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“That’s putting it mildly. He’s a rich kid accountable to no one.”
She frowns. “He’s been kind to me.”
“He put you in danger last night.”
I don’t miss the way she leans back in reaction to my harsh tone.
I take a deep breath and try again. “He’s nice enough, but he has ongoing issues I wasn’t aware of until last night. I don’t think it’s wise to go out with him and his friends again.”
She pffts like the thought alone is insane. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on it.” She finally slips off the bed and turns, scanning the floor before she asks, “Did you…do you have my clothes?”
“They needed to be burned.”
Her eyes widen, and to ease her worry, I point to the door.
“They’re out in the hall, but you can just keep wearing my shirt. I’ll give you pants too.”
I set my laptop down and rise to get her something else to wear.
She shakes her head. “I’ll just take my dress and be out of your hair.”
“Emelia—”
“Professor—”
“Jonathan,” I correct impatiently.
She winces.
“I feel terrible for calling you last night and forcing you to come rescue me. I can only imagine what you thought.This chick doesn’t have anyone else in her life, so she has to call me?” She groans in embarrassment. “I assure you, if I wasn’t brand new to the city, I’d like to think I would have had someone else to call, but—”
“Stop.”
She flinches and looks up at me, wide-eyed.
“I won’t hear whatever else it is you’re about to say. You’re trying to diminish what’s happening here. You can think whatever you’d like, push me away as much as you need to, but I won’t let you change the truth. I was up and out of bed, coming to get you before you even asked it of me. I sped to get to you, Emelia.”
“Out of obligation,” she contests.
“Out of…”
I almost say a word that astounds me, a word so shockingly out of left field I’m struck silent by its presence on the tip of my tongue.
She doesn’t sense that though. She only sees my failed attempt to come up with a rebuttal that solidifies her place in my life as one rooted in desire rather than duty, and she uses it as her escape. She’s rounding the room, collecting her things, thanking me again. I don’t say a word.
Emelia leaves my house, and I’m left with the rest of my Sunday all to myself.
In the afternoon, I stand in my kitchen, not relieved by the peace and quiet but stifled by it. I wish Emelia had stayed. I wish I’d had the courage to say the damn word.
