“Have a good day, Holden.” I shoulder the tote and head for the sidewalk—the wet-sand version of storming, slower and grittier—and file this mortifying scene under experiences I will never think about again.
Or so I thought.
Because right there, on my left, Holden falls into step—street side, between me and the traffic—matching my pace like it’s a rule he follows without thinking. I’m determined to stay quiet and grumpy. Unfortunately, my face, my shoulders, my mouth all subscribe to full disclosure.
“What do you want?” I keep my eyes forward. “And where is your stuff? Do you always abandon your belongings at the beach? There are thieves everywhere, Holden. Everywhere. Your phone is probably eloping as we speak.”
“Coralie.”
“And without your phone, your girlfriend can’t yell at you from the lab.”
He stops. So do I, because did I just say that out loud?
When I turn, he’s smirking—barely—brows knit like he’s not sure which part to address first. It feels wrong to see him here, in broad daylight, nothing but black swim trunks and attention set on me, when my brain expects him in dark pants and a grey shirt, sleeves pushed back, scowling from the front of a room or carving up a paper with“Really? This is your best work?”in the margins.
“About that?—”
“How did you know it was me?” Politeness evaporates. Hello, delinquent version of Coralie who interrupts her TA. Aloha.
“You heard the whole thing?”
“No. But Damon and I couldn’tnotlisten when the call was on speaker in an empty lab.”
“Damon?”
“The octopus.”
He blinks once. Then again. He doesn’t recoil the way Summerdid.
“How did you know, Holden?”
He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, gaze sliding off to the water; I look away too, because I have reached my muscle-quota for the day. “Coralie, I don’t know many students who would spend a Friday afternoon in the lab this early in the semester. Fewer who talk to an octopus.”
“She said fish.”
“We don’t have fish in the lab.”
“She could’ve meant the clams.”
“You’re probably the only one who would befriend bivalves, too.” The corner of his mouth tips up. I count to three in my head and, right on time, it levels out.
I reach for an answer and come up empty, because I don’t even know whatthisis. I can coach an octopus through LEGO, and I’m steadily climbing theTop Science Boss Ladieslist. Yes, I made that up. But this—figuring out what Holden wants from me, and what hefeels, if his kind even does—seems impossible.
I risk a look back and regret it immediately. I thought I hated the cool dismissal I’ve been getting for weeks, but the curiosity easing across his face now—head tipped, brows drawn, mouth almost soft—is worse. Worse, because it makes it hard to stay mad, to slap the “jerk” label on and file him under discard.
“Thank you for helping me back there, Holden. And sorry for upsetting your girlfriend today.”
“My girl—” he starts, then blinks. “Wait, where are you going?”
I edge backward. He doesn’t follow this time. “I’ll see you around campus, maybe.” Which is adefinite, obviously—he’s my TA, I’m his student, and we seem constitutionally incapable of missing each other.
He watches me for a beat, like he’s weighing whether to chase the conversation or let it sink, and I take the out—round the corner and all but jog to the bus stop, heart doing unruly things. Holden Wilkes is not Malcolm Harrington, but he doesn’t outrun the Barnacle rule. Being near him—shirt or no shirt, rescue or no rescue—scrambles my brain. Therefore: back burner.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gravity and I have an adversarial relationship. Usually it limits itself to small indignities—stubbed toes, dropped pens, the occasional near miss on stairs. Today, apparently, it decided to escalate. To test something new.
One second I’m crossing the lab for a fresh box of 200-µL tips. The next, my ankle snags, I pitch sideways into a station that does not belong to me, and someone else’s work goes skidding across the tile. A catastrophic outcome, to say the least. Not in the meteor-hits-earth sense, but definitely in the oh-no-my-life-is-about-to-get-publicly-embarrassing way.
