Sadly, she’s not wrong.

  But still, I feel the need to explain. “I just want to feel free, and Owen almost made sex feel dirty, and not in a fun way. It’s like he thought it was something we shouldn’t be doing, something to hide and feel bad about.”

  CJ waggles his eyebrows. “You know I can show you a good time if you want.”

  “I’m not your type.”

  He shrugs then catches sight of a cute guy walking past us on the sidewalk, and he’s already forgotten his offer.

  Inside The Roosevelt Room, our outfits are immediately noticed and appreciated. CJ and Sonya lap up the attention, and Annette and I hang back, trying to be good sports.

  “I need another drink,” Annette tells me, and I wholeheartedly agree.

  The only way I’m making it through tonight is if I’m three sheets to the wind.

  Chapter Seven

  Jonathan

  * * *

  I’m never in Hanover on the weekends. This is a rare instance for me, a perfect storm of circumstances that have me sitting in this crowded college bar, sipping my fourth beer.

  Dartmouth has a lecture series they host for faculty and staff at the university as well as graduate students and invited guests. Each month, a different professor or distinguished speaker takes the stage to speak about a topic of interest within their field. It’s a way to unify Dartmouth, to bridge the gap between disciplines that seem, at least on paper, to be wholly unrelated.

  This was my first time attending the series, and well, seeing as how I was the one up on stage, I didn’t see a way of getting out of it.

  On top of that, it’s another professor’s bachelor party tonight, a low-key affair for a guy—Garrett—I’m barely acquaintances with. When he caught me off guard outside my office on Thursday and invited me to join, I figured I’d be in Boston and could escape the festivities with some half-assed excuse, but he was quick to remind me I’d be in town.

  “We’re going out after your lecture. You should join. It’d be a good way for you to get to know some of the other professors.”

  I wasn’t yet persuaded, and then he tacked on the part about it being his bachelor party.

  “Nothing wild. We’re just going to have a beer or two down on Main.”

  I didn’t see a way of getting out of it.

  So even though my lecture wrapped up almost three hours ago and even though I could be back in Boston by now, in the comfort of my own home, I’m listening to the professor beside me drone on about why molecular physics is more interesting than people first assume.

  So far, he hasn’t convinced me.

  The woman across from me, Tricia, a professor in the mathematics department, meets my gaze and rolls her eyes exaggeratingly.

  “Jose, save it. Molecular physics is boring as hell, and so is math,” she says. “Just suck it up and drink.”

  I laugh, and her smile widens.

  She leans in. “I could use another beer. Do you want one?”

  Do I want another one? Yes. Should I have another one? Probably not.

  But it’s been a hell of a week. A few weeks, actually, and I’m taking the train home anyway. I’m not ready to end the night.

  I push my chair back. “Yeah. I’ll go grab them.”

  “I’ll join you,” she says, standing and coming around the table.

  It’s an interesting group tonight, a mixture of professors and friends of Garrett’s from outside the world of academia. It was a little awkward at first, trying to mash together a group of people who don’t really know each other all that well, but the drinks have been flowing, and maybe now I’m just too buzzed to care.

  “This is a rarity,” Tricia says, looking at me as we walk toward the bar. “Seeing you here on the weekend. Seeing you here at all, really.”

  “I live in Boston. My firm’s there. It’s hard to get the time away.”

  “I get it. I’m holed up inside the mathematics building most days myself.”

  “I’d ask you about your work, but…”

  She laughs. “Please don’t. For the love of god, let’s talk about something else.”

  The bartender comes over, and I ask for another round for the table. He nods to let me know he understood, but it’ll take him a while to get to it. The place is packed, and he’s the only bartender on duty at the moment.

  “So do you have a family? Wife?” she asks, focusing her attention on the bar top, fidgeting nervously with a napkin. She’s tried to make the question seem lighthearted, but I get the impression she’s had to work up the courage to ask it.

  “No, neither.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  I shake my head, realizing for the first time that Tricia is interested in me.

  Jesus, am I really that dense? Or am I a little drunk and a whole lot distracted…

  Emelia’s been on my mind a lot. Always, in fact.

  Our exchange in my office on Tuesday didn’t go how I wanted it to. I’ve replayed every moment, tried to reason with myself about whether or not I did the right thing. When my students came up to me before my lecture and explained the picture they saw, my temper got the best of me. Accusations like that are career-ending. I couldn’t let it slide.

  I understand the picture was nothing more than a bad joke. I’m sure, even if it had leaked, Dartmouth’s administration would have given me the benefit of the doubt and written it off as a lapse in judgment on the part of two students, but I can’t be certain.

  At the very least, they would have had to look into it. There’s a chance they would have opened an official inquiry as a way to ensure they were seen as doing the most they could to protect a vulnerable student population, and that would have left me at the mercy of the rumor mill. Word would have spread, and accusations like that can never be completely erased from public memory.

  Just thinking about it makes my blood boil.

  Emelia has to know how dumb that was. She has to know I had no choice when it came to doling out her punishment. It was her friend’s first transgression, but Emelia’s third strike.

