My Professor(54)

Emelia



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I cry a lot on Saturday night after Professor Barclay drops me off back at my apartment. Somehow the tears keep coming, an endless stream born from a river of grief I thought had long since dried up.

There’s such a twisted cacophony of feelings that it’d be impossible to parse things out into separate, distinct issues. My anger toward Emmett bleeds into mourning the loss of my mother all over again. Twisted anxiety over his words only confuses and upsets me more. Then of course, there’s the sadness over the demise of my fledgling relationship with Alexander. I can imagine how hurt he was by the exchange he witnessed between Emmett and me, and though I can rest assured I didn’t start the fight, I definitely didn’t handle myself well. The truth needed to be said, but it could have been brought to light more delicately than that. I’d imagine the two of them want nothing more to do with me, and where Emmett is concerned, that’s fine by me, but not Alexander. I really wanted to make a friend in him.

Sunday is one of the loneliest days of my life. I force myself to get up and out of bed. I dress and wash my face and go out into the city. I walk and get coffee, and when I return to my apartment, I go through the ritual of preparing myself a nice late lunch. I eat half of what’s on my plate but can’t force down any more.

And then I think of Professor Barclay.

He’s there on my mind through everything. I should feel embarrassed about last night, but I don’t. Whatever weirdness there was between us is eclipsed by reminders of his hands on me in the hallway, his look of longing as we sat together in his car and I pleaded with him to end my misery.

I can’t, he said.

There it is.

The truth.

Whatever complicated situation lies between us, at least I have that.

There’s a knock on my apartment door Sunday evening. I sit up in bed and set down my book, curious.

“Delivery,” says a voice from the hall.

I’m relieved. For a second, I thought Professor Barclay had come to see me, which, given my current state—comfy pajamas, makeup-free face, tousled hair—would have been less than ideal.

I hurry to answer the door, and a young woman stands on the other side, overloaded with things. A flower arrangement is nestled in one arm, a bag with takeout from a fancy Italian restaurant in the other. At her feet, grocery bags are so full they threaten to spill.

She holds out the flowers for me first. The vase is filled with cream-colored dahlias, yellow-orange mums, pink garden roses, berries, and peonies.

“Oh, thank you.” I hurry to set the arrangement on my dining table before I rush back for everything else. “Do I need to sign or anything?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. All good.”

“Let me get you a tip.”

“It’s already been taken care of,” she assures me.

Right.

“Do you know who all this is from?”

She looks down at her phone, scrolling through an app. “Jonathan Barclay. Does that seem right?”

I nod and thank her again.

I’m glad I asked because there’s no card with the flowers, no note of any kind. There is dinner enough for four people and groceries that will last me over a week. I’m not sure if he selected it all himself, but I love everything he sent over. It’s all been freshly made. There’s a baguette and a seeded loaf as well as homemade jam and butter. There are chef-prepared meals I can take with me to work and a few treats: chocolate bars and ice cream, as well as cookies that make my apartment smell like a bakery. I eat one of those first before tucking into the Italian food. My hunger has come back with a vengeance.

I eat and look over at the flowers, turning the vase in a slow circle. They’re the prettiest thing in my apartment, and already I vow to take extremely good care of them so they’ll last as long as possible.

On Monday and Tuesday, Jonathan isn’t at work.

I know because I check constantly.

His office stays dark, and I grow more anxious by the minute.

Finally, Tuesday afternoon, I overhear chatter in the break room. Professor Barclay and Mr. Banks have been at the Belle Haven Estate the last two days, getting the property surveyed and inspected as well as meeting with representatives from the preservation society.

I have no idea if he’ll be back in the office on Wednesday, but I can’t keep waiting around, so I decide to find another way to see him.

It’s stupid, really, and half-baked. Worse, it’s borderline stalking. On top of all of that, I have to take a sick day from work, but it’ll be worth it, I think.

In the years since I graduated from Dartmouth, Professor Barclay accepted a position teaching at MIT. Because I admittedly have no life and might be slightly obsessed, I know he teaches a course on Wednesday mornings, which means I know he’ll be on campus, and I can’t resist the temptation to see him in this role again.

Just like at Dartmouth, his class is huge, housed in a lecture hall that’s filled with eager undergraduates and likely a few people like me who are sneaking in to observe the class. I blend in easily enough. It wasn’t so long ago that I was an undergraduate myself, and when the doors to the auditorium open, I slide in among the crowd and claim a seat in the back row, nestled in the far corner.

A few minutes before the class is due to start, Professor Barclay enters and unpacks his things on the small table up front. There’s no podium on the stage, only a large screen he’ll project his lecture onto. He’s dressed slightly more casually than he usually is at the office. No suit jacket, just a light blue shirt rolled up to his elbows and navy slacks. The silver face of his Patek Philippe catches the light for a moment, and a thrill ripples through me.