I open my mouth, but he cuts me off with a soft shake of his head.
“And I’m not asking you to forgive him for anything or to suddenly understand the way his brain works. But just—know that he’s not pushing you away because he doesn’t care. He’s pushing you awaybecausehe does.”
A quiet laugh escapes me, tired and dry. “That makes no sense.”
Theo shrugs, easy. “Most of Holden doesn’t. That’s kind of the package deal.”
“I just…” I trail off, unsure what I’m even trying to say. “He makes it so hard to tell.”
“I know.” He pauses. “But that’s what I’m trying to explain. He’s not withholding because he’s cruel or careless. He’s careful. Too careful. And it backfires.A lot.”
I look at Theo, at the steady kindness in his expression, and know he’s not trying to play matchmaker or take sides. He’s just giving me the closest thing to a translation that anyone can offer when it comes to Holden Wilkes.
“Thanks,” I say, eventually. Quietly.
“Don’t thank me.” Theo grins, then gets to his feet. “Just keep that in your back pocket. For the next time he says something that makes you feel like you’ve hit a wall.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back—effortless and boyish. His phone buzzes again, and he glances at it, grin widening. But this time, he doesn’t show me what Holden said.
Instead, he extends a hand toward me. “How about we grab some food, bring it back, and try out Holden’s suggestions? See if we can get Damon back to his usual little menace self.”
I hesitate, not wanting to leave Damon, if only for a few minutes. But I eventually take his hand and hop off the counter. “I’d like that. But… food’s not allowed in the lab.”
He pauses in the doorway and turns, eyes wide with mock offense. “Are you always like this?”
“Tragically, yes.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re such a little weirdo.”
The way he says it—teasing, kind, familiar—makes something light bloom in my chest. It’s the same way Maya or Soren say it.
We laugh as we step out into the hallway. I find myself already looking forward to coming back—to trying everything Holden suggested, to watching Theo crouch by the tank like it’s a new ritual of his, to maybe seeing a flashof color return to Damon’s skin.
And suddenly, I want to spare the shrimps from anyone’s AC vents. Because Iamgrateful. For Theo’s steadiness. For Damon, still holding on, as best as he can. And for Holden—who, in his own maddening, layered way—showed up again.
Like he always does.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On days I feel like I don’t belong, I think about limpets. They cling to the same spot, anchored by a scar they carved themselves, and wait for the tide to return. I’m allowed to be the limpet. I’m also allowed to move.
Today, though, I choose to stay anchored.
I pull on the navy short-sleeve shirt that always makes my skin look a little more sun-warmed than it actually is, and my soft cotton jogger shorts. It’s not the most covered outfit—bare legs, a bit of midriff—but in terms of comfort-to-confidence ratio, it’s a proven success. I tie my hair up in a messy bun, the curls doing whatever they want, and toss my favorite tote over my shoulder. It’s packed with the usual comforts: well-worn books, highlighters, and the one gel pen that always writes smoothly.
I slip into my self-assigned seat in BIOL 403, right next to the blubber experiment girl—whose real name, I recently learned, is Emma. All of this, small and intentional, part of a ritual to carve myown home scar. Something solid to hold onto when the waters get rough.
And they have been rough. Yesterday blurred into night as Theo and I tried every one of Holden’s suggestions—and then some—to figure out what’s going on with Damon. We even submitted an official request to get the university’s marine vet to evaluate him, but bureaucracy is a slow tide, and even Theo looked frustrated by the red tape.
Damon doesn’t seem worse, exactly. Just… suspended. Quieter than he should be. Which means I’m carrying around this steady, low-grade dread, unable to shake it.
So, yeah. I’m clinging to the known today. Letting familiarity hold me while everything else stays just far enough away. I hold onto the structure I can control while the rest of it—the paperwork, the science, the waiting—spins outside of me.
I’m not expecting a tide. But if it comes, I’ll be here. Anchored.
Emma is halfway through an explanation about orcas that allegedly use salmon as hats—yes, hats—when a familiar scent reaches me from behind. Pine and rain. Then, moments later, comes Dr. Kymbert’s voice.
“Listen up. For once, I’m fairly certain you’ll all be enthused to hear what I have to say,” she announces, as if we don’t already hang on to her every word like undergrads to extra credit.
