Chapter 20
ISABELLA
Morning sunlight streams through the diner's expansive windows, casting golden streaks across the worn, checkered floor. Diego and Papà sit side by side in the booth, studying the laminated menu.
Diego leans back slightly. His arm stretched casually along the top of the booth while Papà peers over his glasses, tapping the edge of his finger on the list of desserts we could eat after breakfast. I’m across from them, nursing a cup of coffee I barely remember ordering. My stomach twists with guilt.
Diego had shown up in his truck.
His grin is as confident as ever, insisting we grab breakfast before setting off on another day of adventure. Leaving my father behind for the third day in a row felt wrong, especially after I was busy at work.
Diego didn’t bat an eyelash and invited my father to join us. The best of both worlds, he said. As I sit here, catching Diego’s fleeting glances when Papà isn’t looking, I feel the heat crawl up my neck.
Flashes of last night. The depraved things he did to me on his bike at the quarry flood my mind. He raises a knowing eyebrow, those dark eyes glittering with desire and a taunting smirk that never seems to disappear.
I blush furiously and glance down at my coffee, hoping the heat in my cheeks isn’t as noticeable as it feels. My father sets the menu down, his fingers grazing the table’s edge as he studies me and Diego.
I’m positive he sees exactly what’s happened between us. He is going to caution us or scold us, and something horrific will happen at any moment to break up this chummy morning.
“Diego, what’s your take on Fritz Haber?”
His warm and thoughtful tone douses my worries. I exhale in relief. Glancing at the men, I watch Diego shift uncomfortably in the booth, removing his arm to hunch over the table.
The question throws me off for a second. Haber, the father of modern fertilizers, whose work also led to chemical weapons. A polarizing figure if there ever was one.
“It’s complicated, Dr. Rossi. His contributions to agriculture are undeniable. The Haber-Bosch process changed the world, feeding billions. But the flip side…”
He trails off, his dark gaze flickering to me with a seriousness that shakes his head.
“It’s hard to reconcile. Brilliant, but ethically questionable.”
My father looks serious at first, a hand at his chin, rubbing it loud enough for his whiskers to scrape against his thumb.
“Good answer. Chemistry is full of dualities, isn’t it? The power to create and destroy, often with the same innovation. Alfred Nobel invented dynamite and its catastrophic uses, and his countermeasure of establishing the Nobel Prize is a prime example of that.”
The waiter arrives with our food.
Papà’s plate with a golden omelet stuffed with herbs and goat cheese, a side of toast, and a small fruit cup. Diego opts for a towering stack of pancakes, glistening with syrup, accompanied by crispy bacon, and my own, simpler breakfast of avocado toast.
Diego reaches for the syrup when Papà peppers him with more questions, jumping from Haber to Marie Curie, then onto Rosalind Franklin and her overlooked contributions to the discovery of DNA.
They go back and forth, debating the contributions and controversies of each brilliant contributing mind, allowing me time to watch their interaction.
It’s apparent they are both passionate about the field, but Diego speaks with the same sort of love for the industry as I have.
It’s surprised me, even though he’s shown and said he’s all in with chemistry.
It’s such a dichotomy between the adventurous and playful street biker I’ve run around with over the last few days.
His pivot from the rough and rowdy world of competitive motorsports to the quiet and distinguished world of chemistry labs somewhat mirrors my dualities, something he surprisingly understood about me faster than my closest friends.
“Cara, tell Diego why Linus Pauling’s work on chemical bonds was so transformative, won’t you?”
He points his fork at me like a laser pen on a lecture wall. I sit up straighter, swallow my bite of toast, and take a drink before answering. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m the student being called out of school.
Diego takes notice and chuckles.
Three generations of learners crammed into the last booth in a busy diner to discuss the greats as if it were a normal conversation.
“The concept of hybridization. It completely changed how we understand molecular structures. Without it, modern chemistry wouldn’t exist as we know it.”