  However, what Emelia doesn’t realize—and what I’m only now coming to understand—is that even if she’d done absolutely nothing, even if she sat in my lecture every day completely silent, aced every test, and wrote a perfect term paper, even if there was never any fake photo…she was always going to be the girl in the courtyard.

  She was always going to be too much of a distraction, an itch I couldn’t scratch, a girl I couldn’t get out of my head.

  I’ve had filthy fantasies about her in that wooden chair.

  My student.

  So no, Tricia, I don’t have a girlfriend.

  I only have Emelia.

  “What about you? Are you seeing someone?”

  She huffs out a laugh. “Nope. Like I said, I spend most of my time holed up in the mathematics building, and if you can believe it, the old math geezers aren’t really my type.”

  “I’ll be your wingman then.”

  The sting of rejection is written across her face for only the briefest moment, and then she masks it with a wink and a smile.

  “You’re on.” The bartender returns with a tray of beers for us to take back to the table. “C’mon, let’s go scope out the crowd. There has to be a few good guys in here tonight, right?”

  Just as we retake our seats, my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming email. I check it, though I shouldn’t. It’s work. It’s always work. I pen a quick reply but save it to drafts, knowing I’ll want to review it in the morning, after I’ve slept off these drinks. Catcalls near the front door of the bar draw my gaze. I look up from my phone, and my stomach plummets when I see Emelia walk in with a small group of friends.

  I still can’t get over the idea that she exists outside of that bench in the courtyard. She isn’t a dream. She’s a student in a bar who I’m meant to stay away from. She shouldn’t be here. Fate’s cruel rubbing salt in my wound.

  I’m not even a little relieved to see her. I know how horribly we left things on Tuesday. I know she likely wants nothing to do with me.

  Good.

  That’s for the best.

  Her group strolls further inside, eating up the cheers and shouts from the people they pass. They’re in costume, which is why everyone is so excited. I recognize Sonya among them. She’s leading the way, working the crowd, spinning in a circle to show off her red outfit. Emelia brings up the rear with an arm wrapped protectively around her stomach as if trying to conceal some of the bare skin her getup is putting on display.

  She’s wearing practically nothing, a ridiculous schoolgirl outfit, and the people she passes take full notice. A guy leans out to touch her arm, to pay her a compliment it looks like, and she offers a tight, timid smile before sidestepping out of his reach.

  A primal, angry, jealous thing grows inside me, the need to shout at them to keep their lecherous gazes off her. Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking hand gets swallowed down with a heavy swig of beer.

  “Oh my god! That’s hilarious.” Tricia laughs. “I think those kids are all dressed up as different versions of Britney Spears. I recognize the green snake costume and the schoolgirl getup, but not the others. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  I’m stuck on her word choice: kids.

  Fucking hell.

  I down another sip of beer.

  Emelia is a kid. My student. Why can’t I seem to remind myself of that enough times to make it actually stick?

  Or maybe that’s not the real issue. Maybe repeating that to myself over and over again isn’t going to convince me to stay away from her…maybe it’s the exact opposite.

  She takes a seat across the room, and I’m relieved she’s far away.

  The conversation around me goes ignored as I watch her and her friends order drinks, take pictures, smile and laugh. Emelia is a part of it all, but while the others all genuinely seem to be having fun, Emelia is only pretending. It’s so obvious to me. The moment the selfie is accomplished, her smile drops.

  She looks up and catches me watching her. I love that I’ve caught her off guard the way she caught me off guard the first day of the semester when I looked up into the crowded lecture hall and saw her.

  Her eyes widen in shock, and then her gaze immediately flits away, back to her group as a rosy blush overtakes her cheeks. I can almost imagine her thoughts.

  If it isn’t the asshole himself.

  I’m sure she wishes I would leave. Maybe she’s cursing me to hell in that pretty little head of hers after how angry I made her on Tuesday.

  But then she picks up her cocktail and ever so carefully looks back in my direction, not with hatred, but with intrigue.

  I do a decent job of carrying on with my conversation with Tricia and Jose, participating enough that they can’t call me out while mostly just drinking my beer and looking over at Emelia.

  She knows I’m watching her—our eyes have locked twice—but she’s not putting on a show for me. If anything, it’s the exact opposite. For someone in a costume, she sure acts like she wants to blend in. She sits back in the booth she shares with her friends and takes little sips of her drink. Sonya and the guy they’re with are holding up a camera and recording a video of themselves. The fourth person in their group left a little bit ago to take a phone call. Emelia sits quietly, alone in the crowd as she swirls her straw in her glass.

  People from my group eventually start to leave. I close my tab and offer to cover everyone else’s as well, a gift to Garrett. They all lift their glasses and cheers in my honor. I can’t be certain, but I swear I feel Emelia watching me again.

  I get up to use the bathroom before I leave. It’s going to be a long train ride back to Boston. After I’m done, I wash my hands and open the door, only to find Emelia waiting on the other side.

  She’s leaning against the opposite wall, and I indulge in staring for a second. In that getup, she’s all legs.

  The noise from the door opening catches her attention, and she looks up from her phone.

  My presence startles her.

