Watching me.
The thought prickles at the edges of my mind, sharp and unwelcome. I should be relieved, even grateful, because the class flowed smoothly without his antics. His fan club in the front row barely spared him a glance, their usual giggles and whispers replaced by focused engagement.
It should be a triumph. It should make me feel accomplished and satisfied. Instead, it feels odd. Almost wrong.
Hollow.
I breathe, my eyes drifting to his desk, the only one that didn’t have a pen, notebook, or laptop. Nothing. He just sat there, his dark eyes locked on me as though daring me to acknowledge him beyond the teacher-student dynamic. He knows the material. I’m sure of it.
It’s in how his gaze sharpens when I write equations on the board and his lips quirk faintly when I pose questions he doesn’t bother to answer. Diego is sharper than he lets on. There’s an intelligence behind those dark eyes.
One he thinks he’s hiding. But I see it. He knows the answers. He’s just refusing to participate. It’s maddening.
It’s a battle of wills to see who will break first. It shouldn’t be. I almost regret the change. The quiet indifference is nearly as bad as the loud and outlandish behavior. My gut hardens. My thoughts shift, wondering what he’s thinking and what tactic he’ll deploy next.
I press my fingers to my temples, willing myself to stop. To let it go. This, no, he, isn’t worth my mental real estate. He’s behaving. The class is focused. The day is done. Relax.
Typically, I’m relieved at the end of a long day, especially the first day of the week, but today, it feels too heavy, like something is unresolved.
Maybe it’s because I spent the weekend hoping to see that mystery rider again. After our reckless race through Boston, I’d taken to my bike Saturday and Sunday, retracing the same streets, my eyes scanning for the sleek black helmet and bike that had matched me move for move. But he never showed.
It’s ridiculous. I know that. A childish game of cat and mouse with a stranger that could have gotten me killed. And yet, I can’t shake the way I felt that night. The fire in my veins, the raw, untamed energy that coursed through me as I pushed my limits. It was dangerous, thrilling, addictive. Everything I don’t allow myself to be in my strictly controlled classroom. Riding is my alter ego, allowing me to play a part I can never be in real life.
An escape.
An outlet.
A side of me that only comes out to play when the streets turn slick and the nights turn dark.
Trying to keep my mind off both men, I do a practice run of the lab I’m teaching on Wednesday. I usually do these on Tuesdays, but with my restless energy and overactive brain, I need something productive to do. I stand, grab my notebook and gloves, and start setting up a workstation in the laboratory.
The ringtone from my phone slices through the quiet space, startling me. My father’s name flashes across it. Sliding to answer, I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and lean against the black counter, the edge digging into my hip.
“Papà. I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was so exhausted, I practically fell into bed.”
Guilt softens my voice as I deliver the small lie. I forgot to call him for our usual Sunday evening discussion, stumbling in too late and frustrated from my long and apparently unnecessary ride, even if the exhaustion part was real.
“Isabella!” His rich, gravelly tone carries a hint of mischief. “I hypothesized that might be the case. I thought I would come and see how my daughter managed her first week at Boston University. Look out your window, cara.”
My brows knit as I step toward the tall windows framing the lab. Outside, students bustle through the courtyard, their heads bent against the crisp autumn breeze. And then, among the sea of backpacks and coats, I see him. His white hair blows in disarray. He’s dressed in his well-loved wool coat, his scarf neatly tied, and a modest overnight bag in hand.
The phone nearly slips from my grasp.
“Papà!” My voice comes out in a rush of disbelief and delight. “You’re here? How? How did you know my building?”
He waves, his face splitting into a broad grin.
“Yes. I took the train. I asked the nice children here, and they pointed out the science building.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I hang up, shove my phone in my blazer, and sprint through the building. Within minutes, I’m throwing my arms around him. His familiar scent. Coffee, aftershave, and the faintest trace of a tobacco pipe wrap around me like a cocoon.
“You took the train all the way from Princeton?” I pull back, shaking my head in disbelief. “That’s six hours!”
“It is. Very smooth trip. I ate, napped, and read. And now I’m here.” He adjusts his scarf, the wool snagging slightly on his weathered fingers. “A father must check on his brilliant daughter. Now, show me your new domain.”
I laugh, looping my arm in his as we head back into the building, this time taking the elevator. The chill from outside lingers with us until we stop in the doorway of my new classroom.
