Chapter Sixteen
sixteen
hope
“Those aren’t mine,” Adrian says. He’s standing outside Marissa’s door, and I plan to keep it that way. Inviting him in would be dangerously close to letting him into my life, the opposite of what I came down here to do.
The first text I sent bordered on flirtatious, but I rationalized it by telling myself I had to ease his obvious nerves. I tried to course-correct with the follow-up, and it appears he has the same plan, judging by the way he took a noticeable step backward when I opened the door, keeping a professional distance between us.
“They aren’t?” I drop my eyes to the towels in my arms. Right after he texted, I searched for them and found them atop the dryer. I put them on the entryway table so they’d be ready to go the moment he knocked. No need for small talk or lingering in the doorway.
But my plan was thwarted when he shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts instead of taking the towels. “Mine are striped.”
There are only two striped towels in the condo to my knowledge, but I hope I’m wrong. “Gray and blue?”
“Yes.” He elongates the word with a wariness that’s fully warranted.
“Those are in the washer.” Have I been using his towels all week? Feels like I invaded his privacy, which is ridiculous. “Prior to that, they were wadded up on the bathroom floor.” Sabotaged by the awkward explanation, I put on a cheery smile. “So really, could be worse.”
So much for a brief, businesslike interaction to set the tone for the rest of the summer.
“You...” He clears his throat, a guttural rasp that weakens my knees. “You’ve been using my towels?”
The way he says it is faintly accusatory, like I’m some sort of creep. Which, ironically, is how I felt a moment ago, but indignation takes over. “Not like that!”
“Like what?”
“I didn’t know they were yours! You make it sound like I’m a towel bandit.”
His laugh is a tangible thing, dancing along my skin like a forbidden caress. “Wasn’t aware there were specialized designations of bandits.” He’s teasing me, and I should steer the conversation back to neutral ground, but I can’t help playing along.
“You should be grateful,” I reply. “You’re getting freshly washed towels.”
“I know, I’m the one who washed them,” he says.
“But you left them in the dryer. If I hadn’t used them, the humidity would’ve seeped in and left them mildewy. If you think about it, I did you a favor.” I raise my brows, not minding how dangerously close we are to flirting. “You owe me, if anything.”
“So not only did you steal my towels—”
“Borrowed. And not on purpose.”
He keeps talking like I hadn’t interrupted, an unmistakable twinkle in his onyx eyes. “But you’re also holding them hostage in hopes of a token of gratitude?”
“Hostage?”
He shrugs, the motion highlighting his deltoid muscles under the short-sleeve Henley. “If the bandit shoe fits...”
“Oh my gosh, really?” I’m grinning, though.
“Kidding, Hope.” He cracks a wide smile. “What’s mine is yours.” An offhand remark, but his eyes widen.
What’s mine is yours. He always said that when we were dating, whether it was his hoodie or his notes from a seminar he thought might interest me. Clearly, he’s also venturing into a dangerous place, outside the boundary we’ve drawn, where the pain of our breakup is fading in light of our time together.
I shouldn’t have replied to his text. Should’ve waited until Marissa was here and—
His phone chimes, and a half second later my pocket vibrates. Weird. I shift the towels to one arm and pull out my phone. An email notification. I tap and discover it’s from Gabe.
Subject: Ready for your Shark Science Crew debut?
Adrian is CC’d using the same email he’s always had, and it’s odd to think he was so reachable, if only I hadn’t given up. Pushing the thought aside, I open the email and discover a video link entitled: Freshwater Biologist Talks Sharks?
Nauseated, I clamp my mouth shut tight. I know it’s worded as a question to entice clicks, not to call my credentials into question, but the phrasing brings up all the feelings of inadequacy from the council meeting.
“‘ Shark Science Crew debut’? C’mon now.” Adrian sounds amused, and I look over and find him looking at his phone, a grudging half smile creasing his bearded cheek. “Hate when he rhymes on purpose,” he mutters.
He glances up, takes one look at me, and says, “Hey, nothing’s final yet.” Stepping forward, he closes the distance between us, dark eyes soft with concern. His solid presence infuses my senses, soaking into me like being submerged in sun-warmed waves. “Why don’t we watch it together, then you can tell me how you feel about us sharing it.”
“Here?” My voice is breathless, but I don’t bother trying again.
He raises his eyes, looking past me into the empty apartment, no doubt noticing my bed set up in the corner, the blankets rumpled in inviting disarray. Above the open collar of his shirt, his throat bobs in a distracting swallow.
When he speaks, his voice is husky. “Have you eaten?”
Wind blows the sandwich wrapper against my face, and I wrinkle my nose against the itch, but the first bite of crispy battered shrimp and toasted roll is euphoria. I ordered on instinct, barely glancing at the menu before deciding what meal would best conquer my seafood cravings, and totally nailed it.