  “Professor,” she says with a reverent tone.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Slowly, she processes what I’ve said and the tone in which I’ve said it. Her chin juts up with pride. “Nothing that concerns you. Are you done? I need to touch up my lipstick.”

  “By all means.”

  I stretch my arm out, gesturing for her to enter, making it clear that I’m not quite ready to vacate the bathroom but she’s free to join if she wants.

  Her eyes narrow with annoyance and she steps past me, making sure to dig her heel into my shoe as she passes by. There’s no apology.

  How…interesting.

  I should leave, but I don’t. Did my presence here actually startle her, or did she see me get up from my table and follow me here?

  I lean against the doorframe and watch her tug her lipstick out of her purse, lean against the counter, and start to paint her lips red. The position has her hips tilting up, hiking her skirt that much higher.

  Her eyes catch me staring in the mirror.

  “How has your night been, Professor? Have you terrorized anyone?”

  I chuckle softly under my breath, appreciating her candor.

  “I think you’re the one who’s been doing the terrorizing. Is that what you normally wear when you go out?”

  “It’s a costume. Are you so old that you don’t recognize it?” Her condescending tone is slow and mocking.

  “It invites the wrong idea, I think.”

  “Oh god.” She rolls her eyes. “Spare me the ‘If girls dress like that, they’re asking for it’ lecture.”

  “So to be clear, you’re not asking for it?”

  Her eyes blaze with fury.

  I need to stop this, should turn and leave and let her be, but I can’t. It feels like this will be my last chance with her. Tonight is a gift, and I won’t squander it.

  She drops her lipstick back into her purse and zips it closed.

  “I didn’t realize I could hate you more than I already do.”

  “Your opinion doesn’t matter, Emelia. You’re my student. A child.”

  I might as well have called her insignificant.

  “And yet you’re standing there, staring at me putting on my lipstick. Is that an appropriate way to be looking at your student?” When I don’t reply, she continues haughtily. “Why are you still here anyway? Is your night out not going the way you planned? Afraid you’ll end up with that boring blonde in your bed wishing it were someone else instead?”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she unfurls a cocky smirk.

  Hmm.

  Maybe a little lesson is in order.

  I step fully into the bathroom and let the door bang closed behind me. The lock twists into place with a flick of my finger, and her confident façade crumbles. I can see her body tremble as I step closer.

  “I’d almost believe this act you’re putting on if I couldn’t smell the alcohol on your breath, if I didn’t know what you’re really like. I’ve seen you, studied you…and not just when you’re in my class. I know this isn’t you. You’re an obedient little thing, Emelia. You can barely look me in the eyes when we speak. You shook like a leaf when you were in my office on Tuesday and I was reprimanding you.”

  Something flares in her gaze. It’s like recognizing like, a hidden piece of her that needs this the same way I do.

  It’s what spurs me on, goads me into coming completely clean.

  “I know you follow the rules, know you keep your head down and try to disappear into the crowd. I know you aren’t trying to be a distraction in my class, but it can’t be helped.”

  Anger builds inside her, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t flee. I know she wants me to keep going, so I step close enough to catch her scent. Yes, there’s the alcohol clinging to the air between us, but there’s her shampoo too, that feminine sweetness she left behind in my office the other day.

  I can’t help but reach out and touch her, only a gentle brush of my finger against her cheek as I admit something dark and twisted. “I made you come up to the front of the class and sit on that chair as a way to punish us both. I wanted you there at my fingertips, completely untouchable, and I put you there on display because I knew you would like it.”

  “I didn’t,” she insists, but she tilts into my touch.

  “Emelia,” I chide. “You wore that dress to my class, that fucking baby-doll dress, and you looked like a plaything. I thought about you in that dress the whole way home. Lying in bed that night, I couldn’t stop myself. I had to ease my suffering.”

  I see the realization settle on her shoulders as she understands what I’m telling her. Her lips part. Her breathing turns unsteady.

  “This is harassment,” she says, but her voice comes out weak.

  I trace my finger along her jaw slowly, following its trail with my gaze. “You’re right. That’s why your cheeks are stained this lovely shade of pink and your chest is rising and falling so fast…like a hummingbird.”

  Her eyes close as my knuckle grazes her bottom lip.

  “Tell me to stop talking to you like this. Now.”

  She doesn’t. Her eyelashes flutter open, and she looks me dead in the eyes when she tilts her chin up, giving me unfettered access to her lips.

  I understand this is new for her. Perhaps these thoughts and desires aren’t something she’s come to terms with yet, and maybe I’ve pushed her enough. But then I remember all those days, searching for her around the university, pining for this girl who’s right in front of me now, so eager and willing. Even still, I step back, all the way to the door. I unlock it and give her more than enough space to leave.

  She stands stoic for a moment, processing her next move, no doubt, and then she comes near, approaching the door with hesitant steps. I try to keep disappointment from washing over me, but it’s impossible not to feel the impending loss. Then her hand reaches out for the doorknob, and to my surprise, she flips the lock back in place.

  She doesn’t move after that, as if that small act took all the courage she had. Her purse is still clutched in one hand. Her eyes are on the floor. She swallows, and I reach out to touch her chin, turning her face so she’s forced to look over at me.