Last One Standing

2 | Man Hack

THE FIRST TIME I LAID EYES ON HOLDEN CARTER IN THE UNFORGIVING LIGHT OF DAY, it was like the universe had conspired to drop a Greek god into the mundane reality of our college campus. He had that sort of presence that made you pause mid-text, your thumbs hovering awkwardly over the screen as you tried to remember what was so important that you had to say.

Holden sat front and centre row of our journo class presumably crafting his next piece of viral advice; sandy hair, tousled perfectly as if he'd woken up looking editorial-ready. It framed his face and danced in the gentle drafts that wandered through the open windows of the journalism class. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, suggesting strength yet a gentleness that was almost paradoxical.

Every now and then, he would jot down notes, his hand moving with a fluid grace, and rather than wanting to jump his bones, like the rest of campus it would seem, I wanted to smack the pen out of his hands and shove it up his ass.

It was common knowledge that he was double majoring in biology and journalism, an unusual combination. Yet, for all his allure, there was now a distance to him, a sense that while many might orbit around him, few—if any—could claim to truly know him. The same couldn't be said for HoldenCarter31.

I looked away; the white board drifting in and out of focus. I had ridiculously underestimated the need for sleep. I existed on four-hours' rest. The night-owl shifts at Riley's made it difficult to concentrate on the visual aids from a distance. Sunday had been exhausting, and Nicole had gravitated towards Jayson at every opportunity. Today, with a shorter shift, I relished the idea of a quiet evening at home.

Mrs. Mead, the journalism professor, milled around the center podium, organizing material. An unfamiliar bag thudded next to mine and Holden sank into the vacant space. I did a double take. When our eyes connected, he grinned around the bottle of soda held against his lips.

"This seat taken?" he asked.

"Yes," was all I said. There was no world where I needed Holden to move across the room, where to be fair, I had the view without the reality of having to suffer any conversation.

Fixing the cap back on, he said, "Then I'll keep it warm until your invisible friend gets here."

"Maybe they already are?" I mumbled, shuffling my chair a little further away when he sat down anyway.

"Hey, I said it was taken."

Holden grinned. "I read your blog last night..."

My eyes shut for a solemn moment. "Thanks for hijacking it. Maybe next time you can write your own piece called what's your take on guys always wanting what they can't have?" I gestured to the chair he now sat comfortably in.

The grin on his face broke into a wide smile. "No offense was meant." His voice was suddenly low and absent of the confidence that commanded his blog post the night before. "I blog too, and that's not a bad idea for a feature. You want an off the cuff answer now or later to your other question?"

"Enlighten me, please," I droned.

His response came swiftly but unrehearsed. "It's not about the chase, it's about value," his reply read. "We're wired to appreciate things we invest in—time, effort, emotions. If it's too easy, it's like cheap currency. Where's the worth in that?"

His words gave pause, pinging around in my head like pinballs. There was respect in his tone, sure, but also an underlying truth that felt raw and real. If there was a target on my forehead, Holden's words had hit front and center. As much as I wanted to dismiss Holden Carter and his "Man Hack" musings, there was something disarming about his frankness.