I swallow down the bite and ask, “Why is it that food tastes better by the beach?”
The ocean is visible over the railing behind Adrian, steps away from our table at a restaurant Adrian told me he discovered last year. The sound of rolling waves echoes our past seaside dinners. Shared meals that float at the edges of my memory like the Edison bulbs strung from the pergola above, casting a warm glow.
I tell myself that remembering won’t hurt, that I have to acknowledge the good along with the bad if I want to move on. Don’t know if it’s true, but it feels good to take a break from trying to forget. The drive over was quiet, and we haven’t discussed my irrational hesitation to upload the video, given that the purpose of filming content is to share it.
Adrian tears a ketchup packet open with his teeth. The flash of canines does something indecent to me. “Agree to disagree.” He’s got a napkin squeezed between his arm and torso, and flinches when a gust of wind sends loose sand skittering along the decking underfoot. “Beach picnics are the worst. I’d rather go hungry.”
“This from the man who brought a tub of leftover lasagna onto Sinclair’s boat for a two-hour trip?”
His shoulders shake in silent laughter, cheeks bulging with food he swallows with a visible gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the undone top button of his shirt. I’ve got to stop paying such close attention to him. He’s caught me a few times, but with a perplexed look, like he has no clue how irresistible he is.
“‘I said snacks, Adrian,’” he intones in an attempt at a British accent, eyes alight. “‘If it requires a fork, it’s a meal.’ Joke was on him though—” he wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb “—I ate that shit like a sandwich.”
I’m giggling now, the image of Adrian two-fisting the slice of cold lasagna rooted in my memory. “You’re a mess, Hollis-Parker.” The wind shifts again, bringing the smell of fisherman’s bait from the nearby pier to my nostrils, and I swallow, then say, “How is it that you grew up spending summers on the coast, but can’t handle a little sand in your sandwich?”
He chuckles. “Ask Marissa how annoying I used to be about it. I would always say I wasn’t hungry, but then her mom would make me a meal when we got back.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. “She complained it wasn’t fair, but Aunt Kim was on my side. We’d eat a sand-free meal at the table while my cousins grumbled.”
I smile, surprised to hear a new story about his childhood, wanting to ask more, but not sure if it’s wise. “Zuri’s with you on that one,” I tell him, deciding to keep things in safe territory. “Says sand belongs at the beach and nowhere else.”
“Certainly not in your mouth,” he agrees, affronted. “Sand stays in your teeth forever.”
“Kind of like the image of you double-fisting that slice of cold lasagna.” I press my knuckles to my lips to stop laughing before I accidentally inhale the food I’m chewing.
“You should see the approved snack list he added to the syllabus. Colin forwarded it to me and—”
“Oh my gosh, Colin.” I haven’t thought of him in years. One downside to not seeing people’s life updates pop up online. “It’s been so long since we spoke. What’s he up to these days?”
Adrian reaches for the saltshaker. “He’s with NOAA now. Married, too. Went to his wedding last year.” He sets down the shaker and looks at me, eyes inky pools in the sapphire light of dusk. “You went full ghost, huh?”
“Guess I did.” I gulp, though I haven’t taken another bite. “Hard to watch from the sidelines, so I stopped trying. But I’m here now.”
“Where will you go next?” His tone is casual, but I know Adrian. This is the question he’s always thinking about, planning for. What next?
But we’re just working together, and I don’t need to bare my soul, so I brush crumbs from my fingers, feigning nonchalance. “Not sure. I didn’t expect Marissa to offer me this opportunity, but now I’ve got all summer to figure it out.”
His brows inch up, almost imperceptibly, and if we were dating, he’d make a comment about how three months—two and a half now—is not a lot of time. Ask how anyone is supposed to plan when they don’t know where they’ll be next season. But we’re not, and he doesn’t.
“A lot can change in a summer,” he says, and though I let my eyes linger a moment too long on his handsome face, I see no condemnation in his expression.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the family at the next table over jostling one another. They’re huddled over their phones, glancing at the screens, then over at us. The man who appears to be the father, a balding guy with a pink sunburn, pushes back from the table. “I’m not scared to ask,” he tells the others.
I glance toward Adrian, who straightens up, like he’s bracing himself.
“Hey-o,” the stranger says, approaching the table, and it’s clear he’s had a few drinks. “You the shark dude?”
Adrian smiles, his eyes darting toward the rest of the group, and I follow his gaze to see the kid has his phone out. “Maybe.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Adrian Hollis-Parker. I share a lot of videos about shark science.”
The man guffaws, loud even amidst the music and dining chatter. “Knew it had to be you, but what are the chances, my man?” He takes Adrian’s hand and pumps it. “Your content is the real deal. My boys and I absolutely can’t get enough, but my wife says I’m crazy.”
