Rogue Wave Isabel Jolie (books for 20 year olds .TXT) 📖

in conversation, their heads noticeably close together for two individuals who just met in a bar. Tate held up the menu.

“What’s good here?”

“Oh, I normally order the salad with quinoa.” The menu didn’t offer an abundance of options for a vegetarian. “But they offer several farm-raised fish options if you’re interested. You can ask Julie, too. Sometimes there are some options not on the menu. And she can tell you where she sourced the fish.”

My subtle reminder that I too was aware of the dangers befalling our Earth’s ocean seemed to elevate me in his eyes. He sipped his beer while gazing at me.

Gabe leaned over. “We’re ordering sushi rolls. You two want in?”

Tate kept his eyes on me when he answered, “Nah, we’re good.”

“What’re you getting?” Gabe asked.

“We’re getting the salads.” If Brandon had ever ordered for me, or even answered for me, I would’ve become irate. But instead of anger, a thrill vibrated through me. Tate and I bonded, and even if it was over something as benign as ordering food, it felt good.

Poppy expanded on Tate’s statement with, “Luna’s a vegetarian.”

“Do you not eat fish?” Gabe asked, thunderstruck.

Tate looked down at the bar, but his lips spread into a smile.

“On a blue moon I’ll eat farm-raised fish. It’s just not something I’m in the mood for right now.”

“They have chicken,” Gabe prodded.

“Vegetarians don’t eat chicken,” Tate said, more amused than annoyed. “We’ll be fine with the salads.”

“Why’d you bring me to a seafood place if you don’t eat fish?” He leaned back on his stool, so he could include Poppy and us in the conversation. “He picked the place,” he told Poppy while shooting Tate an accusatory glare.

“Well, in all fairness, there’s a limited number of restaurant options. Jules has the best bar. The clubs each have restaurants, and then there’s Delphina’s, and then there’s another seafood restaurant on the inner island, Provisions, but half the time we just go to the market. You can get takeout Chinese and Italian over there.”

“Huh, yeah, that all sounds familiar. So, I guess as animal saving marine biologists, you both feel the need to not eat meat?”

Tate gave him an annoyed look, and Gabe pushed on his arm.

“What? The Tate I knew loved a good burger, could inhale shrimp, and ate sushi every other day of the week.”

Tate grimaced. “Let’s just say I’m more aware now.”

“Whatever floats your boat, man. Not aiming to give you hell. I certainly don’t care what you eat as long as you don’t care what I eat.”

“What’re you guys ordering?”

He rattled off the names of a few rolls, and I read today’s menu. Tate’s jaw muscles flexed, and I rushed to calm him down. “Jules only offers sustainably farmed fish.” Suzette, the owner, committed to sustainable practices, and her menu fluctuated based on what she could get fresh each day. Today she offered tilapia and wahoo, both responsible choices in North Carolina. I loved that she insisted on carrying lionfish and included a note for customers that ordering lionfish helped the environment, as the population needed to be controlled.

Tate grumbled, “It’s okay. I learned a long time ago that it doesn’t matter. We’re not going to make a dent in the problems by what we order at a restaurant.”

“That’s a rather skeptical view,” I argued. “Suzette only orders farmed shrimp and oysters. It might be one restaurant, but if most restaurants move to this, it could have an enormous impact. When people shop in the grocery store, just looking for a sustainable tag, it can make a difference.”

“Trust me.” He grimaced. “If you went to Asia and saw the hauls those boats bring in. The demand for fish in the Asia market alone. Sharks. You know about them, right?”

I did. Horrible, some of the things going on. Asians loved shark soup, sometimes paying astronomical sums for one bowl. To feed the supply, a fisherman would cut off the fins, the only part needed for the soup, then dump the live shark down in the ocean. The shark couldn’t swim and would fall to the bottom, only to be eaten alive by other sea animals.

Tate swallowed. “I’ve seen hundreds dumped to the bottom of the ocean. That’s one haul.” He held up his index finger for emphasis.

“But it’s being regulated now, right? Finning is illegal almost everywhere. There’s been a ton of press about the issue.”

He looked at me like I was a naïve child. “No one regulates the ocean. Not really. Countries have been banning the practice for over twenty years, yet restaurants still carry fins. And regardless of a sustainable tag, there’s a damn good chance the source is shady. Fishermen make too much money from it. It’s worth breaking the law. Besides, no one is policing it.”

I was ready to argue, to point out the victories we’d had, and all the current environmentalist initiatives. I knew the statistics weren’t positive. A huge percentage of shark species were at risk of extinction. Yes, I heard him and understood where he was coming from, but I had to believe we were making headway. Before I could formulate my argument in a way that sounded knowledgeable and not youthfully optimistic, I overheard Gabe.

“No way. I have an account. What’s your, ah, stage name?” He held up his phone, tapping away on the screen. His back was to us, but I couldn’t help but wonder why in the world Poppy would tell him.

“Stage name? What’s he talking about?” Tate asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

Our salads arrived well before the sushi, and the meal turned into us being paired off at the bar. I peppered Tate with questions about various Greenpeace initiatives. If I kept the conversation on overarching programs, and not his specific experiences, he’d talk. He didn’t hold out much hope for environmental efforts, at least without a global initiative and policing of the seas.

Tate stood to go to the restroom, but something on Gabe’s phone laid out on the bar caught his attention. He leaned over Gabe’s