The Way the Tide Turns

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The rain was still rattling against the bookstore windows when Eli followed Clara deeper into the shop. The place smelled faintly of salt and paper, an oddly comforting combination. She led him to a shelf tucked in the back, her fingertips brushing the spines like she was introducing him to old friends.
Clara: "Here. 'The Old Man and the Sea,' obviously, but that's an easy guess. Or--" she slid out a weather-worn copy of The Light Between Oceans "--this one. Tragic, but beautifully so."
Eli: "Tragic sounds... oddly fitting."
Clara: "Oh no. That's the tone people use when they've got a story but they don't plan on telling it."
Eli: "Maybe I'm just a guy who likes sad books."
Clara: "And maybe I'm the queen of Denmark. But fine, keep your secrets. Are you visiting or...?"
Eli: "Kind of. I grew up here. Left after high school. Back for a while."
Clara: "While? That's vague."
Eli: "Depends on a few things."
She studied him for a moment, and he got the unsettling sense she was reading more than his words -- as if she could spot the shadow under them. Her gaze flicked to the wetness still clinging to his jacket.
Clara: "Pier work?"
Eli: "Marine biology. Tracking some shifts in coastal wildlife. But--" he hesitated, almost as if the words caught on his teeth "--there's more to it."
Clara: "There always is."

The next day, the rain had given way to a pale stretch of sun. Eli found himself back at the bookstore, unplanned, carrying two coffees from Mae's cafnext door.
Clara: "If this is a bribe to get me to stop asking questions--"
Eli: "It's not. I just thought... you might like caramel lattes."
Clara: "And you guessed right. Impressive. Or creepy. Still deciding."
They talked about nothing at first -- the stubborn seagulls, the way tourists always asked where the "best" sunset spot was like it wasn't literally everywhere. But underneath it, Clara kept feeling there was something coiled in his pauses. Like he was measuring each word against something unseen.

A week later, their conversations had stretched into something more familiar. He told her about coral bleaching in far-off places; she told him about the customers who came in hunting for books they'd never read. They laughed often, but sometimes he'd drift quiet, as if the tide of his thoughts had pulled him out beyond her reach.
One evening, just before closing, he lingered near the register.
Eli: "Clara... you ever keep something to yourself because saying it out loud might ruin... whatever this is?"
Clara: "This?"
Eli: "Us talking. This--whatever it's turning into."
Clara: "All the time. But I also know not saying it can ruin it just as fast."
He looked like he was about to speak, but the bell over the door chimed and a gust of cold air swept in. A man stepped in -- younger, maybe mid-twenties, eyes scanning like he was looking for trouble. Clara stiffened.
Clara: "Jonah. What are you doing here?"
Jonah: "Relax. Just came to see if my brother was still in town."
Eli's shoulders tensed. Brother. Clara blinked, glancing between them.
Eli: "Jonah--"
Jonah: "You planning to tell her, or should I?"
There was a sharpness to his tone that sliced through the air. Clara's heart thudded.
Clara: "Tell me what?"
Eli opened his mouth, closed it, then turned to Jonah.
Eli: "Not like this."
Jonah: "You're running out of 'like this,' Eli."
The younger man walked out without another word, the bell's jingle sounding far too bright for the heaviness he left behind.

The next day, Clara almost hoped Eli wouldn't come. But when he did, his face carried the weight of someone who'd spent the night fighting his own head.
Eli: "I should explain."
Clara: "Probably."
He told her about the research project -- how it wasn't just about tracking wildlife but monitoring pollution from an industrial spill fifteen years ago. How the spill had quietly poisoned the bay, how lawsuits had been buried under technicalities. His family had been among those hit hardest -- their father's fishing business collapsed, their mother got sick. He'd left to study marine biology partly to escape, partly to fight back. And now he was here because the damage was showing again.
Clara: "And you didn't tell me because...?"
Eli: "Because every time I came in here, I didn't want to be the guy with the tragic backstory. I just wanted to--" his voice dipped "--talk to you."
Clara: "You still could have."
Eli: "I know. I'm sorry."
There was a long silence, the kind where the unsaid crowded the air. She wanted to be angry, but instead she found herself thinking about the way he'd looked when he said "talk to you" -- like it was the only part of his week that didn't feel like work.

Days blurred. Clara started helping him sift through old town records in the backroom, looking for anything that might trace the spill. Somewhere between stacks of dusty files and cups of reheated coffee, their banter returned -- softer now, with an undercurrent of something that felt like trust.
One evening, the tide was out and the pier was quiet. They leaned against the railing, the smell of salt and wood heavy in the air.
Clara: "You ever think about leaving again?"
Eli: "Every day. And then I think about staying."
Clara: "Because of the work?"
Eli: "Because of you."
She looked at him, caught between surprise and the warm pull in her chest.
Clara: "You're good at that."
Eli: "What?"
Clara: "Saying something that makes it impossible to think straight."
He smiled, but it was tinged with something else. She knew there was still more -- that the suspense in his pauses wasn't gone, only waiting for the right moment.

That moment came two weeks later. They'd just found an old letter in the archives, hinting that the spill had been worse than anyone admitted -- and that someone in town had been paid to keep quiet. Eli's hands trembled slightly as he folded it.
Clara: "What is it?"
Eli: "It's... my dad's handwriting."
The words hit her like a cold wave. She stared at him.
Clara: "You think--"
Eli: "I don't want to. But... maybe he took the money. Maybe that's why he told us to stop asking back then."
It hung between them, thick and heavy. Clara reached for his hand, and for a long moment neither spoke.
Clara: "You'll figure it out. And whatever you find... you're not alone in it."
Eli met her eyes, something breaking and healing in the same heartbeat.
Eli: "That's the first time I've believed that."

The investigation would take months, maybe longer. But in the days that followed, they still found time for the bookstore, for caramel lattes, for leaning on the pier watching the tide roll in. The suspense of what they might uncover still lingered -- but so did the quiet certainty that whatever the truth was, they'd face it together.
And in that small coastal town, where the air always tasted faintly of salt and paper, that felt like the start of something worth holding onto.