My Professor(33)

That night, I thoroughly prepare for the site visit the next day. I lay out a pair of beige fitted slacks and a white button-down. I’ll wear ballet flats to the office, but I’m taking a pair of sturdy work boots as well. If what I’ve heard is true, the Belle Haven Estate was left half-finished, construction materials still littering the property. I’d like to avoid slicing my foot open on a stray nail.

Once I’ve done that and packed my lunch, I go out for a long walk along the Commonwealth Avenue trail. I don’t love where I’m living in Boston. It’s only a temporary space, I remind myself, but even still…it’s depressing, so I try to spend as little time there as possible. I walk a few miles until I’m too hungry to carry on. I grab a sandwich at a shop just off the trail and eat it on a bench while I scroll on my phone. I don’t post on social media, but I still like to look through Instagram every now and then. I use a fake account so I don’t have to worry about anyone finding out it’s me. Tonight, as I’m wasting time aimlessly scrolling, I come across a post from Alexander and am surprised to find he’s standing in front of a familiar sight: Boston Children’s Hospital.

Is he here?

Have we ever been in the same city at the same time?

In his caption, he’s trying to get the word out about a gala that’s taking place this weekend in honor of the children’s hospital. The tickets are sold out, but he’s included a link for where donations can be made.

Immediately, the wheels in my head start turning.

Could I…

Should I…

I call Sonya to see what she thinks of my plan. While I haven’t told her every detail of my personal life (namely: the truth about what happened with Professor Barclay), she knows enough about my family to understand why an opportunity like this is tempting to me.

“No,” she says immediately and emphatically once she hears me out. “Absolutely not. There’s no way that will work. You’ll be arrested, and then what’s going to happen? You just moved to Boston. You have no one to call to bail you out, so my ass is going to have to get on a train from New York to come save you. Just no. Please don’t do this.”

I assure her I’m going to heed her warning, all while actively plotting how to pull off my plan in my head.

First, I need a dress.

On the way to the estate the next day, I hunt through department store inventory on my phone, trying to find something that’s a) stylish, b) in my price range, and c) in stock in store since I don’t have time to get anything shipped to me. It’d be an easier task to concentrate on if I weren’t currently sitting on a private plane distracted by Professor Barclay.

Yes, private plane.

Silly me, I didn’t realize how far Greenwich, Connecticut, is from Boston. It’s three hours one way, and that’s if you don’t hit bad traffic. Even still, I’m sure us new-hire plebes would have been forced to endure the six-hour round trip if not for the fact that the executive team is traveling too. Since there was enough room on the plane, we got to tag along.

This morning, before takeoff, everyone had already boarded and taken their seats by the time Mr. Banks and Professor Barclay ducked through the door.

Professor Barclay walked down the aisle and passed me by without a second look or greeting. I frowned and turned to watch him take his seat at the back of the cabin with Mr. Banks across from him. Immediately, people descended on them. Lewis and the other managers have each put in their time kissing ass as if paying tribute to their monarchs.

Not five minutes ago, Professor Barclay looked up and caught me peering back at him. Startled, I whipped around and faced forward before I could register anything in his indiscernible expression.

I’m still getting used to this new proximity. It’s hard to believe that after four long years, I have him within reach. It’s impossible to keep old feelings from bubbling up to the surface, to keep the events from the past from mingling with the present, and it’s evident in the fact that I can’t seem to stop calling him Professor Barclay.

To everyone at the firm, he’s Mr. Barclay or Jonathan.

I can’t imagine ever calling him Jonathan.

I refocus my attention down on my phone, annoyed that I can’t find a dress I like for the gala that’s not over a thousand dollars. Just as well since the captain of the plane alerts us that we’re approaching our final descent into Greenwich. I should probably get my head refocused on work anyway.

Out on the tarmac, SUVs are waiting for us. There’s no rhyme or reason for how we’ll travel to the estate; we aren’t splitting up by department, so I head straight for the last SUV, opting to climb in the third row to be out of everyone’s way.

Zach, another new hire from a different department, joins me. We haven’t had much time to get to know each other over the week, but I saw him in the break room yesterday and he cracked a joke about the piss-poor coffee. Side note: I actually think it’s great. The company has one of those fancy Nespresso machines and there are a ton of milk and creamer options. Still, I laughed along, grateful to meet another person my age at the firm.

“Cool plane, huh?” he asks, sliding into the back seat with me.

His sudden nearness has me hyper-focused on him in a way I haven’t cared to be before now. It’s like he’s been drawn out of mere background noise. He has blond hair that goes every which direction in that cool British way, his clothes are trendy, and he’s wearing Jordans with his slacks instead of dress shoes.