He doesn’t look up, just flips the page, jaw ticking. “You have a strange way of showing it.”
My jaw drops a couple centimeters. Who does he think he is? The ridiculous part is I’mnottrying to make his life difficult. I’d actually like to learn from him—ask questions, understand how he got here. And yet, for reasons known only to Holden’s tightly-wound nervous system, my presence seems to offend.
If it were the local/not-local thing, I’d get it. In Hawai?i, “not from here” isn’t necessarily neutral—it comes with history and damage and a steady stream of people who arrive, take up space, treat the place like a backdrop, and leave. I would’ve understood an instinctive flinch.
Except my shameless professional background search from week one says he isn’t from Hawai?i either. So what is this, then? Did he hear I’m here on a scholarship and decide I’m not worth the time? As fun as spiraling is, asking him outright seems like the only way out.
“Why is it that every ti?—”
“Bro, she just told me mozzarella and cheddar are the same cheese. I’m recusing myself from that conversation.” A tall blond drops a hand on Holden’s shoulder and folds into the chair beside him. It takes him one heartbeat to realize the table is no longer a Brooding-Only Zone and that I’m occupying the opposite hemisphere.
“Oh. Hello there.” The smile is bright enough to trigger photosynthesis. Sun-bleached curls skim his ears; T-shirt over long sleeve; jorts that would be awful on anyone less genetically blessed. Devastating, but in a cheerful, surfer-adjacent way.
He glances from me to Holden. “You’re not going to introduce us, are you?”
Holden sets down his pen with a sigh, leans back, and gestures between us. “Theo, this is Coralie Taylor. Coralie, this is the most moronic TA at UH.”
Was that—humor? Also, how did he nailCoralieon the first try? I didn’t even know he remembered my name, if I’m being honest.
“Only brainless when compared to him,” the blond—Theo—says, offering his hand. I take it and he lifts it to his lips, which prompts my cardiovascular system to reroute all available blood to my face. Treacherous organ.
“I made it this far for a reason.” He continues with a wink. “What brings you here, Coralie?”
“Um—nice to meet you. I’m doing my master’s.”
“Aaand you lucked out with this guy as your TA?” He tilts his head at Holden.
I smile, mostly because Holden looks like he just bit a lemon. “Somethinglike that.”
Theo chuckles and elbows him. It’s obvious they’re friends, but the contrast is hilarious. Theo is what I would assume California’s mascot would look like—he probably ferments his own kombucha and names his boards. Holden is the dark-mode version of a person. But, hey, if Wednesday and Enid can do it, these two can, too.
I drag my attention back to my textbooks while Theo briefs Holden on Mystery Cheese Girl. It’s a normal conversation—no molecules, no salinity, no Latin binomials. In a parallel universe I’d get butterflies at the sight of Holden behaving like a non-robotic human. In this one, I avoid eye contact and deploy chocolate.
Cocoa equals methylxanthines plus a nudge to the brain’s reward system; so judge biochemistry, not me. It’s evidence-based coping, thank you.
A large hand crosses the table and raids the control snack. Theo snaps off a square and whistles as it melts in his mouth. “I’d need sweet bribes too if I had to read this.” He taps my open text. “Holden, your student’s a smart one.”
“I know,” Holden says.
My head whips over. I—sorry,what?
“Coralie, right?” Theo asks, still smiling. “Where’s the accent from?”
“The… accent?”
“Yeah. That soft, sing-song thing you’ve got going.”
“Oh. Um, Canada.”
Theo grins and helps himself to another square. “This is stupid good.” He angles toward Holden. “You should try again. Palates evolve.”
“No, thanks.”
Theo stage-whispers across the table, leaning in until we’re shared-air close. “He hates chocolate. Between us, I suspect he sold his taste buds for extra IQ points at some point during his childhood.”
I laugh—traitor—and glance at Holden. He’s finally looking at me. For a man anti-cocoa, his eyes are a study in it: espresso at the rim, lighter honey near the center. Maddening, for a girl who loves chocolate.
“I’ve read somewhere that people who openly hate chocolate are on a CIA watchlist,” I say.
