Chapter Thirteen
thirteen
adrian
One day. I went one day without Hope after years, and yet I’m already craving her like oxygen. The wise thing to do would be to stay away, see her only in the context of the field study. Unfortunately, she’s staying at my cousin’s all summer, and tonight Marissa is hosting pizza night, a monthly tradition that often includes brainstorming sessions.
It would’ve been wise to stay away this time, but my excuse for not skipping was the giant pile of dirty clothes by my closet. My washer gave out last week, and I haven’t gotten around to getting it fixed. May as well do laundry here and save a trip to the laundromat. Besides, I promised Hope I would treat her like any other colleague. If she was any other scientist stepping in for the summer, I’d be eager to make her feel welcome in our tight-knit crew, and pizza night is the perfect icebreaker.
I transfer the load of towels to the dryer and leave my hideout before the others start to wonder what’s up. The moment I arrived, Marissa informed me tonight we’re making homemade pizza rather than ordering in—team building, she called it. Really just a way to get Hope and I used to each other through forced proximity, like building up an immunity.
Marissa stationed me on dough duty at the opposite end of the counter from Hope, who’s perched on a barstool, her hair freed from its usual ponytail and floating around her shoulders in juicy curls. She’s smiling wide at Gabe’s favorite story—how diving with a whale shark led him to a career shift from land to sea—and the rapt look on her face, lush lips parted, eyes sparkling with interest, has me transfixed.
Next to me, Marissa’s rinsing cherry tomatoes in a colander. She bumps my shoulder and mutters, “Quit staring, creep.”
I narrow my eyes but return my attention to the pizza dough under my flour-dusted fingers, pressing it into a lopsided disk. “Wasn’t staring.”
“Were too.” Trust Marissa to call me out. “Thought you two agreed to keep things strictly business.”
“We did.” I clear my throat and lower my voice. “We are.”
“Mm-hm.” She packs far too much doubt into those two syllables. “You’re going to have to do a more convincing job of acting like it next time we’re on the boat.”
“I don’t need the reminder.” I haven’t been able to think of anything else, but that doesn’t mean I’m closer to solving it. “Hope was the one who panicked,” I add, right as Marissa shuts off the faucet.
My words hang in the sudden stillness. The only noise is the splatter of droplets pinging into the sink from the colander. Gabe cuts his eyes toward Hope, then back to me, silently saying, Fix this!
Knuckle-deep in pizza dough, escape is impossible. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t...” I find the courage to meet Hope’s eyes and am devastated to see no traces of her calm happiness from a moment ago. My fault. “We should’ve prepped you better. Plenty of the scientists we work with get stage fright.” But I’ve never seen Hope shy away from public speaking, which is what makes her obvious nerves so baffling.
“Happens to the best of us,” Gabe says. “Why do you think I’m the one holding the camera?”
Hope huffs out a chuckle. “Nervous as I was, I’d much rather be the one working with the sharks.” The laugh seems forced, but I know the sentiment isn’t. The work wasn’t what threw her off. Was it me?
Marissa dumps the tomatoes onto a kitchen towel. “The problem is, if people watching notice your nerves, they might attribute it to you being nervous to handle the sharks.”
Hope’s eyebrows go up, like she never considered the possibility. “The sharks were the only thing keeping me halfway chill.” She picks up a basil stem and plucks the leaves off, piling them on the cutting board. Her fingers are long and capable, the nails clipped short and bare.
Those same fingers have locked with mine countless times, massaged knotted muscles in my shoulders after long days in the lab—skin against heated skin—slipped around my waist during sunset walks on the beach, and molded against my body later, on the couch, the bed...
Memories like these, even the innocent ones, make it dangerously hard to maintain a fa?ade of professionalism.
“I did some research,” she says, and I pull my attention back to the conversation. “Watched some of your recent videos so I have a better idea of what to expect.”
My hands go still on the dough, and I keep my head down, but my pulse is racing. She watched our content? That’s what I always dreamed of, catching her attention again, showing her that losing her didn’t wreck me. But she only watched because she’s committed to doing her best, not out of interest in me. She’s sticking to the plan, and I need to get onboard.
“Practice might help too.” I keep my tone casual to let her know I’m trying to find a solution, not find fault. “Filming something that’s not for the channel. Just to take the edge off your nerves.”
