My Professor(68)

“I’m sure it’s been hard.”

My throat squeezes tight, and I simply nod. What more is there to say about the subject? I’m an orphan, no family to speak of whatsoever. I’m alone and have been for so long now that I’ve grown used to the empty feeling.

“Other people have it worse,” I say, pushing away my untouched water.

“But we’re talking about you…”

Emotions are a finicky thing. Sadness morphs so easily into anger, happening in the blink of an eye. I bristle at his tone, and just like that, the perimeter I keep around my heart is more impenetrable than ever.

I slide off my stool. “I’m getting tired. Should we go to bed?”

There’s a prolonged moment where he looks at me as if he might challenge my withdrawal from the conversation, maybe try to push me to open up, but he simply nods and leads me up to the second floor.

In his closet, he starts rifling through drawers.

“I don’t have any women’s clothes for you to wear.”

“Nothing of Miranda’s?”

He presses a soft gray t-shirt into my arms and ignores my bout of jealousy. “This will have to do. Would you like sweatpants too?”

I hold up his t-shirt to see where the hem hits my thighs. It’ll be short, but it’ll cover everything.

The front says Dartmouth faculty. I almost give in to the urge to smile.

“This is fine.”

His lips flatten in a line as if he isn’t pleased with the fact that I won’t be wearing pants, but he holds his tongue.

“There’s a guest room down the hall with toiletries stocked under the sink. Use anything you’d like. You’ll find fresh towels in the bathroom cabinets.”

I look through the closet door, back toward his room.

“I won’t be staying in here with you?”

His king bed is right there. An invitation if there ever was one.

“I don’t think it’d be wise.”

I nearly ask him why. Is it because I wouldn’t answer his questions in the kitchen, because I pulled back during his attempt to go deeper?

I’m curious, of course, but I don’t press. This feels like a tiny rejection, and I’d rather save face than reveal the fact that I’m hurt by him sticking me in some guest bedroom like he’d rather just get rid of me altogether.

“Right. Good night then.”

I don’t look back at him as I leave his room. What is there to do? Kiss him on the cheek? Give him a hug? Dear god, I can’t imagine what he would do if I tried to hug him. Tense up? Pat my head?

I’d rather not find out.

True to his word, the guest room accommodations are fit for royalty. I treat myself to a long shower, sampling some of everything that’s in the bathroom: luxurious face soap, body wash, and moisturizer, to name a few. I contemplate dropping my favorites of the bunch into my purse to take with me in the morning. The moisturizer is especially tempting because of how decadent it feels on my skin.

I dry my hair then walk into the bedroom where I find my panties freshly laundered, waiting for me on the bed atop a pair of folded sweatpants. He must have come in to get them and washed them on a quick cycle while I showered, which feels oddly intimate. A cavalier lover doesn’t usually do laundry, at least not that I know of, though I haven’t had many lovers in my day. None outside of Professor Barclay, and I’d blush calling him that to his face.

As I get dressed—skipping the sweatpants—I hear his voice carry from down the hall. He must be on the phone, and though I should afford him privacy, my curiosity gets the best of me.

I don’t leave my room—that way I can convince myself I’m doing nothing wrong—but I hover at the door with my ear tilted toward his voice.

“They’ve been trouble from the start. The whole office seems hell-bent on extending this project out another three years.”

I frown at how worked up he sounds.

“No. I’d rather just handle it myself,” he continues. “I’ll fly out first thing in the morning. It should only take a day or two. I’ll see if Candace can reach Blake to get a meeting on the books. The earlier the better so this doesn’t continue to delay things.”

My heart deflates like a shrinking balloon as I step away from the door.

So he’s leaving in the morning. It’s not a big deal, I try to assure myself.

Then why do I feel inexplicably sad?

It’s this room, I figure. It’s plush and well-stocked, decadent and luxurious, but it’s also cold and empty. I fill so little of it as I pad over to the bed and draw back the covers.

I have no book or Kindle, nothing to entertain myself with as I lie there and stare up at the dark ceiling. I concentrate on the city noise filtering in from outside, though given our location, it’s surprisingly minimal. Leave it to Professor Barclay to ensure noise and nuisances are kept to a minimum.

Sleep doesn’t come. I toss and turn for so long that I start to grow annoyed by it. I consider sneaking down to the kitchen to get myself a snack or perusing the bookshelves I saw in the living room to try to find a novel that catches my eye, but I feel like both would be wrong. I’m staying in Professor Barclay’s guest room, but I don’t feel like a guest; I feel like an intruder.

I should have just left earlier rather than accept his invitation to stay the night. When he put me in this room, that should have been my cue to leave.