“The wall . . . it’s what I feel when people see me as just another kid, or just a student, or worse, just someone too young to know what he wants or what he’s doing.”
His lips press into a tight line, and he shifts away from me. A shock of cold air sweeps past me, adding a chill to this conversation.
“It’s the distance people put between me and them when they think I’m not enough. Not serious. Not worth their time.”
I feel a pang in my chest, his words cutting deeper than I expected. There’s pain in what he’s saying. Pain that started long before me, inflicted by someone else or several others. He searches my face for a reaction, wary but defiant, like he’s daring me to contradict him. Daring me to contribute to the conspiracy he’s been dealing with.
“Diego . . .” I start, but he holds up a hand, stopping me.
“I don’t want to feel that with you. Look, I get that you’re more accomplished than me, and you could easily feel that way. You’re a professor and a PhD, after all. For Christ’s sake, your dad’s a fucking legend. A chem genius. And you got to grow up around that . . .”
He runs a hand through his hair while the cloud from this warm breath dissipates above his head.
“Just don’t put me on the other side, is all I’m asking, Iz. I don’t belong there.”
I don’t know how to respond immediately.
Instead, I think back to all the interactions we’ve had thus far, which haven’t been many. Yet, I see his point clearly now. I tried to put distance between us and remind myself that this shouldn’t be happening.
He’s a student.
I’m his professor.
This is a promotion for me. One I’ve worked hard for and then threw caution to the wind because what he’s hot or was nice to Papà and me? But now, standing here, hearing the quiet pain behind his words, I realize how much I’ve underestimated him.
“I was trying to prevent this, Diego. Don’t you see? Everything in the world says we shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have done that.”
He curses, dumping the helmet on the bike seat with a loud thud.
“Not only do I get the wall. I get regret too.”
I reach for him. The pain in his voice is too much not to console him. My hand brushes his arm, the fabric of his cold jacket rough against my fingertips. He doesn’t look at me. His head bows slightly, his eyes locked on the helmet he just dropped on the bike seat.
“It’s not regret.”
My pulse spikes as my mind works through what it is, if not regret. I’m skating on thin ice with him and myself, trying to figure out what I’m doing.
“Then what is it?”
His jaw clenches, and when he turns his head, his face is sharp and accusatory.
“Fear.”
The confession tumbles out. The vulnerability behind that one word squeezes my heart.
“Fear of what I’m risking, what you’re risking. I could get fired. You could get kicked out. We both have a lot to lose if someone finds out. Then what?”
He briefly clenches his fists, then lets them open at his sides.
“Fuck, Iz. You didn’t think about that before?” His eyes widen with disbelief. “Before you hopped on my bike and let me fuck you out here?”
The rawness stabs me squarely in the chest. Lesson learned not to get involved with a student.
Big, fucking mistake.
“Take me home.”
“I knew the risks, Isabella.” His hand rolls into a fist and hits the middle of his chest. “And I said fuck it. There are other schools out there. BU is not the be-all and end-all, Iz.”
