My Professor(18)

“Don’t tell me you’re sick on your birthday! You need to rally. Some dude at the bar just bought us all a round of shots when we told him it’s our friend’s 21st!”

Emelia looks to me, wanting instruction.

“Tell them you’re fine.”

“I’m fine!” she insists. “Just…I’ll meet you at the bar!”

I’m growing impatient with the fact that she’s stopped touching herself, so I slide my hand back into her underwear and my middle finger covers hers, making her rub the way I want her to. I reach out and wrap my hand around her neck, a gentle pressure just below her chin so I can feel every pulse.

Then I lean down so my mouth is closer to her ear.

“Be a good girl, Emelia. Let me watch you come undone. Show me.”

It’s all the catalyst she needs.

She unravels before me, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. I don’t blink. I memorize every second of her body shivering and quaking. I’m relentless; I make her keep swirling her finger, dragging out her pleasure as her body moves against her hand.

The sweetest moan escapes her lips, and I fantasize about kissing her. If only I could…

“Emelia!” a girl shouts. “We’re not leaving you! Are you crying? Because I swear if you’re down in the dumps again on your birthday, I’m going to kick your ass. No being sad on your birthday! We’ve talked about this.”

Emelia’s body stiffens, and she starts to slip away from me.

Her friend’s words snuff out what little magic lingered in this bathroom. Now, Emelia won’t look at me. Whether she’s embarrassed by what I just heard or what we’ve just done, I can’t tell.

Knowing she needs it, I step away first, giving her space.

She uses it, hurrying to fix her clothes before going back to the sink to wash her hands and wipe clean the last few minutes. I bend down and retrieve her purse, feeling lightheaded from the alcohol as I stand back up. I’m more drunk than I realized, and so is Emelia. Fuck. That guilt I was able to shirk off in the heat of the moment refuses to be ignored now. Adrenaline is burning off my buzz. I shouldn’t have taken things this far. I shouldn’t be alone in this bathroom with one of my students.

My student.

Jesus Christ.

Clarity is a sharp knife.

With her head bowed, she walks over to collect her purse, careful not to touch me. Her hand is shaking.

“It’s your birthday.”

Her gaze stays on the floor. “Does it matter?”

Before I can say anything else, she slips out the door and rejoins her friends.

“God, sorry, guys. There was the longest line, and then I thought I was going to be sick for a second,” she lies.

“Are you all right now?” a guy asks. “We can nix the drinks and head home.”

“No, I’m fine. Swear.”

Someone whoops. “Then let’s GO!”





I check my course roster later that night, back home in Boston.

It’s wrong to abuse my power in this way, but I want access to Emelia. I want to know as much about her as I can. Unfortunately, the university doesn’t provide much: her name, university ID, email address, and semester schedule.

She’s still enrolled in my class, and though it shouldn’t be the case, I’m filled with relief when I see her name listed there among my students.

Emelia Mercier.

Mercier.

I frown.

Mercier isn’t a common last name.

I didn’t put two and two together until now, seeing her name in print, which seems silly considering how French Emelia looks.

When I was younger, I went to boarding school with two boys who shared that last name, Emmett and Alexander Mercier. They were a few years younger than me, and I was much closer to Emmett than to Alexander. Even so, I can’t recall if they ever spoke about a sister. Emmett and I still keep in touch, and we get together when our schedules allow it. His family’s company keeps him predominantly in Paris, but surely if he had a sister, I would have heard about her at some point.

I open Google and type in her name, and as expected, most of the results have to do with the Mercier family and their company GHV. The entire first page is dominated by news of stock prices and arguments for and against raising French corporate income tax on large conglomerates like GHV. The first link that intrigues me is buried on page two: a Wikipedia page for Frédéric Mercier, the founder and CEO of GHV. There, on the right-hand side, are his children listed in descending order by age: Emmett Mercier, Alexander Mercier, and Emelia Mercier.

I sit back in my chair, stunned.

It has to be her.

Emmett and Alexander’s names are hyperlinks to their respective Wikipedia pages, but Emelia’s isn’t. A quick scroll through Frédéric’s page comes up short for information about his daughter beyond her birthday—which was in fact yesterday. Annoyed, I go back to Google and try several different searches: “Emelia Mercier Dartmouth”, “Frédéric Mercier daughter”, “Emelia Mercier GHV”. It’s almost strange how little information there is about her. If Emelia is Frédéric Mercier’s daughter, she would surely be represented in the media somehow. I understand she might not be the type to be splashed across tabloids and gracing society pages, but at the very least she would have been profiled by publications like Forbes and Money at some point in her life, no? I can’t find a single quote from Frédéric about her, though there’s plenty to find when it comes to Emmett and Alexander.