Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Every groundbreaking discovery in science basically starts with, “Huh. That’s weird.”
Which, in hindsight, is exactly when I should’ve stopped running the Holden experiment.
From the moment I laid eyes on him and thought someone should really buy him a larger shirt before that thing gives up on his chest entirely, I should’ve looked away. I should’ve shut the whole thing down. Filed him under “Do Not Engage.”
But no. Of course not.
I went “Huh. That’s weird,” and then I inquired.
First, it was the way he enters and exits a room with the same subtle intensity, like gravity doesn’t apply to him the same way it does to the rest of us.
That confidence, that near-arrogance—so certain of his abilities and the precise value of them—had me stumped.
I’ve never met someone so infuriatingly aware of his own utility.
And then he used that same dismissal on me.
Not that I haven’t been cut off mid-sentence before.
And not that I think people are required to indulge my every tangent.
But the way he did it—like the sound of my voice personally offended him—made something in me tighten.
I couldn’t make sense of it. Which, unsurprisingly, only made me want to try.
That was the first mistake.
The rest? Well, we’ve since graduated to a deeply tangled, mutually inadvisable knot of complications—each one outdoing the last in how messy it wants to be.
Because yes, he’s sharp. Rigid. Doesn’t smile at school—at me or anyone.
His edges are sandpaper. But then... there’s the Holden who laughed at the coffee shop.
The one who cracked a joke in the ocean and froze when he realized who I was.
The Holden who, for reasons unknown, shows up for me.
For my thesis. For Penny. For getting me home safely in the dark.
All of those Holdens—they’re real. They exist.
But none of them compare to the version who holds the walls up. The one who won’t let me see past the job title. Who won’t give me a piece of himself, even when I’m already holding so many. Not just my TA. Not just Theo’s friend. Not just Penny’s uncle.
A mosaic of contradictions, made up of moments I shouldn’t have kept, and versions of him I was never meant to meet.
And still, every time I get close, he slips just out of reach.
Confusing. Unavailable. And maybe, always.
Sometimes the only thing you’re certain of is who makes you uncertain. And for me, right now, that’s Holden.
He dismantles every belief I have—except for the Theory of Evolution, and, well… I can’t afford to lose that one. Who knows what he’s capable of at this point.
He overanalyzes. I under-ask. Together, we make a spectacular mess of almosts.
Crush or no crush, hands brushing or not, that impossible scent of pine and rain or absolutely nothing at all—I need to get a grip. I need to stop letting this spiral like it’s inevitable, like it’s out of my hands.
Which is why I’m currently standing in front of his office door, hand raised and curled into a fist, suspended mid-air like a loading icon.
I walked here without a plan. No practiced speech, no clever opening line. No idea how to fix something that technically isn’t broken. No idea how to end something that technically never started.
All I know is this: my thoughts are a trainwreck on the verge of impact. And he’s the only one standing on the tracks.
Upon my knuckles landing on the heavy wooden door, his voice filters through, muffled but unmistakable. “Come in.”
This time, I checked his office hours. I knew he’d be here.
I step inside and close the door quietly behind me. I don’t move further than that—don’t need to. I’m not planning on staying long.
He doesn’t look up at first, eyes still on the stack of papers in front of him, red pen tapping lightly against the margin of one. When I don’t speak, he flicks his gaze up, does a double take—and drops the pen. “Coralie?”
I don’t answer. Unless there’s a secret twin of mine roaming the halls, he knows exactly who I am.
He frowns. “Why are you soaked?”
That question shouldn’t send a current through my thoughts. It still does.
I glance down at the small puddle forming around my shoes. “That tends to happen when it’s raining,” I say, flatly. I’m not here to be cute.
“In the 1300s, they invented umbrellas,” he says, deadpan. “I’m almost certain you can buy one in Hawai’i.”
Of course he would know the exact century of the umbrella’s invention. And of course he’d bring it up in a moment like this.
I want to tell him screw umbrellas—and while we’re at it, screw his brain and his forearms and the way his shirt sleeves are pushed up just enough to derail my entire frontal lobe. Maybe I should’ve stayed on the other side of the door and yelled my thoughts at him from there.
“If you’re here for thesis questions,” he says, nodding toward the adjoining door, “Dr. Kymbert’s around.”
“I’m not here for her.”
