Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The farther I drift from what I’ve always known, the more I realize how shallow that knowledge truly was.
It started when I left the damp, salt-stained air of the Canadian east coast—the familiar chill of fog curling through the harbors—for the sun-soaked coastlines of O‘ahu. I said goodbye to the fishers who first taught me about cephalopods, not through textbooks or field guides, but through irritation and half-told stories. They resented the clever intrusions—octopuses slipping past metal bars, making off with bait and crabs—but even in their curses, I caught the edge of awe. They knew the ocean intimately, but they didn’t always love what it held.
I used to think I understood those creatures, understood the science I was so eager to devote my life to.
But coming here unraveled that illusion.
The things I thought were constants—habits, behaviors, even truths—have started to shift, refracted through warmer waters, deeper dives, and unexpected connections.
Knowledge isn’t a fixed thing. It stretches and bends, reshapes itself under pressure or proximity.
It turns out familiarity can be its own kind of blindness. Sometimes, it takes leaving what’s known—what’s comfortable—for understanding to truly begin.
And though the twenty-hour flights that brought me to Mānoa once did a good job of stretching the distance between who I was and who I’m becoming, the real marker of change came this morning—walking back into the lab after the Galápagos research trip.
I had a much-needed night out with the girls and Kai yesterday and, thanks to a mix of peer pressure and maybe too much guava cider, I let it slip—about Holden. About the kiss. About the conversation that still hangs in the air between us, waiting to be had.
But this morning, I wasn’t ready to think about any of that. I just wanted to check on Damon.
After nearly two weeks at the vet, I figured he’d be back by now, hopefully irritated and sulky in the way only he can be.
I missed the shimmer of his chromatophores, the slight twitch of curiosity when I walked in.
I missed the way he never let me forget that animals can be intelligent, complicated, impossible not to anthropomorphize.
So that’s where I went. Straight to the back of the lab, past the benches and the half-focused students working on their end-of-semester projects. But the second I saw the tanks, my steps slowed.
The clam tank was full, its water humming under the gentle filter buzz. Damon’s wasn’t. The lid was sealed shut, but inside: nothing. No PVC pipes. No gravel. No little lego tower, always half-toppled. Just a bare, waterless shell of where he used to be.
No one knew what had happened to him. No one had seen him come back.
Which is why I didn’t even think. I turned around and went straight to Theo’s office. He helped me file the transport papers, he was there when the vet picked Damon up—if anyone knows where he is, it’s him.
As I get there I hear faint music drifting from behind the door—lazy guitar, maybe some soft vocals—and knock before I can talk myself out of it. That’s when I catch it: another voice. Not Theo’s.
Both voices cut off the second I knock. For one suspended beat, there’s nothing. Then footsteps move toward me, fast and deliberate, and the door opens.
Theo fills the frame, tall and sun-dazed, his light curls a little damp, like he’s only just come back from the beach. The second his eyes land on me, they go wide.
“Coralie?” he says, startled. He glances behind me, down the hallway, as if I might be running from something. His gaze drops to my shaking hands. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t wait. He reaches for me, gently but firmly, pulling me inside and shutting the door behind us like he's shielding me from the world.
And, suddenly, it all spills out.
“Have you been to the lab recently? I went to see Damon—just now—and he’s not there.
But it’s been almost two weeks and I thought by now— I mean, the vet said— I tried calling the office and the number Holden gave me, and no one picked up, and—” I’m choking on air now.
“And his tank isn’t just empty, Theo. They took everything. His toys, the gravel, everything—”
“Hey. Hey. Coralie—breathe.” His arms come around me, tight and solid, and my cheek lands against his chest, cutting off the tailspin. The band shirt he’s wearing is soft and faded, and I can smell sunscreen, citrus, the faintest hint of coconut.
It should be comforting. And it is. But somehow not enough.
His voice comes low, careful. “I got the update from the vet a few days ago. I should’ve called. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you.” He holds me tighter. “I’m so sorry.”
