12
ISABELLA
The morning light streams through the tall windows of my classroom. My refuge from the storm of confusing thoughts and moments gathering in my mind.
Nothing else happened beyond Diego staying with me until the wrecker crew loaded up my bike. He assured me they would get an estimate as soon as possible, standing alongside the guys to discuss the condition and potential repairs. His knowledge of bikes and his comment about breaking several bones in the past piqued my curiosity. But I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell.
As I watched them take my baby away, the red taillights disappeared into the night, he handed me my helmet, and prodded me toward his bike. At first, I was hesitant, despite knowing it was a foregone conclusion that was the only way to get home, short of waiting for another ride.
He didn’t seem to mind my hesitation. He just got on his bike, fiddled with the kickstand and GPS, and ultimately left the decision up to me.
When I finally climbed onboard, he reached for my hands, tucked them around his waist, and patted them lightly without saying a word. I hadn’t ridden with someone in years, and the feeling of handing over control, even to an experienced rider like Diego, made me nervous.
Yet, with his strong but narrow frame between my arms, my gloved palms tucked against his ribs, he navigated the streets with a cautious slowness that I appreciated and found comforting after what had happened.
Leaning into the turns as a harmonious pair, becoming one with the road and rider, surprised me. The intimacy left my heart aching in a way I wasn’t prepared to face.
No flirting.
No more discussion about us.
He helped me to my door with a strong arm around my waist while I limped beside him. My body was crying out in different areas from that hard fall. Having taken lessons years ago and learned how to land safely should the bike hit something, I avoided serious injury. Thankfully.
Standing on the stoop in front of my apartment, I leaned in impulsively for another kiss.
He pulled away, shaking his head.
His voice was soft, almost apologetic.
“Not tonight, Isabella. Get some rest, and we’ll talk later.”
And then he was gone.
Leaving me alone with nothing but the roar of his powerful engine disappearing into the night. I drew a hot bath and sat in the water, listening to the soft sound of my father fast asleep.
Diego has consumed my thoughts for the last two days, no matter how hard I try to push him out. The fear on his face when he first ran over to me was palpable. I hit so hard that my vision was blurred. The sound of concern in his voice was unmistakable. I hadn’t realized that it was him. Too shocked by the wreck to react appropriately.
I still analyze what went wrong. After riding thousands of miles with hardly any wipeouts, a divot in the road snagged my back tire, sending it in the opposite direction of my prediction. I leaned in for a second, and the next thing I knew, I was skidding across the hard road. A piece of my bike broke my helmet’s visor as it slid away.
Anger replaced Diego’s fear, catching me off guard until that simple kiss. Warm and comforting. As if showing me his feelings without needing to voice them.
Students begin filing into the lab, their chatter bouncing off the sterile white walls and snapping me out of my reverie. I plaster on a professional smile and move to the front of the room, ready for an active lab day.
My breath catches when I see him. Diego walks in early, his confidence radiating off him, but my attention quickly shifts to who’s following him.
Papà.
They’re murmuring.
Diego’s hand instinctively lingers in the air behind my father while he adjusts the sling on his injured arm. They are both grinning like this is the most natural thing in the world, but my irritation is rising faster than my curiosity.
“What is going on?” I demand with the same authority I use to maintain order in my lectures.
“Professor Rossi.”
His words float to me, but his attention is on the elder Professor Rossi, who sits on a stool at the empty lab table at the back of the class. The stool is a terrible idea, given what already happened.
Diego dumps his backpack on the table, knocking around some of the beakers, and then jogs toward me. Just when I think he will answer my question, he grabs my chair by the armrests and hoists it above his head to clear the rows of tables. When he gets to his table, he shares the same unvoiced concerns I have and helps transition my father into the more stable chair.