She shakes her head. “It’s the idea of permanence, that people will be able to watch and rewatch the video, that makes me tense.” Her shoulders hitch up toward her ears, like even talking about it is stressful. She scoops up the chopped basil and dumps it into a bowl, the golden-brown skin of her arms pebbled with goose bumps that I suspect have nothing to do with the air-conditioning.
“If I know the video won’t be shared,” she says, “I don’t think I’ll feel the same pressure.”
The oven beeps, signaling it’s preheated, and Gabe sets a sheet pan on the stovetop. “Easy solution. We film a shark-free segment to introduce you. Take the boat out to the bay and let you talk a bit about your background, what got you into shark research, that sort of thing. That way you won’t have to worry about doing any actual science while you get your jitters out.”
Hope brightens at this, sitting up higher on the barstool, and her eager look is back. So cute I have to bite down on my lip. “I’m game for that. Could I write myself a script?”
Gabe pauses, clearly giving it thought. “I’m not going to stop you, but it might be a better preparation for the rest of the summer if you don’t. All our content is unscripted, hence why Adrian never wants to livestream. We can edit whatever doesn’t work, but it keeps the consistency.”
“Problem is,” Marissa chimes in, “we’re assisting a team from Charleston next week. They’re performing ultrasounds on pregnant sharks.”
“You’re doing ultrasounds?” The glee in Hope’s voice should be contagious, but it just amps up my anxiety over everything going well.
Marissa nods. “We’ve been hoping to showcase a variety of field research techniques, so this has been in the works for a while.”
“Which means there’s a lot at stake.” All eyes shift to me, but this is the element that unnerves me the most. “Bringing in other researchers means they’re putting their trust in us to show their work in a positive light. We’ve got to make sure everyone is at their best.”
The excitement in Hope’s bright brown eyes hasn’t dimmed, but a new determination shows in the set of her shoulders. “Then if it’s not too much trouble, maybe we could film the practice segment tomorrow.”
But Gabe’s already shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m headed to Bimini. Filming with a buddy of mine. Though of course you could do it without me.”
He dumps the tomatoes Marissa washed onto the sheet pan and drizzles olive oil on them, then turns to us with a slight frown. “I could leave my old camera behind—”
“Won’t work,” Marissa says. “I’ve got the meeting with Roger tomorrow, and weather looks rough the rest of the week. No good filming an intro in rough seas with the boat pitching around.” Roger Bauer is the head of a local ocean conservation nonprofit, and we’ve been trying to partner with them for a series of videos about the work they do. Roger’s got a great reputation, but he’s old-school enough that our first few attempts to set up a meeting were met with polite rebuttals.
“Oh yeah.” Gabe jostles the sheet pan on the stove to distribute the oil, the metal grating against the burner plates. “You’ve been angling for that opportunity for months.”
I groan but Hope chuckles. “Double points for the fishy pun.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn her. “He only does it to get under my skin.”
“A noble endeavor.” Hope plucks an olive from the bowl in front of her. “Adrian cultivates pet peeves like houseplants,” she says.
“Sure does,” Gabe says. “Got any insider tips on how best to pester him?”
Her eyes dart to mine, like she’s realized we overstepped a boundary. Instead of answering, she shoves an olive into her mouth and shrugs. One of her cheeks is bulging, and she looks so innocent that I lick my lips, fighting a smile.
Marissa steps up next to me and leans on the counter, watching us. I don’t like the gleam in her eyes. “Come to think of it,” she says, “you two could film it by yourselves.”
“You two as in—” Hope gestures between herself and me “—us?” She sounds like she’d rather undergo a root canal. “Just Adrian and me?” she repeats, sounding even more forlorn, if that were possible.
Would it be so terrible to be alone together? My mind flashes to our tumultuous reunion—her soaked skin and tumbling curls, the inadvertent embrace on deck. Not terrible, tortuous.
“Yeah,” Marissa says. “It would be a great way to tease the ultrasound series. Talk about the importance of estuaries and how brackish waters serve an important role as shark nurseries. You two should be fine on your own, unless that’s an issue?” She’s calling our commitment into question. No choice but to agree or else appear unprofessional.
“Not an issue for me.” Hope raises her brows, passing the challenge to me.
I swallow. Hope and I alone on a boat. With a video camera to record the drama. “I think we could handle it.” My throat is dry, but I paste on a smile. Teamwork. I can do this, in theory.
Marissa tosses the dish towel over one shoulder. “Good, then that’s settled.”
Settled. Since I met Hope, nothing about my life has ever felt settled. Her infectious ability to dive headfirst into her interests is part of what drew me to her, but also what pushed us apart.
