Em cackles, grabbing the pitcher of beer to pour into a glass and missing it entirely. Holli takes it away from him, pours it half full, and slides it toward me, still standing at the table’s edge.
Her blurry eyes widen, staring at Em and me as if I’d ever do such a thing. Sure, I had sex last night at a public park, but that was between her and me, not laying out my cock in a bar like Em would probably do.
“Diego looks like he’s about to knock you out,” Holli mutters, sliding further into the booth to give himself some distance.
I glare at Emilio, my fists clenching at my sides. I would if his bulky brother weren’t here to beat my ass.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter, my patience officially shot. “I’m out.”
Holli’s eyes flick to me, his grin fading slightly as he sits up straighter.
“Wait, Diego. Don’t go.”
“Nah, man. I can’t deal with his shit tonight,” I snap, grabbing my helmet from the booth seat and tucking it under my arm.
“Aw, come on!” Emilio calls after me, but I’m already turning toward the door. “You’re turning into that bitch Dominic. Holli, he’s always leaving. Why is everyone always leaving?”
His questions meant for Holli ring in my ears with sad desperation and ignorance that he hasn’t a clue that he’s the problem. He’s the reason everyone leaves.
The cool night air slaps me in the face as I step outside, the noise and chaos of the bar fading behind me. Sliding onto my bike, I put on my helmet and start the engine. The familiar growl grounds me as I pull out of the parking lot onto the empty street.
The ride is meant to clear my head, to work through the frustration knotting in my chest. But every curve of the road, every stretch of asphalt, brings me back to the same question.
Why the hell did she let it get this far if she was going to push me away?
I lean into the bike, letting the speed build as the wind whips past me. I can still feel the way she leaned against me. Her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, her body moving in sync with mine. The way she pressed so close, trusting me completely. How does that fit with the blame she threw at me right before?
The questions burn, twisting in my gut like a chemical reaction spiraling out of control. And then, suddenly, it hits me.
Catalyst.
The word flashes through my mind like a lightning strike, sharp and undeniable.
She’s the catalyst.
She started this. Set the reaction in motion. Now, she’s trying to step back like she wasn’t a part of it. But that’s not how it works.
Catalysts change the reaction.
They become part of it. They can’t just pull out and expect everything to return to equilibrium.
My grip tightens on the handlebars as the analogy sharpens in my mind. If she’s the catalyst, then I’m the stabilizer. I can’t change what happened, but I can keep this from blowing up in our faces.
I either walk away or show her that this reaction doesn’t have to end in disaster.
One thing’s clear.
I’m not done with Isabella Rossi.
Not yet.
16
ISABELLA
The air is crisp as I step out of the science building, the unmistakable bite of Boston in September settling over the campus. The week has been grueling, and Friday feels like a hollow victory after everything.
The heels of my boots click against the pavement as I head toward the faculty parking lot. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, most of which circle Diego Kahale like a storm refusing to dissipate. His words from our encounter Wednesday night echo in my head, sharp and unrelenting.
