She draws a finger along her cheek, and my thumb finds its way to my own jaw, mirroring her movement. “And here.” She crosses her arms to palm her own shoulders, and though she’s not touching me, my skin prickles with heat. “How do you find the time to lift weights?”
“Haven’t slept well the past few years.” I swallow, barely breathing at the sense of imagined contact. At how much I want her to touch me for real.
“Since we...” She breaks off, eyes meeting mine. “Since I left?”
My throat is dry with the effort of forcing down the urge to reach out and draw her close, but I manage a nod. “Yeah, since then.”
“And you got a boat?”
I shift, uneasy, thinking of the name on the bow. A wish that came true in the most unexpected way. “It helps to have guaranteed access to a boat. I tried to convince Marissa to be part owner but she said since I had to sacrifice my dignity, I may as well enjoy the spoils.”
“Your dignity?” Hope’s confused tone throws me before I realize just because she saw a glimpse of our socials doesn’t mean she knows how it all began.
“All this came about after a video of me went viral.”
She tilts her head. “A video you didn’t create? One you had no control over?”
Looks like time apart didn’t affect Hope’s ability to infer exactly how something so far outside my comfort zone would affect me. “Yeah. Some bystanders recorded footage of me and uploaded it on the internet. It trended for a while.” Even now, when I’m used to the scrutiny, the sheer number of humans who’ve witnessed a random moment of my life makes me queasy. “But it’s not the video that bothered me so much as people’s reactions.”
Hope nods, expression grim. “People. They’re the worst.”
I clear my throat to cover a laugh. “People,” I say in somber agreement, though Hope shoots me a side-eye that has my lips twitching.
“Can I see it?”
Why not? Seems like everyone else has. Last I checked, months ago, the views were over thirty million. The popularity of the video is half the reason we’re standing here on this boat. But if she sees it, she might view me in a different light, and I kind of like that to her, I’m still the Adrian from Before. “I won’t, if you don’t want me to.” She means it. I know in my bones that she would respect my wishes and not search for it later.
I take a seat on the bench and rub the back of my neck. “The video’s not the problem.” I sigh and backtrack. “None of it’s a problem. I love what I do—what we do. I love educating people about sharks.”
“But...” she says, settling onto the bench opposite me.
“But it’s weird that I got recognition in the field over my pecs, not my research.”
Her gaze drops to my chest and a flush heats my cheeks. “Gotta admit, I’m really curious about the video now,” she says with a wry grin, and I let out a surprised laugh. “But you know full well you get recognition for your research. None of our peers would collaborate with you if it weren’t for your outstanding qualifications.”
She’s right. Our colleagues don’t mess around when it comes to credentials. “Are you saying I should suck it up and get over it in the name of science?”
“Absolutely not. You have every right to not like that piece of it.” She crosses her arms, her T-shirt sliding off one shoulder, exposing a peek of collarbone that my Hope-starved eyes latch onto. “But from the sound of it, you’ve found a way to turn that initial wave of fame into something far beyond your looks. And I’m not surprised in the slightest.”
My heart soars at her frank praise. Even though there’s no future for us, if she’s going to stay, we need to rebuild our trust on a professional level. This would be a start. I grab my phone and search for the video, then pass it over.
Her brow furrows as she holds the phone close to her face, shaded by one hand, and reads the title aloud. “Sexy scientist saves beachgoers from monster shark?”
I blow out an irritated breath. “The standard sensationalized language that does sharks no favors.”
“As if the shark grew legs and is running amuck on a crowded beach.” She gives an indignant shake of her head, the curls in her loose bun bobbing with the movement.
A small chuckle escapes me, despite the embarrassment. “Best not give Hollywood any ideas.”
Then her thumb hits the play button and nerves quell my laughter. I shift my focus to a nearby cabin cruiser on its third attempt at docking. The passengers in life jackets are calling out conflicting instructions to the frustrated man at the wheel, his face flushed red, and I feel my own cheeks burning as Hope watches the clip.
I know what she’s seeing. Me on the beach in red swim trunks, instructing the crowd to step back and give the animal space. Me checking in with the young angler, caught up in fishing line and fear. Me bending over the blacktip shark to pull it into the waves, off the hot sand.
Hope sucks her teeth. “Why didn’t he release it right away?”
“They wanted a photo-op.” I point to the screen, the sting of watching the video receding. “See the rest of the group there?” Hope nods. “Things got out of hand.”
The video ends and she passes back my phone. “You did good.”
I shrug. “I work with sharks for a living.”
“But you were chilling at the beach. You weren’t expecting to have to defuse a situation with a wild animal and a crowd of onlookers.” Her words are an encouragement I didn’t know I needed. “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of.”
My lips twist in a rueful smile. “Guess you didn’t read the comments.”
“About you being the world’s most eligible shark scientist?” Her smile is the slightest tease. At least she didn’t mention the ones about the red swimsuit. “That part at least seems to be true, judging by your Instagram.”
“I don’t want to be—” I bite off the rest of the sentence. I never wanted to be the world’s most eligible anything. I wanted to be taken, claimed by Hope. Now all I want is to forget about that side of me. The part that yearns for love, a relationship. Love is unpredictable and I have enough instability in my life.
I lift my hips and shove my phone in my pocket, rethinking that when I remember my shorts are still damp. “Anyway, I decided I could either wait for it to go away or make something better of it, like Marissa suggested. So I started uploading sharky content to YouTube. Shared informative videos about shark research and conservation. Grew our platform with worthy content that I could control.”
“And now this.” Hope casts an assessing glance around the boat, and I try not to squirm when her appraisal lands on me. “I can see why you’re protective of what you’ve created.” Her eyes are soft, and all I can think of in that moment is how much better it would be with her here. How much I’ve missed her. How I’m not worried about protecting my work, it’s my heart on the line. “Do you still want me to leave?”
With her here, there’s no hope of moving on. But can I put aside my feelings for her sake? We fell in love the first summer we met. Maybe this will be the summer I finally get over her.