My Professor(34)

I smile. “Yeah. I was not expecting that this morning.”

“Perks of the new job, I guess.”

The car door opens again, and Mr. Banks slides into the middle row of seats. Zach and I immediately go silent, sharing a private alarmed look before Professor Barclay follows after him.

There were two other SUVs they could have chosen; why did they have to get into ours?

Mr. Banks settles into his seat, and then, realizing the two of us are back here just staring dumbfounded, he offers a friendly nod.

“Remind me of your names?”

Zach and I speak at the same time like overeager children.

I laugh, more than a little embarrassed. Why do I always have to blush? Always?

“I’m Zach, and this is Emelia.”

“Right. Engineering department and conservation department, respectively. I remember now. Good to have you both here today.”

My gaze flits to Professor Barclay. I wait for him to turn back and acknowledge us too, but he doesn’t. He keeps his attention down on his phone as he types away on a message or an email or whatever it is that’s so important.

I know I shouldn’t, but I gift myself a fleeting moment to look at him, to take in the details I’ve yearned for the last few years: the tan skin between his neat hairline and crisp shirt collar, the cut of his suit jacket across his wide shoulders, his sharp jawline in profile. These are things I’ve been deprived of, the angles never shown on social media.

The SUV suddenly seems shrunken. Though I’ve never been one to feel claustrophobic before now, it’s hard to overcome the sensation. Professor Barclay acts as a vacuum in the confined space. His cologne, while subtle, is a constant reminder that he’s there, within arm’s reach, even when I turn to distract myself by looking out the window.

As the SUV pulls away from the tarmac, Mr. Banks goads Professor Barclay into conversation. It’s clear they make a good team. Even if I wanted to eavesdrop, I can barely keep up with them. They basically speak in shorthand.

“Cincinnati issued the demolition permits this morning for the ancillary buildings,” Mr. Banks notes.

“Already? Did Joan go down to grease the wheels a little?”

Mr. Banks snorts. “You think she had anything to do with this? It was me and my charm.”

“What about developer permits?”

“Delayed.”

“Sewer and sign?”

“Delayed. Delayed.”

“Who’s running Cincinnati permits again?”

“Dan Keller.”

“I thought Royce replaced him?”

“We wanted Royce to replace him, but no, Dan’s still in charge.”

Professor Barclay shakes his head. “It’ll be another six months before we break ground.”

“We’ll get going on demo and hope for the best. I meant to ask—is Miranda coming in this weekend?”

To say my ears snap to attention is an understatement. I’m so tuned in to what Professor Barclay is about to say I might as well be leaning over the seat, holding my breath, unblinking.

Who’s Miranda? The blonde from his pictures? The woman I’ve seen so much of over the last year? Are they still talking about work or…

“No.”

I try to dissect that word, to decipher if it’s a content no or a distressed no, but I can’t tell.

“So you’ll be solo?” Mr. Banks wonders.

“Looks like it.”

“You know…if you need help in that respect, I’m your guy. I can set you up with a date.”

Professor Barclay replies with a short laugh and nothing else.

My hands have turned into mutinous little fists at my sides. The idea of Professor Barclay with a date, someone new for him to prance around with, has my blood boiling.

Zach edges slightly closer so he can speak quietly, oblivious to the conversation taking place one row forward.

“I didn’t know you were a Dartmouth girl,” he says, pointing down to my old college tote bag sitting at my feet. It barely gets any use anymore, but I brought it with me today to carry all my stuff for the construction site.

“Dartmouth?” Mr. Banks asks, turning back to look at me inquisitively. “When did you graduate?”

I tell him then try with all my might to keep my gaze from slipping to Professor Barclay.

Mr. Banks frowns and looks at his partner. “You were there still, weren’t you? Did you two know each other?” He turns back to me. “Did you take his course?”

“No.”

I have that word locked and loaded. It’s shot out so quickly and vehemently that I leave no room for Professor Barclay to contradict it.

Mr. Banks’ thick brown eyebrows furrow in confusion. “That’s odd…given your major.”

I shrug and look out the window. “It’s a big campus.”

“Even if we had crossed paths, I can’t possibly keep track of all my students,” Professor Barclay adds.

The statement stings, and I have to remind myself that it’s a lie. He does remember me; he proved that yesterday on the elevator. He’s simply corroborating my story. Don’t let it hurt.

“It takes something truly memorable for a student to really stand out.”

His words sound eerily familiar…and then my brain puts two and two together. It’s easy enough to do. Our last conversation at Dartmouth is branded in my memory.