And because wearing it makes me forget I’m supposed to be moving on from whatever this is.
The thoughts bottleneck in my throat, none making it out before Theo returns, all sun-warmed and cocky, one arm thrown over Holden’s shoulders, the other slung across mine.
“All this looking good out there made me starving,”he says, towel hanging loose around his neck. “Big guy, you’re buying me food, right?”
Holden chuckles, reaching for his bag—then mine. “Sure.”
And just like that, the seven of us start the slow walk up the sand path, laughter and leftover adrenaline buzzing behind us. The sun’s dipping low now, the air golden and soft. They’re all happy, full of salt and glory and whatever thrill comes from throwing yourself into the mouth of a wave and surviving it.
As for me? I’m wondering if, just like Theo, I have more in common with cleaner wrasses than I thought—drawn to danger and uncertainty, willing to step into the jaws of something bigger than me, just to feel close to it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’ve never been one to run from a challenge—unless that challenge involves confrontation, vulnerability, or any group project requiring a shared Google Doc with people who think Comic Sans is a reasonable font choice.
It was Blythe who first introduced me to the radical idea of sharing the workload—not as a weakness, but as a form of self-preservation. I argued, at length, that solo work was more streamlined, more cohesive, less compromised. She countered every point with maddening grace, using examples pulled straight from my own schedule, my own late-night habits, my own tendency to work myself into the ground.
She used to say that academia doesn’t break you all at once—it does it in phases, the way chemical weathering reshapes stone. Slowly, consistently, until something foundational is gone and you can’t remember when it happened. And to survive that, she told me, you have to let people help. You have to loosen your grip, just enough, before the erosion wins.
So yes, while I’ve grown more tolerant of peer-reviewed group work, my aversion to confrontation and vulnerability remains solidly intact—unless, of course, Holden is involved. For reasons still unclear to me, my self-restraint seems to vanish around him. Manic episode in his office included, I can’t seem to keep my thoughts to myself unless the universe decides to intervene and cut the power cord to my brain mid-sentence.
Which is why, the moment he walks into the lecture hall behind Dr. Kymbert, I know thatheknowsI’m nervous. My traitorous body reacts to his arrival—calming just slightly at the sight of him, dressed in dark blue jeans hanging low on his hips and a slate-grey henley that clings to his torso like it was tailored for distraction. It’s an unfair combination: the loose confidence in his walk, the quiet weight of his gaze, the way he makes a basic outfit feel like a statement.
It’s been nearly two months since he told me—gently, firmly, devastatingly—not to feel anything for him. And yet, my heart still launches straight into my throat upon his arrival, like it never got the memo.
I’d like to think that part of that is because Holden has this infuriating—and occasionally useful—talent for knowing exactly what I’m about to say or do. He’s never caught off guard by my thoughts, no matter how impulsive. In the lab, he always seems to appear beside my bench the moment I start biting my lip, just before I talk myself out of asking the question that’s bothering me.
And outside of class—on the rare days we all end up in the same place, like Theo’s surf competition—he knows the second I need air, or when my water bottle runs empty. How he’s this attuned to me, and whether it’s something he offers anyoneelse, I genuinely don’t know.
This awareness somehow makes the moment even more disorienting. Because despite clearly registering the minor panic attack I’m trying to mask, Holden doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. No acknowledgment. Not even the smallest twitch of his zygomaticus—so much for a half-smile.
Not that I’ve come toexpectkindness from him, but… between driving me home that night and buying me dessert, I thought we’d moved past academic nemesis territory. I don’t kid myself into thinking he sees me as a friend—he wouldn’t, not while I’m still his student—but even so, the total lack of connection feels colder than I was prepared for.
Dr. Kymbert drags a stool to the front of the room and takes a seat, her expression serious in a way that makes the class instantly quieter. Holden leans against the desk behind her, arms folded in his signature stance, his gaze fixed on her as if the rest of us don’t exist.
“I’m not going to pretend I’m here to lecture today,” she begins. “I know the only reason attendance is near-perfect this morning is because you’re all waiting to hear who’s been selected for the research trip.”
I shift in my seat, exchanging a glance with Emma, who looks just as clammy and on edge as I feel. Though I could swear she steals a quick smile in Holden’s direction.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink. She turns back to me, frowning slightly.
“He seems like he’s in a mood,” she whispers.
“He’s always in a mood,” I whisper back, eyes still locked on him. We’re close to the front, though not close enough for him to hear us—yet I’d bet my entire annotated copy ofThe Soul of an Octopusthat I just saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Dr. Kymbert clears her throat, bringing the room back to order. “Here’s how we’ll proceed. I’ll name each of the seven students selected for the study. If, for any reason, you’re unable—or unwilling—to join us, let me know now so your spot can go to someone equally deserving.”
Murmurs ripple across the room like static electricity, tension mounting in every fidget and shuffle.
She continues. “Those selected will need to come to my office today to collect the packing list and review the islands’ protected status regulations before we depart. Are we clear?”
A collective nod moves through the lecture hall.
Emma reaches across the narrow gap between our seats and takes my hand. I give it willingly, sweaty palm and all, and she squeezes once—reassurance, solidarity, shared nausea.
The first three names go quickly—people I’d mentally short-listed myself. Each of them brilliant, meticulous, with a work ethic that rivals my own. The kind of students who ask the right questions, who stay late in the lab without needing an audience. For the past two weeks, I’ve found myself wondering who’d make the cut. I don’t normally like pitting myself against others—marine science needs all the sharp minds and capable hands it can get—but still, curiosity got the best of me. And those three? Deserving.
“Next is Emma Kahele,” Dr. Kymbert says, and a small, startled gasp erupts to my left.
