My Professor(70)

I nod to let him know that would have been fine. After all, this hasn’t come as a surprise. I knew he was leaving. I’m not sure why it’s still bothering me.

“It’s for the best. A little time to cool off.”

He reaches out to take my chin in his hand. “That’s not what I want.”

I shiver at his bold declaration but don’t say a word.

I start to stand up, but he shakes his head. “Stay. Sleep. I need to shower and finish packing.”

I stay put, and he sighs and slides off the bed.

I don’t think it will be possible to sleep, not with him moving around wearing practically nothing, not with the spray of the shower, the thunk of his shampoo and conditioner bottles, the whirr of his electric razor. That’s the last thing I remember before sleep finally catches me. I’m out cold for hours, only jolting awake when the shaft of light visible through the drapes aligns perfectly with my face.

A quick glance at his bedside clock tells me I’ve majorly overslept. Eleven AM—I can’t recall sleeping that late since high school.

Professor Barclay’s house is dead quiet, and I’m back to feeling like an intruder. I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling above the ground, and I look around me, careful not to move and disturb the quiet, as if someone will find out.

His suit jacket lies folded on the back of a chair near the window. His gym bag hangs on the closet doorknob. I look behind me at the messy bed, and I indulge in the impulse to lean down and drop my face right into the center of Professor Barclay’s pillow. I fill my lungs with his scent, and it’s as heady as a drug. I’m calmed to the point of hypnosis. I stay like that, lying on his pillow, surrounded by him until my stomach rumbles one too many times.

I have to get out of his bed, but I know the moment I do, it’ll be time for me to leave his house.

Never once did he invite me to stay here while he was gone. Allowing me to sleep is one thing; allowing me to invade his space is another.

Reluctantly, I stand and make his bed as neatly as possible, and when that’s done, I go straight from his bedroom to the guest room so I can change and collect my things. It’s like I’m worried cameras are watching my every move. I don’t want him to think I abused his privacy by rifling through his things, hunting through photos and mementos. After I’m dressed in my clothes from last night, I fold his t-shirt and set it on the edge of the bed, and then, fresh out of excuses to linger, I walk to the front door where I left my purse and shoes.

Professor Barclay left his business card with my things, along with a house key and a note.

Lock up.

I run my finger across the embossed letters of his name on the card. Jonathan Barclay.

I don’t program his number into my phone. I slip his card into my purse and close it tightly, unsure of what I’ll do with it.

Outside on his stoop, I ensure his door is locked behind me, and I make it three steps down before doubling back to confirm again. His house key goes into my purse beside his business card so I can give it back to him when he returns from Cincinnati.

I fill the rest of my weekend to the best of my ability. I take long, leisurely walks. I call Sonya. I cook an elaborate ravioli dish on Saturday night that takes me hours. I cut each ravioli by hand and fill them with ricotta cheese before adding a homemade vodka sauce. The meal is delicious, but I’m not all that hungry by the time my plate is ready because of all the snacking I did while I was cooking. I read an entire book on Sunday morning, finishing up the last of it at a coffee shop. My almond croissant runs out when I’m on the last page, and then I’m left with an empty plate and no distraction.

Whenever the impulse is too strong to resist, I reach for Professor Barclay’s business card in my purse so I can twirl it in my hand and read it. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t saved his number in my phone; I have it memorized now.

Sunday afternoon, I text Alexander and ask him if he wants to meet for dinner.

I don’t expect him to be available so last minute; fancy people never are. But he is, and he wants me to meet him at a little burger joint only ten minutes from my apartment.

For once, I don’t dress up to meet him. I throw on a pair of jeans and a white shirt, touch up what little makeup I’m already wearing, and then I’m out the door.

It’s a nice walk, autumn officially in the air. It’s in the 60s out, and with the breeze, I could have used a cardigan, but walking in the sun, I warm up quickly enough.

I smell the restaurant before I see it. That quintessential lure of grilled burgers and fries has my mouth watering.

Alexander is waiting for me outside, along with Emmett.

To my credit, I don’t falter when I see him, which is good considering Emmett is already watching me. He was obviously expecting me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Were they already planning on dinner and I’m just a tagalong? Does he want me here?

Both brothers are in jeans, more dressed down than I’ve ever seen them. They’re wearing baseball hats too, and I’m not sure if it’s to keep a low profile or if it’s just fitting for the restaurant.

“Emelia!” Alexander says with a wide smile when I reach them. He steps forward to greet me with a hug like always.

Relieved, I squeeze him back before stepping away and looking toward Emmett. I’ll follow his lead. If he wants to play nice, so will I.