I turn and find the woman making a shooing motion. “Harry, you’re embarrassing yourself. Get back here and let him eat in peace.”
He lets go and steps back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t bother you at your meal. Probably wouldn’t have if it weren’t for that last daiquiri. Vacation. You know how it is.” He tugs at the hem of his polo. “I’ll leave you to your meal.”
“Wait.” The boy hurries over, holding out a napkin. “Dad wanted to get your autograph for my little brother. He’s sick at the hotel with my grandma.”
“You don’t need to—” the man starts, but Adrian waves him off.
“Happy to.” He stoops to rummage in the bag I noticed him carrying in and comes up with a ballpoint pen, the brand he always liked for notes. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Patrick,” the kid says, then adds, “actually, could you make it out to Curt, too? I watch your stuff sometimes.”
Hunched over the table, Adrian smiles up at him. “Of course.” He hands over the napkin, and the boy holds it flat, careful not to wrinkle it.
“Cool. Thanks.”
The woman has been watching with a smile. When Adrian glances over, she tells him, “That’s really kind of you.” She beckons the others. “Now you two, get back here and let him enjoy his meal before it gets cold.”
They thank Adrian, but once they’re seated again, I notice them huddled around the kid’s phone.
I lean forward and ask Adrian, “Did they take a video?”
He finishes chewing his bite of crab cake, then swallows. “Probably.”
“And that’s a normal occurrence?”
The food on my plate, so appetizing a moment ago, seems unappealing. Adrian handled the interaction like a pro, but I don’t know if I could do the same. What if someone had filmed me talking to the woman on the beach the day Zuri fired me? Instead of autographs, I’d be meme-ified.
“It doesn’t happen that often, and it took me a while to get used to,” Adrian says, picking up on my mood. “But now I just think of them like students who come up to me after class. Makes it less weird.”
“You get a lot of students asking for your autograph?”
He laughs. “Sadly, no. Most of them are immune to my coolness, I think.”
“That tracks,” I say, grinning. But part of me is still concerned whether this is a smart move for my career. This is a far cry from my usual behind-the-scenes research. On the flip side, three years out of the field is a long hiatus, and appearing on his channel would be tangible proof of my ability to do the job with competence.
“I guess I should be more concerned with our video than theirs.” Without giving myself the chance to delay, I pull my phone out of my purse. While I’m scrolling for the email, a loud screech reaches my ears and I look up to find Adrian pushing away from the table. He rises and carries the heavy wrought iron chair around the table.
Transfixed, I watch him—solid and strong as ever, but now his muscles pop in a distracting way I’m not used to—and only jolt out of the daze when he sets the chair next to mine.
I look up—way up, because he’s even taller than I remember—and ask, “Are you making room for someone else?”
“What? No.” He digs in the bag and sets a tablet next to my plate. “Thought this might make it easier.” He pauses, hands clenched around the chair back, so tightly that his knuckles pop, and all I can think is those same hands fisted in the skirt of my dress, dragging me up against him—
“Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve asked before moving over here. I’m trying...”
“It’s okay,” I hear myself saying, surprisingly calm for someone whose entire body is aflame. “That’s why we came.”
I take a sip of my drink, sucking long and hard on the straw while he gets situated next to me, knees bumping mine. The icy liquid sends shivers down my spine but does nothing to cool my desire. I need to stop reacting to him like this, but it’s tough when he’s being so thoughtful. Not just thoughtful, professional .
The waiter walks over and I startle upright. “Can I get you anything else, or are we all good here?”
I can’t speak for Adrian, but no, I am not all good. His touch left me muddled and befuddled and all sorts of rhyming words he’d doubtless detest.
“Could we get some tea?” Adrian says. “Unsweet for her.”
The waiter turns toward me, hand on his hip. “’Course. Where are you visiting from?”
“Uh, Michigan, originally.”
He smirks like I proved his hunch, which of course I did. “Be right back with y’all’s tea.”
“Not visiting?” Adrian raises his brows.
“Okay, maybe it was a half-truth. But a person should be allowed to drink tea however they please.”
He grins. “You are allowed to. Just so happens to be that our way is the correct way.”
“Oh, please.” I push his arm in a friendly, get-outta-here nudge that doesn’t feel so platonic when my fingertips connect with his solid bicep. My breath catches, and I pull away, remembering I’m supposed to be keeping my distance.
His answer is a throaty laugh and I narrow my eyes, which only seems to encourage him. “Since you brought it up...” He lifts his chin toward my sandwich. “I notice you’re getting your fill of real seafood.”
“Real seafood, really? We have amazing seafood back home.”
“Can it really be called seafood if it’s not from the sea?”
