My Professor(46)

I overhear Candace say her name.

Miranda.

Mystery solved.

Everything about her is catalogued in my mind as swiftly as a blow from an axe. Designer dress, immaculate hair, delicate jewelry—she’s a walking embodiment of the kind of woman Professor Barclay could and should be with. My TJ Maxx dress feels ridiculously silly by comparison. My nude heels seem to have twice as many scuff marks as they did only a moment ago. I think of the extra care and attention I’ve been giving my hair and makeup this week, and then I think of Professor Barclay behind closed doors all the while, phoning Miranda, speaking dirty words and charming words and loving words to her, and I’m in the bathroom before I know it, hunched over the toilet, ridding myself of my late lunch salad.

“Emelia? Are you okay?” Meera asks from the other side of the stall door.

Embarrassed, I flush and grab a wad of toilet paper to wipe my mouth. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Can I get you some water or something?”

“No, no. I’m better now, I promise. I think I just had a bad lunch.”

“Are you sure?”

I don’t reply.

She sighs. “Listen, why don’t I go get your stuff for you? It’s almost quitting time anyway. Lewis will understand.”

I hate to duck out early, but she’s right; it’s already four. Most people will be leaving in the next hour anyway, and it’s better like this.

She gathers my things as I rinse my mouth and wash my hands in the sink, carefully avoiding my reflection in the mirror. Then I leave the building without ever having to go back to my desk and see for myself whether Miranda went into Professor Barclay’s office and locked the door behind her. Sure, I imagine it. Of course I imagine it, wounding myself deeper and deeper with each terrible scenario.

Are they still together?

Have they been together this whole time?

Did I ever even stand a chance?

I call Sonya when I get home, but she doesn’t answer. I remember belatedly that she was going to do a final walkthrough of the wedding venue with Wesley this weekend, so I leave a message telling her not to worry about calling me back, we’ll talk on Monday.

With an entire Friday evening stretched out before me, I feel restless and on the brink of tears. I’m grateful I have no way of contacting Professor Barclay. In my most desperate hour, I’d probably do something stupid like call him and demand to know the truth about what’s going on with him and Miranda. Do I even have a right to be upset, or have I conjured up things in my head and made them seem more important than they really are? We’ve barely spoken since I took the position at Banks and Barclay. I’m nothing to him. Somehow, I lost sight of that in the last week, but today was a painful reminder of the truth.

Professor Barclay is not, and never will be, mine.

I choose to save face and shift my full focus to what my attire will be for tomorrow night. Alexander sends me the details of the dinner, the time and location. I look up the address and come to find out his apartment is in the most expensive residential building in the city. I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of joining Alexander and his friends there, and I don’t want to be a disappointment or embarrassment to him.

I look through my closet and come away less than inspired by anything I already have (shocker).

My first check from Banks and Barclay has cleared and is sitting in my bank account. Once I allot enough funds for the necessities—namely, bills—there’s a little bit extra. Normally, I’d put it toward student loans, but I convince myself that just this once, it would be okay to splurge on a dress for the dinner party. Of course, my conversation from the car ride with Professor Barclay doesn’t slip under the radar. I’m sure he would chastise me for using my money this way, but good thing for him, he’s too busy with Miranda to have to worry about little ol’ me anymore.

Saturday afternoon, I go to a trendy boutique I pass by on my way to work every day. There’s always an endless parade of elegant women coming in and out of it, and today, it’s my turn to be one of them.

I half expect the sales associate to Pretty Woman me right out of there, but she smiles and tells me to let her know if I need any assistance as I shop. I know what dress I’m going for right away. I’ve seen it in the window for the last two weeks, and as luck would have it, they still have my size.

It’s a short sleeveless black dress made from a silk blend with a draped neckline and back. I love the way it shows off my legs, but more importantly, it’s timeless and not overly risqué, the perfect thing to wear to a dinner party where I want to appear cool and effortless in front of Alexander and Emmett and their friends.

I ignore the price at the register as the associate wraps it up and hands it to me in a luxurious garment bag. I’m a little scared someone will try to steal it from me on the way home, so I walk fast and scurry upstairs to my apartment. With nothing else to do, I take a ridiculous amount of time to get ready so there’s not an eyelash or hair out of place by the time I hail an Uber to head over to Alexander’s apartment.

I made myself wait and leave slightly later than I usually would so I’m not the first person to arrive. I have no idea what kind of situation I’m walking into, and I’m trying to play my cards just right.

Alexander sent me a sweet text earlier in the afternoon, confirming I was still going to show up. I assured him I’d be there, and as I get out of the Uber in front of his building, I’m glad I did, because otherwise, I might get right back in the car and tell the driver to take me home.