His grip on my waist tightens just for a second before he finally—finally—steps back.
“Have a good birthday, Tara,” he mutters.
31
ALFIE
The lab feels too quiet at 7 pm. The simulation data shows exactly what we’ve been hoping for - pressure variations that could change everything we thought we knew about Europa’s subsurface composition. Professor Hammond’s already talking about presentations at CalTech, about revolutionary findings and career-making opportunities.
I stare at the acceptance email from CalTech’s doctoral program. Early admission. Partial funding. Everything I’ve worked for.
And all I can think about is how Tara felt pressed against me in that dark hallway, and how I walked away. Again.
I call Gran. She answers on the second ring.
“Did I wake you?” I ask, realizing the time.
“Please.” She scoffs. “Your grandfather used to say sleep was for people without telescopes. I was just looking at Jupiter, actually. It makes me think of you and your project.”
Something catches in my throat. “Speaking of that... I got into CalTech.”
“Oh! Wonderful! I knew you’d get in! Harold always said you had the mind for it. Remember how he used to let you play with his old microscopes?”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I wish he was here.”
“Oh, darling.” Her voice softens. “He’d be so proud. Not because of CalTech - though that too - but because you chose your own path. That’s all he ever wanted for you.”
“Mother doesn’t see it that way.”
“Your mother,” Gran says with characteristic bluntness, “wouldn’t recognize true passion if it hit her in the head. Now, tell me about Tara, how is she?”
“We broke up.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be back together.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, dear. It doesn’t suit you. Harold and I watched you fall in love exactly once - with that first telescope he gave you. You get the same look in your eyes when you’re with her.”
“It’s over,” I manage. “It’s better this way.”
“For whom?”
“For her. You’ve seen how our family operates, what they do to people who don’t fit their mold.”
“Ah yes, because Tara seemed so intimidated by them.” Gran’s voice drips sarcasm. “That girl is a star, Alfie. Burning brighter than anyone in that room. Including you, when you’re being stupid like this.”
“But—”
“Did I ever tell you about when I first met your grandfather?”
She had. Many times.
“Gran—”
“His mother hated me,” she continues, ignoring my protest. “Said I wasn’t suitable. Too loud, too crude, too everything. Sound familiar?”
I think about Tara defending my research to Drake, making Gran laugh. “What did you do?”