His eyes cut back to me.
“I came to see you.”
Something flickers—quickly—across his face, before it folds back into neutrality. “Oh?”
I take a single step forward. His eyes track the movement, all the way from my soaked sneakers to the drops of rain clinging to my eyelashes.
“Is this about Damon?”
“No.”
He exhales, leans back a little. “Coralie, if this isn’t about school, then I think—”
“Two people will never agree on everything.”
That shuts him up. He blinks. “Sorry?”
“It’s one of the two things you said you believe in.” I swallow, heart hammering in my ears. “During your lecture.”
“It is.”
“Well,” I say, feeling the weight of this entire week press down on my spine, “I disagree with whatever you were about to say.”
One of his brows lifts. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
I shrug. My mouth twitches before I deepen my voice into a very poor, very grumpy impression. “Coralie, I’m your TA. Everything you say is annoying. If you’re not here for school, leave. I would like to be grumpy in peace.”
A snort escapes him before he can stop it. He stands, rounds the desk slowly, and sits on the edge—right in front of me. Close.
“I do not sound like that.”
“You sound exactly like that.”
He studies me then, and the air between us tightens as it tends to. The room’s too quiet. My fingers curl behind my back, partly because they’re still damp, partly because they’re shaking. Whether it’s from the rain or him, I couldn’t say.
But he’s right there. And I’m right here.
And I didn’t come all this way to say nothing.
“Listen,” I start, eyes fixed on anything but him now. “We’re both too smart to be this bad at talking. But we’re also too smart not to understand what happens if we don’t.”
His arms cross, the faintest edge of impatience in his brow, though his head tilts slightly—curious, not dismissive. I’ve learned to recognize that look.
“Where are you getting to?”
I breathe in through my nose, trying to steady myself. “I know you think I ramble.”
“You do.” He smirks, ever-so-slightly.
“Let me finish.” I level him a look. “You’re right, I do. And yeah, it’s probably annoying. I haven’t exactly mastered the art of filtering my thoughts when it comes to science or… well, anything.”
He doesn’t interrupt this time. I can see him wanting to, feel him holding it back.
“What I’m trying to say is—this thing about me? It doesn’t bother anyone else. Not really. You’re the only person who acts like my voice comes with a warning label. Like I’m the most annoying person in the student body.”
He opens his mouth, and I stop him with a raised hand. I’ve waited long enough to say this. No detours.
“So what is it, Holden? Because I’ve seen you be a normal, functioning human. I’ve seen you smile. I know for a fact you have thirty-two teeth, so why are you hoarding them?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“What?”
“I don’t have wisdom teeth.”
I blink. “Well, that explains a lot.”
His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind. That’s not the point.”
I look at him fully now—and hate that I do. His gaze is so sharp it pins me in place, makes my skin hum.
“If you can do that—if you can joke around with Theo, if you can be the sweet uncle, if you can save my pastries and drive me home at night—then why…” My voice falters, my thoughts splinter.
Why can’t you just like me? Talk to me? Be something real?
I thought I wanted answers. But I think what I really want is agency. And those aren’t the same thing.
I take one step forward. “What do you feel for me?”
He freezes, like I’ve cracked something open in him by accident. His hand tightens on the desk. “Feelings are not—nor should they be—involved in this.”
Right. Of course. How many times have I told myself the same thing?
“Easy for you to say,” I reply, sharper than I mean to.
He flinches at that, and suddenly I see it—something raw and unsure in his expression. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I know it is.” My voice shakes but I push through. “Because if you won’t say it, I will.”
“Coralie, don’t—”
“Let me talk, for once, Holden!” My voice lifts just enough to fill the space between us. I force myself not to flinch at the sound of it or apologize for taking space.
“You’re not the one here on a scholarship because it’s the only way you could afford to be. You didn’t come here planning to keep your head down and your grades up and nothing else.”
He goes still. No snide remarks now. No umbrella trivia.
“I told myself I wouldn’t get distracted. I told myself I couldn’t afford to be. But then you happened. And you make it so hard. And you don’t even notice.”
His silence is a weight pressing in on every part of me. It’s full of everything he won’t say.
“So yeah, it’s easier for you,” I say. “Because you’re not the one who has to wonder every day what your TA thinks of you. You’re not the one guessing which version of you is going to show up—kind, cold, silent. You’re not the one holding your breath every time you walk into a room.”