My whole body goes still, then shakes. The sobs hit out of nowhere—small, sharp things—and I hate the sound of them, messy and too loud against the quiet thrum of music still playing in the background. I hate that I’m crying this hard. Over this. That I didn’t get to say goodbye.
“What happened?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“Senescence,” he says gently. “You know how it works. His optic gland triggered the shutdown. And once that happens…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
Senescence is nature’s quiet curtain call for octopuses.
Once the optic gland—their version of a hormonal control center—signals the end, it’s irreversible.
A slow unraveling. Appetite disappears. Motor control fades.
Their once-changing colors dull. It’s not illness, not exactly.
It’s built-in. A biological countdown designed to ensure they die shortly after reproduction. Efficient, elegant, and deeply unfair.
“But he was still so young. I thought I had more time.”
I did. I thought I’d walk into the lab and see his chromatophores flickering, see his arm reach for a Lego. I thought he’d be waiting.
Theo shifts us slightly, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles down my spine.
“I know, Freckles. I know.” His voice thickens, like it hurts him too. “This is just how these things go.”
But I didn’t say goodbye. And somehow, that makes it worse.
This grief is sharp and strange and entirely new.
I’ve never lost anything like this. Not a grandparent.
Not a friend. Not even a childhood pet. Damon was a subject, yes.
But also a companion. A constant. A little pulse of intelligence I got to watch up close, day after day.
So I cry. I let myself cry like I haven’t since I was a kid.
Theo doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t let go.
And only when the sobs start to quiet, when the storm inside me finally starts to ebb, do I realize: he wasn’t alone when I walked in.
I whip my head up and notice for the first time the other taller, broader man sitting on the corner of Theo’s desk.
Holden.
His eyes land on mine with a quiet kind of sympathy, soft but alert. His gaze flicks, just briefly, to the way Theo’s arm is still wrapped around me. Something shifts in his jaw—a tiny muscle ticks—but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, mortified. I stumble back a little, out of Theo’s arms, wiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I—I didn’t even realize—God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, I didn’t even think to check if you were in the middle of something—”
“We weren’t in the middle of anything,” Theo says, calm as ever. “You’re not interrupting.”
I nod, flustered and still trying to piece my breathing back together, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous I must look.
A grad student having a full-blown breakdown over a mollusk.
And not just in front of anyone—them. Two of the most accomplished, well-respected, undeniably attractive PhD candidates at this university.
I glance between them, my stomach knotting with embarrassment. “Still… I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”
Theo looks at Holden, who nods—barely—and pushes off the desk with a slow, deliberate movement.
He’s back in his usual uniform: dark jeans, a chocolate brown henley that hugs his frame unfairly well, the same worn watch I’ve seen him adjust mid-lecture a hundred times.
But there’s more sun in his skin than there was before the trip.
He crosses the space between us and lifts a hand, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch is gentle. Respectful.
“Come with me,” he says quietly. “Let’s go to my office.”
I want to say no. I should say no. I should retreat, cry it out somewhere private, somewhere safe. Somewhere I don’t have to be seen like this—eyes swollen, breath uneven, heart split down the middle over something no one else probably understands.
But when he looks at me like that—like he gets it, like he sees the space Damon left behind and knows exactly how loud silence can be—I can’t say no.
So I nod.
Theo squeezes my shoulder once, wordless support in his eyes, and I glance back as I follow Holden out the door, mouthing a soft thank you. He answers with a small nod, then turns toward the music still playing softly from his speakers.
We reach Holden’s office in a few brisk, echoing steps—the hallway mercifully empty, so no one gets to see the blotchy state of my face or the pathetic way I’m holding myself together with sheer willpower.
He unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist, then gently presses his palm to the small of my back to guide me in.
The door clicks shut behind us, and I hear the subtle snick of the lock sliding back into place.
The space hits me like a sigh. It always does.