Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“This feels like an excellent way to never walk again,” I say, bracing my hands on either side of the surfboard and trying—with all the core strength I pretend to have—to push up from my knees into a standing position.
An hour ago, this seemed like a great idea.
Past me should probably be banned from making decisions.
“Relax, there’s like three feet of water,” Soren calls out.
Exactly my point.
See, when it comes to scuba diving or snorkeling, I am—pardon the rare burst of confidence—flawless.
My buoyancy? Impeccable. Stroke efficiency?
Excellent. Lung capacity while freediving?
Remarkable, thank you very much. Unfortunately, none of that helps when you’re flailing on a floating plank while three friends hold it steady and waves try to knock you sideways.
Eventually, I let go of the board and wobble upright on unsteady knees, arms outstretched in the way they showed me during our on-land crash course. It’s… fine. Not graceful, not inspiring, but I’m standing, and that’s got to count for something.
At least until Alana and Soren, clearly thrilled by this miraculous feat, gasp in encouragement and let go of the board to clap—removing the only support I had on that side and sending me toppling straight into the water. Again.
I don’t hit the bottom, and nothing’s broken, which was honestly my main concern.
I’d love to say I’m okay with not being good at something.
But that would be a lie. I hate not knowing how to do things.
Still, between my chronic clumsiness and my habit of stumbling into injury-prone scenarios, I’ve been training for this exact moment my whole life.
I resurface with my hair plastered to my face and swipe at my eyes, trying to keep the saltwater from stinging.
“I need to find a soundtrack for this disaster,” Maya says, grinning far too much for someone watching their friend flail. She’s been dying to teach me how to surf for months. I’ve been dodging it for just as long—but today felt like the right kind of reckless.
We’re already on the North Shore for a surfing competition Theo’s set to compete in later.
For days now, they’ve been waiting for the perfect conditions.
The girls spent the morning catching small waves while I camped out on my towel with a book, pretending not to be intimidated.
Theo, Holden, and Nate showed up maybe two hours later—found us thanks to Alana texting Theo our towel coordinates—and they’ve been around ever since.
I hear Theo’s laugh ring out, light and unmistakably smug, and I turn to glare at him.
It only makes him laugh harder, shoulders shaking as if this is the best comedy set he’s ever seen.
And okay, fine—maybe it is a little funny.
Especially with Maya giggling beside me and Soren pretending to award me imaginary points for “most dramatic wipeout.”
Still, my body’s aching now from trying and falling more times than I can count, and I’m officially ready to retire my board and retreat to the safety of my towel.
All four of us get out of the water, earning a few glances from people along the beach.
What—or who—they’re looking at is anyone’s guess.
We’re a mismatched bunch, with skin tones ranging from fair to dark, hair that goes from Soren’s dyed-straight to my light curled one, and heights that don’t align in any sort of pattern.
I’m wearing a navy-blue sports swimsuit, the kind with a low back, thin straps, and an air of athletic ambition.
It covers more than the emerald bikini I wore the first few times I swam in the Pacific, but my cheeks burned earlier when Holden walked by and sat next to me, like my skin couldn’t help but register the shape of his gaze.
We make our way back to our towels, where only Theo is sitting now—Holden and Nate having wandered off somewhere.
I dig through my backpack, searching for the hoodie I bought the night of the bonfire—the one I’ve practically lived in since—but my hand only finds books and a half-used bottle of sunscreen.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, sinking onto my heels with a small pout. “I think I left my hoodie in your car, Lana.”
Alana glances over, towel dabbing gently at the braids she’s been wearing for the past couple of weeks. “You don’t need it, girl. You look hot like this.”
I groan. Okay, thank you, but also no thank you—I’d very much like to retreat into fabric anonymity right now. Theo snorts and lifts a hand in mock offense when I toss my sunscreen at him.
“She’s not wrong,” he says, tossing it back. “But here—you can take this one.”
He hands me a large black hoodie with a bold Rip Curl logo on the front.
I’m pretty sure I saw it at the surf shop when we went together.
It’s soft and sun-warmed and smells like beach air and something familiar.
I smile and slip it on, tugging it over my damp swimsuit before settling into a cross-legged seat on my towel.
I go back to the book I’ve been picking at in my spare time.