My throat tightens.
“You have a girlfriend. You have the world at your feet. And me?” I gesture to myself like I’m some open wound. “Every time we talk, I leave more confused than I came. And you… never seem confused at all.”
His mouth parts slightly. Holden Wilkes, speechless—for all of three seconds. The shock fades fast, replaced by something colder, darker, akin to anger.
“First,” he says, voice low and tight through twenty-eight gritted teeth, “let’s make one thing very fucking clear—I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I want to mention Summer’s manicured hand on his chest, the way she purrs his name like it belongs to her. But he doesn’t give me the chance.
“We ended things over a year ago,” he says. “I don’t know why she’s resurfacing now, but I’m sure as hell not interested. Haven’t been.”
A part of me wants to believe him—God, does believe him—and maybe that part is a little too thrilled. But the rest of me? The part that’s been trying to make sense of his distance, his mixed signals? That part doesn’t know what to do with this.
“Second,” he pushes off the desk and closes the space between us. “You shouldn’t entertain any thoughts or feelings you think you might have for me.” He swallows once, hard. “Or for any other TA, while we’re at it.”
“I—what?”
“You said it yourself,” he says, tone rising—not loud, but sharper than I’ve ever heard from him. “You’re here to study. To do the work. So do it. Focus. Leave the feelings at the door.”
His words hit harder than they should. Like the rain hadn’t already soaked me through, like I wasn’t already shivering from the inside out.
“What about the tide pools near your house?” I ask, because he said he’d take me, and I thought that meant something.
He’s silent for a beat, then exhales and looks down. “I shouldn’t have offered,” he says. “Whatever you’re thinking, please, for both our sakes, let it go.”
“I don’t think I have feelings, Holden. I do.” He closes his eyes when I say his name, like it hurts to hear it from my mouth.
“I don’t have a name for them, not exactly. But they’re there. And you’re asking me to just—turn it off? Shove it somewhere and forget it exists? What about you?”
My voice wavers now, and I hate it. “You’re brilliant. Not just smart, but beyond. So is this what you do? With things you don’t want to feel? Just—ignore them? Lock them up and walk away?”
His eyes are steady now, searching. Not cruel. But not soft either. “It’s not that simple.”
“No,” I say, my heart sinking under the weight of it, “it’s exactly that simple. You made it that simple.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I’ve never seen him look this unguarded—this close to something like regret. “Coralie—”
“No,” I cut in again, stepping back now. Because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back. Or worse, I might ask him to say something he’s already decided he won’t give. “I came for answers, and I got them. I… read this whole thing wrong.”
Miscommunication is like quantum superposition: two meanings can exist at once until someone observes them directly and collapses them into one.
And that’s what we’re doing right now. But despite trying to observe whatever this situation is, two meanings remain, the one he gives me out loud and the one I’m sure I’ll never find out.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Dense with whatever was never allowed to become anything at all.
He doesn’t reach for me.
He doesn’t apologize.
He doesn’t offer even the smallest thread to hold onto.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Because I meant every word. I came here soaked and vulnerable and entirely too honest, and all he did was tell me to leave it all outside. Like an umbrella in the hallway.
I shake my head slowly. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll focus. I’ll keep my head down, do the work, and leave the feelings at the door. Just like you said.”
His jaw ticks like he wants to say something else—but he doesn’t.
So I nod once, tight. “Thanks for the clarification.” Then I turn, fingers curled into fists, and walk out of the office with wet sneakers squeaking against the wooden floors of the hallway.
If he says anything as the door closes behind me, I don’t hear it.
I should’ve ended the Holden experiment before it ever began. I should’ve never given it a chance to mutate, to grow legs and crawl into the part of me where logic usually lives.
But I came here hoping for answers. Hoping, maybe, I hadn’t made it all up. Hoping it meant something. Hoping for that groundbreaking discovery.
Now I know.
I did, do, feel something. Real and inconvenient and irreversible. I imagined it going two ways. But he made it clear it’s going no further. That the butterflies in my tummy reached their expiration date and were never meant to fly in the first place.
He didn't mean to hurt me. But intent doesn’t factor outcome, does it?
And this—this ache I’m walking away with—is just another feeling I’ll leave behind.
Right outside the door to his office.