My dull, verbatim response speaks volumes. I have been asked these same questions my whole life, and I can recite them at most any time to anyone who asks.
My father beams, clearly pleased. His counterpart nods, impressed, even though he knows I grew up learning from his idol.
“Exactly! A true pioneer. And that’s what I’ve always loved about chemistry. How one idea, one breakthrough, can change everything. I met him once.”
Diego stops eating.
Unable to believe his ears.
His eyes bug out of his head. Then he demands to hear the story of how it happened.
The conversation shifts back and forth between them, allowing me time to eat my breakfast with ease.
Despite having listened to every one of my father’s stories, they are nonetheless fascinating and have people in the field usually hanging on every word.
Suddenly, Papà glances at the modest watch.
“Ah, cara. I forgot to mention that I’d be returning home today.”
He drops the bombshell on me that has me sputtering in my coffee. Then turns to Diego, who’s also surprised, without my visceral reaction.
“Sorry, my boy. I cannot attend labs with you, yet I’m confident you’ll do well on your own.”
“Wait, what?” I choke out.
Diego and I trade looks at the unexpected declaration.
“Papà, you’re still healing, and you need help with—”
He holds up his hand, the same action he’s always done when he no longer wants to hear what someone is saying.
“It’s not up for discussion, Isabella. I was only intending to be away a day or so.”
His weathered hand lowers to pat the edge of the table gently. The hard lines of his aged face soften, but the stubbornness in his eyes tells me I’m already losing this argument.
“I’ve been managing my home and myself long before you were born, and I’ll manage now,” he adds faintly.
“But . . .”
Men, like your father, who have charted their course and created a blueprint when there wasn’t one, tend not to be fond of hanging it all up and being told what to do.
As Diego’s explanation from the other day rolls through my brain, the argument dies on my tongue while my father eats.
The conversation is clearly over.
I feel a different kind of guilt. Earlier in the week, I was worried about him disrupting my life, bringing on a pang of guilt for being selfish and worrying about being a caregiver. Now that he insists on returning home, I feel terrible about running around with Diego the last two days.
If I had been home, would he have decided to stay? I don’t mind the couch. It’s not as lumpy and uncomfortable as I initially thought.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been home much these past few days, Papà. Maybe if I had, you would stay.”
Diego shifts uneasily.
His head ducks to push the pancakes around his plate without eating them. He feels guilty, by the looks of it.
“Nonsense. You have your life, and I have mine.”
His reply to absolve me of my guilt is swift and works on a fraction of it.
“Besides, tomorrow is Monday, and you know what happens on Mondays.”
“What happens on Mondays?”
Diego rejoins the conversation with a natural curiosity in his question.
“You’re still doing that?”
“Doing what, Dr. Rossi?”
Diego leans toward the wall, trying to get a better look at Papà, who’s more concerned with eating, unbothered by us, despite him being the center of the conversation.
“Every Monday, he volunteers at the local high school, teaching basic chemistry to underprivileged kids or high school students interested in STEM. He’s done it ever since I was in high school,” I explain when Papà raises his index finger to make a point.
“Because why, cara?”
“Science should be accessible to everyone regardless of their socioeconomic status,” I repeat, as I have heard this argument a thousand times, mostly my mother’s, which I just now inherited as my own.
His quiet satisfaction after my repeated words linger in the air. He gives a slight nod, his attention returning to his food, clearly pleased I haven’t forgotten the lesson he’s instilled in me for years.
“That’s . . . actually pretty incredible,” Diego says, his gaze shifting to me briefly before returning to my father. “Not many people would take their time to do something like that.”
Papà shrugs, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“If I do not, who will? Education should not be a privilege.”
The simplicity of his words strikes harder than I expect, threading through the fabric of my guilt. I know exactly where my drive for teaching comes from, but I’ve buried it under layers of control and ambition.
He has always been driven by something purer. Sharing knowledge for the sake of it. He even does it for free, something I wouldn’t possibly consider.
