Dom scratches his beard, glares at Emilio, and rattles the accelerator before taking off, leaving Em shooting the finger at his back.
“What a little bitch,” Em huffs, his immaturity almost too much for me.
Holli puts his hand on Em’s forearm, telling him to chill. He doesn’t listen, pulling his bike ahead, indicating he’s leading the formation instead of the usual Hollister.
“Don’t mind him. He’s just antsy because his semester is shit due to late registration.”
Massimo constantly makes excuses for Emilio. I suppose it’s a twin thing or maybe a brother thing. I wouldn’t know as an only child, but he’s got to get tired of it at some point. Being his brother’s keeper is a full-time job with that idiot.
“Yeah.”
Emilio rarely gets on my nerves compared to Dominic. Once I categorize people, their actions and emotions don’t affect me. It’s only when I can’t figure them out, or they don’t act according to their assigned category, that it irritates me. The twins are categorized as overgrown children who could kick my ass if they wanted to, although neither is really the fighting type.
I tried to share my philosophy with Dominic since he is hair-pinned triggered by everything the twins do. He asked for the science behind my theory as if I sent it through a chem lab to draw my conclusions.
Sometimes that motherfucker is just too smart for our group.
Emilio and Holli take off.
Massimo follows and leaves me to ponder my thoughts as I take up the rear. It’s been a while since I had a steady girl. I’ve got plenty of free time this semester, but with a heavy load in the spring, I’m not sure I can commit to a relationship. Friends with benefits would be ideal, particularly with someone who rides.
As the guys bullshit ahead, arguing about what bar we’re headed to, I’m already plotting a return to the loop. Not just for the thrill of the ride but to find my mystery rider.
“Once I do, I’ll ride her ass and pull her hair.”
2
ISABELLA
The morning sun spills through my office window at Boston University, casting elongated, dappled shadows across a desk cluttered with the new tools of my trade. Stacks of well-worn advanced chemistry books from my father’s collection sit beside my meticulously prepared syllabi, dotted with my notes.
A fresh cup of coffee with thin tendrils of steam is placed next to my sleek, new, university-issued laptop. It’s my first day as a Professor of Advanced Organic Chemistry. The nerves churn tumultuously in my stomach, making the coffee a terrible but necessary choice.
I take a deep breath and try to steady the jittering feeling by reaching for the warm mug. The rich aroma transports me back to countless mornings in my childhood home in New Jersey, where the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the tang of chemical reagents that Papà often brought home from his Princeton lab.
I sip slowly, allowing the bitter taste to ground me, and glance at the framed photograph that sits prominently on my desk. A snapshot of Papà and me in his old lab. The photo, faded around the edges, is a poignant reminder of where it all started.
In the picture, I am ten years old. My hair is a wild, unbrushed tangle of thick chocolate strands that I cut into short bangs across my forehead to keep it out of my eyes. My mother wasn’t happy with my handiwork, scolding me with an accompanying slap to my bottom before racing me to her hairdresser to fix it.
My eyes were wide with wonder as I held up a beaker, the liquid inside swirling with color that fascinated and transformed my life. Papà, his hair just beginning to gray at the temples, looked on with pride. That lab was our sanctuary, a place of magic and mysteries, where Papà taught me the fundamentals of chemistry and ignited a curiosity about the world that has never dulled.
He had come to Princeton in the late ’80s, recruited directly from Italy. His reputation as a brilliant organic chemist preceded him. Despite his achievements, he carried an earnestness about his love for chemistry that turned our home into an extension of his laboratory.
Discussions about molecular structures were as common at home as discussions about sports or television shows in other people’s homes.
My phone rings, interrupting my reverie, and I set my mug down. Seeing my father’s name, I quickly answer.
“Isabella, how are you this morning?”
His rich Italian accent hasn’t faded despite living in America for decades.
“Hi, Papà. I’m good, but nervous. It’s my first day, remember?”
“Of course, I remember! It’s why I’m calling. Are you ready to dazzle them with your brilliance?”
His tone is light and teasing, but I can hear an undercurrent of pride and the faint mistiness in his words. He didn’t begrudge the administration when they suggested a retirement. He had been feeling the effects of the long hours and heavy workload for years. It was only when Mother died suddenly from pancreatic cancer that the toll of her death accelerated the decline of his health and advanced retirement sooner than he’d hoped.
Despite all my attempts to have him come live with me, he calls them fodder for another day. He’s content to stay cloaked in her memories and their house, despite her being very sullen and difficult to be around.
