“Everything was a giant mess,” he continued, his gaze still fixed on the wine glass. “The resort was failing, my mom was trying to hold everything together, my brothers were... spiraling. I just remember feeling like the ground beneath my feet had dissolved. Like nothing was stable.” He finally met my gaze, his eyes holding a shadow of that old pain. “Building Tidal Hops, all this...” He gestured vaguely. “It was about proving I could build something that wouldn’t just fall apart.”
“You took that anger and desperation and turned it into ambition. Success. You did a hell of a thing.”
“So did you.” His gaze held mine. “Dr. Donovan. Scripps Institution. That’s not just impressive—it’s extraordinary.”
Now it was my turn to stare at my wine glass. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
“What do you mean?”
The question opened a door I usually kept locked. But sitting in this quiet corner where the past and present blurred, I walked through it.
“Academia is brutal,” I said. “It’s publish or perish, a constant fight for grant money, navigating departmental politics. I spend most of my time writing papers and courting funders, not doing actual fieldwork. And the people...” I shook my head. “They’re brilliant, but they’re also cutthroat. Competitive. There’s no warmth. Just ambition.”
“That sounds lonely.”
I nodded and took a sip of rich red wine to regain my composure. “It is. I didn’t realize how lonely until I came back here and remembered what it felt like to be part ofsomething. To have people who know you, who care about you beyond what you can produce.”
Our food arrived, a brief respite from the intensity. But as we ate—my snapper with mango chutney, his jerk chicken with coconut rice—the honesty continued to flow.
“My parents call every week or two,” I said. “They want updates on my life, my next publication, and now the Great Barrier Reef opportunity. They mean well, but it can be wearing.”
“It sounds like you built the life they wanted for you, not the life you wanted for yourself.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am without them,” I said, meeting his gaze. “And it’s not just about the pressure. They show up when it matters. Three years ago, I got rejected for a project lead position. I was devastated—didn’t answer my phone for two days. I thought I’d failed them.”
Braden watched me closely. “What did they do?”
“They didn’t lecture me. They didn't tell me to try harder. They flew up that weekend, rented a convertible, and drove me up the coast to eat oysters and drink too much wine until I felt better.” I gave a small, sad smile. “They really do care, Braden. In their own way, they’re my biggest cheerleaders. It just… gets heavy sometimes, holding up the megaphone.”
“But is it enough? Is the career everything you hoped for?”
“Of course,” I said, a note of pride in my voice. “I’m doing important work, I’m published multiple times, I’m the lead here, and I’m on the short list for a major fellowship. I’ve accomplished everything I set out to do so far.”
He was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “You just listed a resumé, Tessa. You didn't say if you were happy.”
I put my fork down, my appetite suddenly gone. I replayed my answer in my head—published, important work, fellowship.
“I’m good at what I do,” I said, my voice softer than before. “And I’m proud of the work. Is that the same thing as being happy? I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought to ask.”
When I met his gaze again, the intensity and compassion I saw caused a lump in my throat. The conversation was too close to what Lila had said. “What about you? Did you build the life you wanted, or the life you thought would prove you were enough?”
He flinched, and I immediately regretted the question. But instead of shutting down, he considered it.
“Both, maybe,” he said after a pause. “I built Tidal Hops because I love brewing. But yeah, there was definitely an element of proving something. Showing that the Coleridge name could mean success, not just scandal.”
“You did,” I said again, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “You absolutely did.”
Our eyes met across the table, and the air between us shifted, charged with everything we’d just admitted. The quiet hum of the restaurant faded away. Braden studied me, his gaze steady and searching.
Finally, he let out a slow breath. A wry, almost pained smile touched his lips. “We might have a problem.”
My heart gave a sharp kick against my ribs. “What’s that?”
“This was supposed to be simple, remember?” He gestured to the small space between us. “This doesn’t feel simple, Tessa.”
“No. It doesn’t. Because it’s not.”
We finished dinner in a haze of shared understanding. Every glance held acknowledgment, and every moment ofsilence was filled with the things we weren’t saying. By the time we left the restaurant, the tension was a quiet, powerful current pulling us together.