I scoop up a handful of cornmeal and dust the wooden pizza peel, then slide the dough onto it. With that all set and awaiting sauce, I step over to scope out the toppings. Hope’s cutting cherry tomatoes, an array of bowls laid out on the counter in front of her—far more toppings than we usually get. Pepperoni and basil, fresh mozzarella, Kalamata and Spanish olives, sausage draining on a paper towel, and slices of prosciutto.
The sheer variety is another sign of Hope’s influence, of how she’s always up for trying new things, testing assumptions. An excellent quality in a scientist, but on paper, not a good match for someone like me who craves steadiness in their personal life. But we brought out the best in each other, complemented one another. With her gone, I became more cautious. I never would’ve sought out a shift in my career if Marissa hadn’t convinced me the viral moment was a chance to make a huge difference for shark conservation. Hope would’ve seized the opportunity, just like she rose to the challenge of filming with us.
Reaching for a can of artichokes, I pitch my voice low. “About what Marissa said...”
She glances up. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay with it. I don’t want you to feel pressured to work one-on-one with me.” Translation: please change your mind so I don’t have to go through with it. “This can’t be what you signed on for.”
She sets down the paring knife, juicy seeds clinging to the blade. “Being alone with you? On camera?” She makes a face. “Not so much. But she might be onto something.”
“Marissa?” I ask, and Hope coughs out a laugh.
“Don’t sound so surprised. It’s happened once or twice.”
I let out a grunt of grudging affirmation just to wheedle a smile out of her, gratified when it works.
“But yeah, I actually think it’s a solid idea,” she says. “We haven’t worked together in a while, but we know each other well. It’s lower stakes than in front of a boatful of scientists.” She rubs her hands down her thighs in a tense motion, fingers splayed on the bare skin below her cotton shorts. The hem is rolled up, and I swallow against the urge to smooth it down. My fingers curl at the remembered sensation of her skin beneath my fingertips, pliant and soft...
Yeah, we know each other well. But I don’t think it will make me any more at ease tomorrow.
“Besides, who better to talk about brackish waters than your resident freshwater biologist?”
“Can you imagine what twenty-two-year-old Hope would have to say about that title?”
Hope waves that off. “What did she know?” That she loved me, for one thing. “I’d tell her that life is full of surprises. And I’d show her where I am now. Back where I belong.” She’s talking about work, but part of me can’t help but think she’s right in more ways than one.
Every time I stop overthinking and let instinct take over, it feels natural to be around her. But twenty-two-year-old me thought he knew a lot that proved to be wrong as well. He didn’t have the experience of losing her. He still had hope, if only for that summer.
“It would be a cool segue though, right?” Hope asks, and I nod, trying to catch up. “I could talk about coming from the freshwater of my home state to the salinity of the ocean?”
“It would, yeah.” I hadn’t considered that perspective, but trust Hope to see a new angle. To see the value in all her experiences, when I tend to discount any that don’t lead directly to a goal.
“Then I’m down for it.” She taps the top of the can of artichokes. “Mind handing me the can opener?”
“I’ve got it.” I slide it toward myself, but she places her hand on mine, stopping me.
When I look up, her eyes are alight. “Sure you can handle it? We all know your track record with can openers.”
I cannot believe she’s bringing this up, but I’m ready to defend my honor. “That was not my fault.” One rainy night, we decided to make soup, but I’d recently moved, and my can opener got lost along the way. The only place open that late was a dollar store, so we bought one, but I couldn’t get it to work. “That can opener was faulty.”
“Worked fine for me,” she says, eyes sparkling, and her words bring me back in time. I was standing at the counter, exhausted and grumbling. Hope took it from me and opened the can on the first try. I’d slipped my arms around her waist and bent to kiss her neck. “Where would I be without you?”
Now I know where I’d be, and I’d wish away the knowledge if I could. Take us back to the beginning and start over. But I don’t see what I’d do differently. We were long-distance for half a decade, and Hope wanted to prolong that, indefinitely. Our breakup was inevitable from the moment we met. Different relationship goals, even though our life goals align.
I blink away the memory, embarrassed I can’t seem to forget these small moments, and open the can with quick turns, then drain the artichokes over the sink and return them to her in a bowl. Step back, away from her tantalizing nearness. We’re better off sticking to the boundaries of work. Her joining the crew was just what I needed to finally get over her.