“Semantics,” I say. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had fresh caught bluegill fried up with some boiled potatoes on the side. And up in northern Michigan they make the most amazing smoked trout.”
“Smoked? As in not fresh?” His dark eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“As in delicious.” I settle back in the chair. “Now, back to business.” After a steadying breath, I gesture toward the tablet. “Let’s do this before I get second thoughts.”
He glances sharply at me, then must think better of saying what came to mind. Instead, he tilts the screen in my direction.
On-screen, my hair is up in a ponytail that fans out behind my head, face framed against the blue-brown water and cord grass, the green fading to a tawny yellow below the high-tide line. My eyes aren’t on the camera but something above it—Adrian’s face, I realize as he pushes Play. The clip starts with a few shots of me gesturing, my muted words overplayed by music, then transitions to Adrian’s introduction.
It’s excruciating to watch myself at first, and I forget to listen for slip-ups I’d like edited out. But next to me, Adrian’s presence is calming. Steady but not intrusive. Slowly, I settle in, allowing myself the space to watch objectively. He sips his sweet tea and I munch my sandwich and try to absorb the footage like it’s a stranger and not my own self.
The wind shifts, blowing in off the ocean and the strings of lights sway in the gust, causing a glare. He adjusts the tablet and leans closer, bringing our legs into contact below the table.
I do my best to regain my concentration, but it’s hard to ignore the enticing contrast of his twill shorts and the hard muscle of his thighs against my freshly-shaved skin. My jean shorts, which I didn’t give any thought to before, now feel like only the barest scrap of fabric, rucked tight against my thighs, and I squirm, skin pricked with goose bumps in defiance of the humid warmth.
Adrian glances over. “Cold? I’ve got a sweatshirt in my SUV.”
I shake my head. No way will I risk accidentally keeping another one of his hoodies. We return our attention to the screen. Gabe’s edited out the lulls and awkward takes and condensed the video into a concise ten minutes and eighteen seconds.
When it ends, Adrian clicks the screen dark and settles back in the chair. The muffled rush of gentle waves takes over, the sun nearing the horizon. Twilight hovers outside the patio; the server comes to bus a nearby table, and still Adrian keeps quiet, his breathing a comforting rhythm next to me. He’s giving me space to evaluate, to think. This is what I wanted from him when I asked to put our plans for the move on hold, and which he gave me in a permanent form when he stopped calling and stepped out of my life for good.
The thought breaks the spell of connection, and I finish the last bite of my sandwich. “It turned out well.”
“I think so too.” He pulls the tablet into his lap, and his arm brushes mine, all rigid muscle and soft skin. “You did a fantastic job of breaking down the information into palpable pieces,” he says.
“Is that a fancy way of saying I dumbed it down?”
“For making science accessible?” He shakes his head, loose locs slipping over his forehead, and he swipes them back with a reproving grin. “C’mon now, Evans. Don’t go Ivory Tower on me. Not everyone has the time or expertise to plow through peer-reviewed articles every day.”
“And this is why misinformation abounds.”
“Agreed, but we’re meeting people where they’re at with actual science. Don’t tell me you’re still on team ‘Social Media and Science Don’t Belong in the Same Sentence’?”
I smile, remembering our discussions on this topic in the past. I didn’t have a strong opinion on it, and Adrian was still forming his, but we liked to play devil’s advocate with each other, testing each other’s argument for weakness. Debating as foreplay, I realize, looking back.
He straightens up, pivoting toward me, eyes gone bright with passion, and it’s impossible not to be captivated by him. “Sharks don’t get their fair shake in the media. And with all the bad press and downright unscientific material being shared, we’re offering easily digestible, factual information.”
When he puts it like that, his decision to share these videos makes a whole lot more sense. Basically, my one-woman paddleboard speeches, but with efficacy and a broad reach. Being a part of this outreach could actually benefit my career in a bigger way than typical field experience.
I hesitate, though. This is the point of no return. Once our video goes live, I’m in it, officially a part of the crew for the summer. Stuck with Adrian and my hurricane of emotions, with no choice but to ride out the storm.
“If you’re okay with it, I’ll upload it.” The screen has gone dark, and he taps in his passcode. My mouth goes dry at the digits he typed. Our anniversary. Maybe it’s practical, not sentimental—why change it and risk forgetting?
But I wanted to forget. Tried to forget.
And yet here we are, both of us remembering.
“Unless you’d rather we reshoot?” He looks up, and I realize I haven’t answered. “We can try again when everyone is available, now that you’ve gotten the jitters out.”
“You mean now that I’ve gotten my feet wet, so to speak?”
He shoulder-bumps me. “I should’ve never reminded you about my aversion to puns.”
“You think I’d forget?” I could never forget any facet of him, even if I wanted to, and I’m beginning to wonder if I really want to, after all.
Heart racing, I say, “Upload it.”