My Professor(79)

“Stay right there, at the bar. Ask for some water if you can, but don’t go anywhere. It’ll only take me a few minutes to get there. Can you stay on the phone?”

“I’m not in danger. You don’t have to be so protective.”

Don’t I? What choice do I have? She’s holding my heart in the palm of her hand. She’ll crush us both if she’s not careful.

I feel slightly disoriented driving down the streets of Boston in the middle of the night. Going from a deep sleep to alert and awake so quickly has me feeling like I’m in some kind of fever dream. I make it to L’ultima Cena in record time and park out front. I don’t give a shit if I get a ticket or towed. If my car’s gone when I come back out with Emelia, I’ll Uber home with her and worry about the rest later.

There’s a line to get into the bar, but I think the bouncer must have seen me pull up to the curb like a bat out of hell because he doesn’t stop me as I cut past him and head inside.

The music greets me like a fist to the face. The thumping beat hammers my heart in my chest as I scan the crowd, looking for her. There are three bars spread out across the expansive space, and I find Emelia at the second one, beside some guy who’s leaning in close talking to her.

When I reach her, I take her arm and turn her gently.

Her eyes widen with alarm for a half-second before she sways toward me with relief.

“Who’re you?” the guy asks me.

I don’t even look at him.

“Come on,” I say, helping Emelia off the barstool.

Her equilibrium is off, so I hold her against me as I start to head toward the door.

Alexander cuts us off halfway. “Emelia, I’ve been looking for you. And no shit! Look who’s come to join us!” He claps his hand on my chest.

One look at his dilated eyes tells me everything I need to know—the drug habit he picked up at Saint John’s is alive and well.

“Get out of my way.”

When he doesn’t move, I start to curve past him, and he laughs.

“What’s the issue, man? Stay. Party with us.”

I don’t turn back.

“The night is young!”

His shouts fall on deaf ears.

My blood pressure drops immediately once I get Emelia outside into the brisk autumn air. Without the loud music, I can think more clearly. I spin her to face me and grasp her chin. Her eyelids are droopy and tired, but she doesn’t look high.

“Did Alexander give you anything?”

Her features contort in confusion.

“Drinks?” she asks. “Yes.”

“No. Did he give you powder, pills? Drugs, Emelia.”

Even in her drunken state, my question alarms her. “No,” she insists. “Nothing.”

Relieved, I release her then grasp her arm just above her bicep and gently direct her toward my car. I’m lucky it’s still there, sans ticket.

“Here,” I say, helping lower her down onto the passenger seat, careful to protect her head. I buckle her in securely then round the front of the vehicle. By the time I sit down, her eyes are closed.

“Do you feel all right?” I ask as I start my car.

“Tired,” she says quietly.

“How about your stomach?”

“It’s okay,” she promises, keeping her eyes closed.

I reach out to touch the inside of her wrist. I don’t know why I do it. I’m no doctor and don’t know what I’m looking for, but I feel better with her in my hands. I like counting her pulse and knowing she’s okay.

She doesn’t stir as I pull out into traffic and drive home. Her head lolls to the side as I near my place, and I know she’s out cold. I don’t bother waking her up after I park. I undo her seatbelt and carry her inside, aware of every breath she takes.

I head straight for my room and lay her down on my bed. When I’m sure she won’t roll off the side, I grab a t-shirt from my closet and start to undress her. The clothes she wore to the bar reek of alcohol and smoke. I strip her as respectfully as I can, moving and touching her like a parent tending to a child, not a lover seducing a woman. I don’t linger over her body. After I finish tugging off her dress, I throw it out into the hallway. Then I slip one of my t-shirts on over her head.

“Emelia?” I ask, curious to see if she’ll stir.

Ideally, I’d have her drink some water, but she doesn’t move.

I pull a trash can from the bathroom and set it on the floor beside the bed, and then I gently roll her onto her side to ensure she’s safe. I sit on the bed behind her, up against the headboard, and watch her sleep. When she seems too still, I reach out and check her pulse on her neck. Every time, it’s normal. I’m worrying myself over nothing.

If I sleep, it’s in short bursts. Most of my night is spent on watch. A guy back at Saint John’s, someone a few grades above me, asphyxiated on his own vomit after a heavy night of drinking. It was a warning we all made sure to heed, and I do so now, with Emelia.

She stirs a few times but otherwise sleeps heavily until close to ten AM. I’m on my second cup of coffee, working on my laptop in the corner of the room, when she groans and sits up.

I watch her get her bearings. It hurts to see her wince then shield her eyes from the morning light.

“There’s medicine beside the bed.”