ALFIE
The BMW’s dashboard lights up withanothermissed call from Drake.
Third one today. My finger hovers over the volume control, turning Bach’s Symphony No. 7 louder until it drowns out the notification.
Mother always said No. 6 was superior, which is exactly why I prefer No. 7.
The same reason I chose geology over business school, research over real estate, a cluttered lab over a corner office.
I switch the music to Metallica to imagine Mother’s disapproving frown. The heavy bass feels like rebellion, even if no one else can hear it. Even if I’ll switch it back to Bach before I reach campus because, well, old habits die hard and Symphony No. 7 really is brilliant.
Drake is probably calling about the family’s summer plans. He’ll want to make sure I’m ready for another carefully orchestrated few weeks of networking, deal-making, and not-so-subtle hints aboutsuitable matches. Mother’salready mentioned in her latest email that Marcie Bollingdon is back from her trip.
I understand perfectly.
As if I haven’t spentyearsdodging their attempts to push me toward Marcie. I turn up the music.
I arrive at the UMS geology labs quickly, itching to get stuck into my research.
Stepping into the lab, the chatter dims. It always does. Eyes dart to screens as a few heads subtly drop, trying not to get caught looking at me. Someone fumbles a coffee cup. The liquid sloshes over the rim, but no one says a word.
Good. I don’t need to be liked.
“Evening,” someone mutters, voice wary. A half-hearted attempt at civility. I don’t bother responding. It won’t change anything.
People don’t like me because they don’t know me. I don’t let them. They don’t like the way I look at them, the way I don’t fill silences with bullshit. That’s fine. I prefer it that way.
The simulation data blurs on my screen as I rub my tired eyes. The Europa model shows promising results—minor variations in pressure that could indicate exactly what we’ve been looking for. If I’m right about the mineral formations, it could changeeverythingwe thought we knew about potential life in our solar system. The time flies by as I work.
Professor Hammond’s words echo in my head. “This summer could make your entire career, Mr. Spencer.”
No pressure. As the first week of summer break comes to a close, the campus is noticeably quieter with most people gone. My friends and I had a last big blowoutbefore summer on Friday. The memory makes my head pound. I should’ve said no to Ethan and his tequila. It isnota good time.
Fragments of the night come back to me, Ethan’s lethal punch, the geology building’s fluorescent lights, and... Tara.
I’ve spent two years trying not to look at Troy’s little sister. Two years of pretending not to notice how she lights up talking about fossils, how she makes everyone around her feel more alive by existing. Two years of forcing my eyes away when she walks into a room in those dresses that show off her legs. Two years of pretending I don’t notice how her ass looks in jeans, or the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
Fucking torture.
And I threw it all away in one moment of drunken stupidity. One kiss that can never,neverhappen again. That I need to forget happened at all.
I glance at my watch—8 pm. The lab is silent except for the soft hum of equipment, exactly how I like it. No distractions. No complications. Just me and the possibility of discovering something that matters.
My coffee’s gone cold but I drink it anyway, Grandpa’ voice drifts through my memory.
“The universe doesn’t give up its secrets easily, boy. You’ve got to earn them.”
He was the first person who ever took my interest in science seriously. While Father was pushing business schools and Mother was arranging “casual” meetings with daughters of her country club friends, Grandpa was setting up telescopes in the manor’s garden. Teaching meconstellations. Showing me that there were bigger things to care about than thefamily legacy.
My phone buzzes, it’s a notification from Chess.com. ButterBoi69 has made their move in our ongoing game.
I snort, checking the board. They’ve put me in check with a move I should have seen coming. ButterBoi69 might have a ridiculous username, but they’re the only online opponent who consistently challenges me. We’ve been trading wins for months now, neither of us able to maintain an advantage for long.
Just as I’m contemplating my response, the simulation computer beeps. New data. Something in the pressure readings has changed.
“Well,” I mutter, setting aside the chess game, “show me what you’re hiding.”
Europa’s secrets might be hard to earn, but they’re worth every sleepless night. Worth every disapproving look from my father. Worth choosing this path instead of the one laid out for me since birth.
