Chapter 16 #2
The deep, iron-rich soil that stains most of Floreana has given way to a narrow strip of fine, pale sand—smooth and soft underfoot.
The volcanic rocks still dot the shoreline like forgotten relics, some jutting out of the shallows, others scattered like stepping stones across the beach.
The water, of course, is still impossibly clear.
Almost painfully beautiful. Even from here, I can see the shadows—silhouettes moving in slow, lazy loops farther out.
My whole body vibrates at the sight of it.
I must be grinning like a lunatic, because Holden lets out a quiet laugh behind me.
“Damn,” he says, lowering his bag onto the sand. He takes mine from my shoulder and sets it down next to his. “Are you ever not completely enchanted by something?”
“Should I not be?” I ask, still beaming, still locked on the ocean.
“No, you should,” he says, crouching to untie his shoes. “It’s… refreshing.”
Then, after a pause, “You’re a little like Theo that way. The guy finds something to be excited about in literally everything.”
“Everything?” I glance at him, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs, now digging for sunscreen. “Well, he hates bell peppers. And he’s never gotten along with Summer. But besides that? Yeah, pretty much everything.”
I laugh, and it feels easy here—under the sun, with sand between my toes, and nothing but clear water and better-than-expected company ahead of me.
When I first saw Holden and Theo together, they looked like the most mismatched pair of humans ever assembled. One broody and impossible to read, the other open like a window in June. But the more time I spend with both of them, the more I get it.
Holden’s humor is quieter—sharper, more selective—but when it surfaces, it fits Theo’s perfectly. Like they’re speaking the same language, just in different dialects.
And maybe that’s the thing. Holden told me he used to be different. Before his brother. Before everything shifted. I imagine he and Theo were probably more alike back then. Now, Theo is the sun through the clouds, and Holden—he’s the storm that knows when to pull back to let the sun shine.
Somehow, it works.
He finishes rubbing sunscreen over the parts of his arms not covered by his short-sleeved wetsuit, then lifts a finger in the air and motions for me to turn around.
I do, and without a word, he smooths sunscreen over the back of my neck—efficient, firm, gentle.
Then he passes me the bottle so I can do my arms and legs.
Once we’re properly UV-proofed, we grab our masks and snorkels, and the fins he brought from camp, then start walking down the beach toward the water.
“Are you a good diver?” he asks as the waves reach our knees. He slips on his fins with the kind of practiced ease that makes it clear he’s done this a hundred times, then wades in deeper.
And listen, I’ve seen him look good before.
I’ve seen the jeans, the henleys, the soaked-through t-shirts at the beach.
But this? This wetsuit? It clings to him like it would be personally offended by the idea of leaving anything to the imagination.
Every line of muscle, every angle, all of it wrapped up in black neoprene and salt water.
He looks stupid hot. Not in the abstract, distant way people look hot on posters.
No. The kind of hot that makes me genuinely concerned for my ability to stay conscious.
I clear my throat and focus on my own fins. “Yep,” I say, once I’ve caught up to him in the deeper water. He’s still standing, but the sea floor’s already disappeared beneath my toes. “Whereas land makes me clumsy, water’s always made sense. Maybe I really am fish girl.”
“She shouldn’t have called you that,” he says, tone flat but final.
I shrug. “It’s not entirely wrong. Cephalopod girl would’ve been more accurate, but I do have stickers of all seven major species of salmon, so.”
His mouth twitches, just barely. “That’s not helping your case.”
“I know,” I say, grinning.
We ease in slowly, slipping our masks on and floating just beneath the surface as we swim farther from shore. The water is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, like glass poured over the seafloor. Visibility must be at least twenty meters, maybe more.
The bottom looks like the Galápagos just tipped over and spilled sea cucumbers everywhere.
There are dozens of them sprawled out across the volcanic rock—some the size of my hand, others…
well, offensively large. I vaguely remember reading that they’re one of the archipelago’s biggest exports, and now I understand why.
If I reach down, I could probably collect a hundred without even trying.
Not that I would.
Sea cucumbers might look like lazy underwater sausages, but some can defend themselves by releasing sticky, irritating threads—or even mildly toxic compounds—when stressed, and touching them can damage the protective coating on their bodies.