Back in Canada, any stretch of free time that wasn’t spent polishing academic skills or begging fishermen for stories—or a few hours on their boat—was spent reading.
Romance, sci-fi, a bit of historical fiction.
Self-help books never really stuck. Might explain a few things.
Here, though, I haven’t had much time for it. Between classes, my thesis, hours with Damon, and squeezing in time with my friends, I usually crawl back to my dorm dreaming only of a hot shower and unconsciousness.
But this? Right here? This is perfection.
Maya, Soren, and Alana have teamed up against Theo in a heated debate about which surfboard is best for North Shore waves.
I can hear him fighting not to pull the “I’m literally a professional surfer” card, opting instead for well-reasoned counterarguments.
Not that it matters—there are three of them, they’re louder, and I’m pretty sure Maya’s entered her rage-bait era solely to see if she can make him crack.
I glance up from my book just in time to catch her grinning wide and winking at me as Theo lets out a dramatic groan and flops back onto his towel, forearm slung over his eyes.
He peeks at me through his elbow. “Freckles, will you please talk some sense into your friends?”
“Why?” I giggle. “You’re holding your own just fine.”
He makes a lunge for my feet like he’s going to tickle me, but I swat his hand away with my book. Seconds later, he’s up again, rallying, facing them with a fresh set of counterpoints and the intensity of a man defending his dissertation.
Nearly twenty minutes later, I hear Nate and Holden’s voices behind us, growing clearer as they approach.
Holden drops down onto the towel beside Theo and me, both arms full of takeout containers.
Nate follows, mirroring the balancing act.
They lay out bowls, chip bags, fruit, and drinks in front of everyone, and within seconds, a chorus of hands reaches to claim what they want.
I’m just finishing my chapter when Holden nudges my knee with his elbow. I lower the book to see what he wants—and catch his gaze hooked on the hoodie I’m wearing. His eyes widen slightly. He looks from the logo to me, then back again.
“Nice hoodie,” he says, still blinking like he’s not entirely sure it’s real, until a slow smirk tugs at his mouth.
Before I can respond, he seems to shake it off and lifts the container he’d meant to show me in the first place—a shallow carton bowl filled with white, wobbly squares that look like some hybrid between tofu and feta.
“What is that?” I ask, prodding one with a finger and watching it jiggle.
“It’s called haupia,” he says, fishing a wooden fork from his shorts pocket and handing it to me. “Coconut pudding.”
He holds the container steady while I cut out a small square. “I know it’s nothing like your usual dessert choice, but trust me on this one.”
I take a bite and— “Oh my.”
It’s delicious. Cold, creamy, sweet. Silky-soft, with just enough firmness to hold its shape. Paired with the warmth of the hoodie and the sun overhead, it’s the perfect contrast.
I go in for another bite, then pass the fork back to him—and watch him take a bite without hesitation. Oh. Cool. We’re sharing cutlery now.
“So, this is your preferred choice of sweet treat,” I say, mostly to myself.
Theo leans around me, eyes lighting up. “Ohhh, haupia, bro?” He practically lunges for the fork, and Holden tosses it over without protest.
“It’s my favorite dessert,” Holden says, eyes back on me. “Do I still deserve to be on the CIA watchlist?”
I turn to Theo, feigning deep thought. “What do you think? Is he a threat to society?”
Theo, already chewing, nods solemnly. “For many reasons, yes. But the chocolate thing? We’ll let that slide.”
I laugh and face Holden again. “Fine. I’ll call off the manhunt. You live to see another day.”
He chuckles, shakes his head, then takes the fork from Theo—only to offer it back to me instead of taking a bite himself.
We fall into a comfortable lull, the kind that only comes when food and sun and friends converge just right. Holden chats with Nate and Maya, slipping effortlessly into the rhythm of the group, while I watch them all with quiet appreciation.
Seeing him like this—off-campus, relaxed, dark shorts and dark T-shirt, hair tousled from the beach breeze—it does something strange to me.
It doesn’t make any of this more possible, not really.
But here, he's just a guy. A friend of friends. Not a TA, not my lab supervisor, not the mind I spend half my life trying to understand. Just Holden. Still complicated, still off-limits. But maybe—just maybe—a little easier to be around when he’s not walking the tightrope of professionalism.
I push the last bite of pudding toward Holden, but he shakes his head. “All yours.”