My Professor(73)

“Got it.”

He tells me once more to leave, go home, and then he’s gone and I’m the Lone Ranger in the dark office, working in the solitary glow of my cubicle. I review the presentation twice more then email it over to the print shop by 7:26. Phew. I lean back in my chair, sagging with relief. Then I acknowledge the absolute wreckage that is the surface of my desk, so before I leave, I treat my future self to a few minutes of cleanup. Some would accuse me of delaying the inevitable. He’s not going to show up.

I know that.

I didn’t stay late just on the off chance Professor Barclay would waltz out of that elevator and find me at my desk, dutifully working. I care about this job. I care, but I also would have really appreciated if he’d come back from Cincinnati today.

The next morning, I fall into the trap of waking up so early I think I can leisurely take my time getting ready, only to take too long so that I wind up running out of my apartment later than usual. I’m forced to grab an Uber, and it’s already a minute past eight when I walk into the print shop and ring the bell at the front desk. Ding! An older man emerges from the back room where the industrial-scale printing presses are going full steam. He wipes his ink-stained hands on a green mechanic’s towel and gives me a smile and a nod.

“Good morning. I’m here to pick up the order for Banks and Barclay. It was 40 color booklets, collated and bound. The order could be under Lewis or Banks and Barclay. They might have even put it under my name, Emelia Mercier.”

He frowns and wakes up his computer with a shake of his mouse, grabbing the glasses that were resting on his forehead and setting them down on the brim of his nose so he can see his screen better.

“Let me check my email,” he says, sounding less than hopeful. “I don’t recall putting that order together this morning.”

I emit a short nervous laugh. “I’m sure you did. I sent it over last night. I checked the email address three times to confirm I had it right, and I emailed it at 7:26 so I wouldn’t miss the 7:30 cutoff.”

He sighs and aims a pitying look my way from behind his glasses. “Well there’s your problem. My cutoff for overnight printing is 6:30, not 7:30.”

My heart drops.

“What do you mean?”

He sets his glasses back on the top of his head so his steady blue eyes can offer me some kind of solace. “You see, I can’t ensure print jobs that are sent after 6:30 PM. I’m swamped. I see your email here, though, and I can get these booklets to you by five PM today.”

My voice is high and shrill when I reply, “That won’t work. I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”

There’s that pitying frown again. It’s like he knows my job is on the line for this. How many dumbasses have stood where I’m standing? Enough that this guy doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by the situation.

I swear I heard Lewis say the cutoff was 7:30, but then again, I wasn’t really paying close attention. I don’t know for certain if this was my mistake or his, and it’s not like I can march up to my boss and accuse him of telling me the wrong time. This will fall on my head, I know it.

“I’m sorry,” the printer says with a shake of his head. “I don’t have it done yet. Wish I did. I’m happy to get it going though, and you’ll definitely have it by five.”

Finally, my manners kick in. This man is not liable for my mistake. However much shit I’m going to catch for this, it’s not his fault.

“No. Thank you. I’m…it’s okay. I’m sorry for getting the time wrong.”

I could cry. Those tears are good and ready. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. I repeat the chant in my head while I try to navigate booking it to the office as quickly as possible. Of course, traffic is a nightmare, and I end up cutting my Uber ride short, tipping my driver, apologizing, and then flat-out sprinting the last few yards to the Banks and Barclay building.

I nearly run right past security, and the guard has to shout for me to come back and scan my badge. His chastising glare does nothing to help curb my anxiety.

The entire time in the Uber, I was trying to reach someone at the office—to alert them about the booklets as soon as possible—but no one was answering the main Banks and Barclay line, and I don’t have anyone’s direct number saved to my phone. I try to get through on the main line again as I step onto the elevator, but as the doors close, the call drops.

I force in deep shaky breaths, trying to wrangle my emotions to the best of my ability. Then I step off the elevator onto the seventh floor and find my team crowded around the conference room, obviously waiting on me.

Lewis rushes over, looking relieved.

“Let me see the booklets,” he says, waving his hand for me to pass them over.

“I tried to call you…”

He looks down at my empty hands and my bag that’s much too small to be stuffed with 40 bound booklets.

“I-I didn’t submit the file to the printer on time. I thought you said I had until 7:30, but—”

“You don’t have the booklets?”

His eyes widen in panic, which only makes me panic more.

“They weren’t ready.”

He steps an inch closer and lowers his voice. “Everyone is waiting in the conference room, Emelia.”

“I could go print them now. Just…I could use the printer at our station and then I could staple everything quickly…”