So, no. Hands to myself. Marine-life etiquette and basic self-preservation.
I like my fingers attached to my body, thank you very much.
Every so often, I tilt my head to glance at Holden.
His face is mostly obscured by his mask, but his eyes—those dark, maddening eyes—are constantly moving, scanning, tracking.
Even here, he’s observing, cataloguing. But there’s something different, too.
His features are looser, his shoulders uncoiled.
He’s not just analyzing. He’s enjoying this. Maybe even a little in awe.
I blame the wetsuit again for everything. It’s clinging to him like it has unresolved feelings. And don’t even get me started on his mouth—pursed around the snorkel in a way that should not be allowed in academic settings.
A few minutes in, I feel a soft tap on my arm. I turn and see him gesturing downward. I follow his pointing finger, and—
Oh.
Just beyond a rocky ledge, hovering near a cave entrance, are at least six white-tip reef sharks. Sleek, elegant, gliding like ink across the blue.
I make a muffled noise into my snorkel, which earns a glance from Holden. We both break the surface at the same time, water running down our faces.
“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly. “Mateo would’ve actually loved this.”
“Hilarious,” he says, trying for deadpan, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Look at that. The ocean stripped the scowl right off him.
“I’m going to check them out,” I say, half expecting him to tell me I shouldn’t. Or to give me some rule. Instead, he just nods and dives back under like he trusts me not to get eaten alive.
I leave my snorkel out, take a breath deep enough to stretch my ribs, and fold myself in half, kicking toward the seafloor. Equalize—pinch, blow, pop—then keep descending.
They’re beautiful. Each one maybe four or five feet long, all perfectly still.
Unlike many shark species that need to swim constantly to ventilate, white-tips can breathe by buccal pumping—basically gulping water through their mouths while staying still.
It's what allows them to rest on the ocean floor, looking unbothered and vaguely judgmental.
I hover a few meters above them, arms tucked in, legs still, watching the gentle rise and fall of their gills. They barely glance my way. I admire the pale tips on their dorsal fins, the lazy flick of a tail, the soft, almost sleepy eyes.
I glance up at Holden, who looks like a silhouette framed by the surface light, arms folded as he floats in place. I pinch my thumb and forefinger together, the universal diver sign for all good, though I’m tempted to throw in a heart sign just to mess with him.
Only when my lungs tighten and my body reminds me I am, unfortunately, not a fish, do I kick my way back toward the light, sending a tiny wave of bubbles in my wake.
I wave goodbye to the sharks as I go.
The next hour passes in a rhythm that feels suspiciously like bliss. We swim, one of us spots something, I dive down to inspect. Sometimes he follows. Most of the time, he just floats above, arms folded like he’s evaluating a student presentation, even though I know he’s just letting me enjoy it.
At one point, he’s tailed—relentlessly, comically—by a green sea turtle, easily the size of a carry-on suitcase. The animal shadows his every movement, hovering at his side like an old friend who refuses to leave the party.
He does his best to give it room, kicking backward like he’s politely excusing himself from a conversation, but the turtle is persistent.
“New best friend?” I ask after surfacing, laughing.
“Apparently,” he mutters, trying to pivot without smacking it with a fin. “I’m being stalked by a prehistoric Roomba.”
I’m still giggling when something flashes in the water below. It’s fast—too fast to identify—and I immediately dunk my face back under, spinning slowly in place like a satellite scanning for signs of life. Then I see it again—low, fast, sinuous.
“Holden!”
His head snaps toward me, all tension and immediate concern. Then he sees my face—grinning—and groans.
“We really have to work on your urgency scale,” he says, pulling his snorkel free. “You can’t yell my name like that every time you find a cool fish. I almost had a cardiac event.”
“Just look,” I say, swimming closer. “I swear this one’s worth it.”
He gives me a long-suffering look, then dips back under. When he surfaces again, there's a spark in his eye.
“Well, shit,” he says.
“Told you,” I say, smug. “Want to go swim with them?”
“I don’t know,” he hums, already mentally calculating. “They can be territorial, especially if it’s mating season.”
“They’re not males,” I point out. “Those are females. And probably two juveniles. No aggression signs.”
He’s still hesitant. Ever the cautious scientist. But then he gives me a nod. “Alright. Let’s go before I talk myself out of it.”