My Professor(6)

Emelia Mercier is her name.

Seeing her there of all places is the cherry on top of my shit-filled day.

The illusion is shattered. She’s no nymph, no siren, no dream.

She’s an undergraduate student in my class.

The realization hits me hard. Her existence in my life, however small, was more significant than I’d previously realized. In my head, she was so simple, a two-dimensional character I could place into any scenario, any scene. On a hard day, a sighting of her would be enough to lift my spirits. And if I’m being honest, I’d come to develop feelings for her, or if not feelings, a sense of hope. A crush.

I’m on the train riding back to Boston after my class, contemplating whether or not I should order a custom window shade for my office back at Dartmouth to block my view of the courtyard, when my phone rings.

My mother calls me more than I call her, something I perpetually tell myself I’m going to work on and never do.

She always starts talking quickly, as if she knows my time is precious.

“Oh good, you answered. I won’t keep you long, I promise” is how she starts today’s conversation.

“It’s fine. I’m on the train to Boston from Hanover.”

“The train?” She sounds personally offended. “Why aren’t you driving? Or better yet, being driven? Your father has a fabulous driver we always use when we’re on the east coast. I can call his secretary and have her forward you his information.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind the train.”

She scoffs. “I can practically feel the scent of urine searing my nostrils as we speak.”

“Lovely.”

She sighs. “Right, well, I have nothing all that important to discuss with you. I just had a note on my calendar to ‘Call Jonathan’ so here I am, performing my maternal duties like the good mother I am.”

I smile and shake my head.

Lucille Barclay doesn’t fit into a simple box. Outsiders looking in always assume she’s severe and cold, but in truth, my mother is whip-smart, fiercely loyal, and one of the most sarcastic, funny people I know. She taught me how to make the perfect martini at age twelve. Shaken not stirred, Jonathan. We heed Mr. Fleming’s advice in this house.

“When are you coming home next? I have someone I’d like to set you up with. She looks very fertile.”

I cough to conceal a laugh. “Aren’t three grandchildren enough for you? You’re getting greedy.”

“Yes, well, Nancy O’Neil just had her fifth and won’t shut up about it. You should hear her bragging about it at the club. She showed me a picture of one of them the other day, and I barely covered up my gasp of horror. It was like a little gremlin. I swear she could tell I was lying when I said it was cute. Anyway, since your sister seems to be tapped out at three, you’re my only hope of one-upping Nancy. I can send you this girl’s photo if you’d like. She seems nice enough. Maybe a bit dim, but as I mentioned before, the hip-to-waist ratio is there, and that’s what matters.”

“It concerns me that you might not be kidding.”

“Jonathan…of course I’m not kidding,” she deadpans.

We both laugh then, and a wave of homesickness overtakes me.

“I just want you happy and settled,” she adds after a beat of silence.

Her sincerity makes my chest ache, but, never one to dwell in actual feelings, I turn the conversation around.

“Would you settle for tired and overworked?” I quip.

“Is it so important? Everything you’re doing?”

“It feels like it.”

“Do you make room for your life? Your real life? The possibility of finding a partner?”

What little room I had was dedicated to the girl outside my window…Emelia—or the idea of Emelia. Pathetic, I know, and now that door has been shut and sealed.

I sigh, feeling the weight of my day settle heavy on my shoulders. It’s not yet 1:30 PM. I’ll be at the Banks and Barclay offices for at least another seven to eight hours.

“I should go.”

“Good. Avoidance is key. I’ve heard the recipe to a happy life is to work endlessly and avoid any kind of a social life at all costs. You don’t want to look back at 80 and regret not spending another Saturday tied to your desk.”

“Point taken.”





Chapter Four





Emelia



* * *



Before Thursday’s class, I replay my conversation with Professor Barclay no less than fifty times in my head. Surely, it wasn’t as bad as I remember it. Surely, my brain is warping the memory and making it worse than it really was.

I show up with a plan to start fresh. I’ll sit right up front, zip my lips, take dutiful notes, and fly completely under his radar. Except, when I arrive a few minutes early, every seat is already full, which is absolutely ridiculous. The registrar wouldn’t overload the class. They know how many students this lecture hall holds.

I scan the room, looking for Sonya, and I find her up in the very front row alongside Annette. She looks back, spots me, and holds up her hands in an apologetic shrug, as if to say, I tried my best. I edge toward the back, trying to carve out some space on the floor or against the wall.

I squeeze by two girls in the corner who seem deeply annoyed to have me near them, but there’s not much else I can do at this point. I drop my bag on the floor and start pulling out my printed lecture slides.