Page 3 of Fundamentals of Chemistry

“It went exactly how I thought it would,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted all over again. “We were in the Lesser Dining Room, because why wouldn’t we be? Then, I sat through four excruciating courses while they talked through their standard repertoire of dinnertime topics.”

I’d heard variations of that conversation five hundred—five thousand—times.

“Dad and Grandpa are still deadlocked in negotiations for some contract with a firm in Bangalore,” I recounted in a sing-song voice. “But not to worry, my brother is wooing a new client which will reinvigorate cashflow.”

“Oh, good. I was so worried,” Silvia muttered, twisting the wire cage off the cork.

“The renovations are finally complete at the Whitmore Country Club, and wouldn’t it be nice to get brunch on Friday after a quick nine holes?”

“Yes, definitely. Everyone has time for nine holes on a Friday morning,” she said. She got the wire off and started tugging on the cork.

“Great grandma is home from the hospital after recovering from her fall last weekend. A new nursemaid has been hired since the last one was clearly incompetent.”

“Clearly,” Silvia said. The cork wasn’t budging.

I took the bottle from her and removed the cork with a loud pop.

“Show off,” she said with a smirk when I handed back the open bottle. I dutifully held the glasses while she poured with a flourish. Then, we both sipped.

“I sat and sat until I couldn’t stand it anymore. And finally, I just blurted it out.”

Silvia held up the bottle, and I nodded. She brought it with us and set it on the coffee table while we settled on the sofa, and I recounted the rest of the conversation. Afterward, Silvia wrapped me in a tight hug, her chin resting on my shoulder while she squeezed her tiny arms around me.

“Fuck them,” she said as she released me. She wiped a few tears from her cheeks.

My eyes were dry. They always were, save for the occasional slip of the mascara wand. Crying was unbecoming, but wallowing was fair game.

“It was stupid,” I said with a sigh. “I knew they weren’t going to be happy, but a little part of me hoped that they might, at least, be nice about it. I’ve been working my ass off for years for my degrees. I was summa cum laude at Columbia for fuck’s sake! Plus—it’s Newbury!”

“True, true. You’d think they would be happy you ended up there of all places. Don’t they have a building or something named after them?”

I nodded. “The Burke Library. My great grandpa donated a shitload of money like a hundred years ago. It’s actually really nice though.”

“Ha. I’m sure it is.”

“I’m serious! I would have died before admitting that to anyone, but yeah, that leather and old-book smell was the best. It’s the lignin in the old paper—when it breaks down, it’s chemically similar to vanilla.” I sighed dreamily and let my head flop back. “When I go back, the first thing I’m going to do is smell every single book.”

Silvia pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “Maybe wait until after the trial period is over before you let your weird out.”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “Fine, I won’t smell all the books. Just the best ones.” She raised a sharp eyebrow, and I added, “Discreetly.”

“This is good,” Silvia said, reaching for the champagne bottle and topping off our glasses. “We need to focus on the positives. How’s packing going?”

“Mostly done,” I said. “There are just a few things left. I still can’t believe I’m leaving the city in two days. This all feels surreal.”

“You’re telling me,” she said. “I know we knew this was coming, but it still feels so sudden.”

“Whatever are you going to do without me?” I teased.

“Well, it’s funny you mention that…” Silvia’s posture changed in an instant, freezing like a flower dipped in liquid nitrogen. And while her face remained arranged in a smile, it looked strained. “I have something to tell you too.”

I stiffened with apprehension but managed to hold the smile on my face. After five years of living as close as sisters, I couldn’t imagine there was anything she would hesitate to share with me. She knew about my struggles with my parents. I knew about her battle to be taken seriously as a first generation American.

Taking my best friend’s hand, I gently rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. “What’s your news?”

“Well,” she started, eyes dropping to our joined hands. “You know how Tim has been staying here kind of a lot?”

My smile softened. “Of course. Sil—he practically lives here.”