My Professor(44)

I invite myself in and step closer, peering at a photo on the bulletin board that must be from her Dartmouth days. Her cheeks are a little softer, her eyes keen and excited. Her friend from my class—her partner in crime—is also in the photo. They sit on a picnic blanket with their faces squashed together, looking up at the camera. I recognize Baker Library in the background.

Above the photo, there’s a letter pinned and partially hidden beneath another photo of a garden. I don’t get the chance to read any of it before Emelia clears her throat behind me.

“You’ve escorted me back to my apartment, Professor. You’ve done your duty.”

My spine stiffens.

I wish she would have chosen a different word.

Duty: a moral responsibility or obligation.

The word strips me of my ability to lose sight of who she is to me for even a second. Where she’s concerned, there will always be complications and consequences. I turn back toward her and acknowledge what a poor sight she makes hovering by the door: beautiful, always, but sodden and sad too. She’s soaking wet from her head to her toes. Her hair is midnight black with the rain dripping off it.

She’s waiting for me to leave, but instead, I meet her curious gaze. “I reviewed your HR file this afternoon.”

One of her brows arches in question.

I tuck my hands into my suit pockets. “I can only imagine what you’ve convinced yourself of when it comes to your position at Banks and Barclay. Though it might seem farfetched, I didn’t realize you were a new hire until the day I saw you sitting in the conference room.”

She swallows and stays quiet, weighing my words.

“I’ve seen you present your work before. Back at Dartmouth.”

She frowns, likely not sure what I could be alluding to, and right now, there’s no reason to give her the answer.

“And though that was convincing enough, your resume and recommendation letters further prove you deserve to be working at my firm. Just because you and I met years ago, it doesn’t mean anything. Do you understand?”

She nods weakly.

I sweep my gaze around her meager apartment, greedily stealing the privacy she’s cultivated for herself. I imagine briefly what could be. I want to see her lying back on that bed, propped up on her elbows, watching me with bated breath. I want to make her a simple meal and sit across from her at that card table and watch her eat every bite.

A baby’s cry from down the hall brings me back to the present, and I turn back to her, looking her dead in the eye as I speak.

“Whatever I do…whatever happens, I hope you don’t lose sight of the fact that your merits stand on their own.”

“What are you saying?”

Yes, Jonathan, what the fuck are you saying?

What the fuck are you doing standing in your very young employee’s apartment?

I shake my head and start to make my way past her, but her hand shoots out to stop me. There’s barely any weight behind it, but she presses her palm against my chest and holds me in place as she asks, “Have you thought about me since that night?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t look at her.

My gaze is on the door as she continues, “When you saw me again, did you feel it? The same tension? War? Desire? Whatever we should call it…”

She’s growing impatient. The tips of her fingers gently dig into my chest as if she’s trying to draw the answer out of me. For an excruciating moment, we stand there, and I almost give in to the urge to wreak havoc on us both.

Then I lift her hand off my chest, squeeze it tightly, and let it drop before I leave.





Chapter Sixteen





Emelia



* * *



After Professor Barclay leaves, I sag down in one of my kitchen chairs, feeling like all of my energy has been sapped out of me. Riding home in his car put me on high alert. Like prey caged in with a predator, I kept track of his every movement. Every time he readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. Every time he peered over at me. Every little nuance. I might have taunted him with the promise of leaving his car, but I never would have. He could have taken me wherever he wanted. He could have kept driving forever and I would have stayed, happily.

I sweep my gaze around my apartment, embarrassed now to see my home through his eyes. It’s small, sparse, maybe even a little childish with my yellow tablecloth and silly pictures. He made it clear he didn’t think much of my building. He turned his nose up downstairs, in the lobby, and I can only imagine he was restraining himself from saying anything negative about my apartment itself. If his car is any indication of what his house looks like, he lives in the lap of luxury.

But then my embarrassment and shame give way to curiosity as I remember his words from just before he left.

“Whatever I do…whatever happens, I hope you don’t lose sight of the fact that your merits stand on their own.”

But after that warning, he did nothing.

I was the one to stop him on his way out, to boldly ask a question that’s been on my mind for years, and he didn’t answer.

Even without the answer, though, his words mean something.

They have to.

I cling to them as I stand and make my dinner. I chop and sauté vegetables and add them to rice and leftover chicken. The meal is nothing fancy, but it’s nutritious and fills me up. After I eat, I clean my apartment, tidying everything as if I’m expecting Professor Barclay to waltz through the door again. I imagine him standing at the threshold, only this time he stays. He takes off his jacket and folds it neatly before draping it over the back of a chair. He comes to me, backing me up toward my bed like a bully taking what he wants.