My throat tightens. Diego shifts again. I catch his eyes on me. They soften, dark, and steady. I glance away, blinking at my half-eaten food. I am suddenly too aware of him and his possible judgment of how different my father and I are.
He’s an example of my ruling. Diego clears his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to fill the sudden silence.
“So, how do you teach them, Dr. Rossi? Just lectures or . . .”
“Ah, no. Science must be experienced, not merely told. I bring simple experiments. Chemical reactions they can see, touch, and smell. It lights up their faces when they realize they can create something. Even something small,” my father says with a glint in his eye. “Inspiration comes from creation.”
Diego nods slowly, absorbing the words, but I can tell he’s still sneaking glances at me. He’s too good at reading me.
“Maybe I should’ve had a teacher like you,” Diego mutters, half to himself. “Someone who loves experimenting.”
My father smiles faintly, but my mind is tangled in the heat prickling under my skin at his innuendo. I suddenly need this breakfast to end.
“Papà,” I start, my tone more controlled than I feel. “Are you sure you shouldn’t wait a few more days before going home? I can arrange my schedule—”
“Dr. Isabella Rossi.”
His voice cuts through, firm but gentle. He rarely calls me by my title and full name. Something I feel I haven’t truly earned compared to the number of years of experience as his doctorate.
“I have lived longer than you have, and I know my limits. My body is healing, and my students need me.”
I deflate slightly, my argument slipping through my fingers. Diego adjusts the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms and pushes his plate away, having left some unfinished like myself.
“Do you need help before you go, Dr. Rossi?”
“No, no, Diego. You are a student, not a nurse.”
Papà waves him off, though not unkindly.
“Besides, my daughter worries enough for the both of us.”
“Don’t I know it, Dr. Rossi.”
Diego smirks behind his coffee mug.
I kick him under the table.
He startles, almost spilling his coffee, and bangs his knee on the table. Papà chuckles softly. I cross my arms, biting the inside of my cheek. I should feel relieved.
His independence means I can focus on my work and my classes. But there’s an emptiness in that thought I didn’t expect. The silence stretches until Diego nudges my ankle with his boot under the table.
“You good?” he mouths too low for Papà to hear.
I nod, but it’s a lie.
And Diego knows it.
“Well, let me drive you to the train station. It’s the least I can do for having the best lab partner in the class,” Diego offers with a sincere expression directed at me.
His tone is meant to shift our dynamic and lighten the mood, which works for my father but not necessarily for me.
Papà’s face brightens at the offer. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he nods in approval.
He dabs his mouth with his napkin and folds it neatly beside his plate as if the decision has already been made.
“If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely. I’m already packed. I need to grab a few things, and we can be off.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Diego says, eyes locked on mine. “Wouldn’t want my professor to think I don’t pull my weight.”
“You two seem to be getting along well,” Papà observes with a hint of quiet curiosity.
My eyes snap to him, heat rising in my cheeks. Diego’s smirk deepens just enough to make my stomach twist.
“No, we’re not. Diego’s just getting caught up since he missed class,” I defend too quickly, the words sharper than I intend. “Like lab partners would.”
Papà hums, unconvinced, taking a slow sip of his coffee. Diego stretches his arm along the back of the booth. His body relaxes in a way that annoys me.
“Lab partners,” Diego echoes, his tone flat, but his eyes glint. “Exactly.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
I’m mortified my father knows what’s happening between us.
My rushed excuses and parting glances must have given me away.
Who else will catch on if he sees it, especially after this weekend?
Especially how we catch each other’s gaze and hold it longer than usual.
I have to do a better job of hiding it if we continue seeing each other.
“I’ll get the check,” I blurt out, scooting out of the booth with such intention that I leave Diego calling after me, waving his credit card in the air.
I bolt to the register, unwilling to have him pay, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Behind me, I hear Papà murmur something low, and Diego chuckles in response.
I don’t want to know what they’re saying. And I hate that their camaraderie is coming to an end.
It’s all for the best, right?