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She answers, presses the phone to her ear, and edges toward the window.
“Hey…uh, I can’t talk.”
In the quiet car, I can hear a woman speak on the other end of the line. “Are you still at work?”
“No, I’m getting a ride home.”
“From who? That Zach guy?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
She doesn’t reply.
“EMELIA.”
She hangs up.
“Who’s Zach?”
She sighs. “Do your bad manners know no bounds? I remember way back when, in your class, you scolded me for eavesdropping on you.”
I’m not even listening to her rant. I have a one-track mind. “That kid with the blonde hair?”
“Yes.” She points out the window. “Take a left at that street.”
“Why would he give you a ride home?”
“Because he’s my friend. It’s that building there, on the right.”
“The derelict one?”
I pull up to the curb, and before I even manage to shift fully into park, Emelia is already gathering her things and flinging the door open. She hurries out of my car in an effort to escape me, but I turn on my hazard lights and get out.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say, rounding the vehicle and taking the umbrella out of her hand.
“Not necessary.”
Ignoring her, I take her things—telling myself I’m only trying to lighten her load—and then I wave for her to get on with it. There’s no point in arguing. I won’t be deterred and she knows it.
Her apartment is housed in a building that looks like it hasn’t seen care or attention in well over a decade. The railing for the stoop is warped and not secure enough to bear any weight, something the city would take issue with if the property were to be inspected. Inside, there’s a noticeable stench. The linoleum floor in the entryway is peeling back, and there are trash bags just piled up in the back corner (probably the source of the smell). Emelia heads straight for the stairs and leads me up to the third floor, past loud televisions and shouting neighbors.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as she takes out her key and unlocks the door.
“On Craigslist. I’m subleasing it from a girl.”
The door sticks, and she has to lift up on the hinges at the same time she puts her weight into pushing it open. Then her small studio apartment is unveiled before me.
A square room with a queen bed, a corner kitchen, and a card table with two folding chairs. The furniture is the bare minimum, but she’s done her best to decorate the space and make it feel warm. Her bed is neatly made with an oversized comforter and a cream throw blanket at the foot of it. She’s covered her table in a yellow checked tablecloth, and on the wall above it, a bulletin board carries an array of photos and memorabilia.
I invite myself in and step closer, peering at a photo on the bulletin board that must be from her Dartmouth days. Her cheeks are a little softer, her eyes keen and excited. Her friend from my class—her partner in crime—is also in the photo. They sit on a picnic blanket with their faces squashed together, looking up at the camera. I recognize Baker Library in the background.
Above the photo, there’s a letter pinned and partially hidden beneath another photo of a garden. I don’t get the chance to read any of it before Emelia clears her throat behind me.
“You’ve escorted me back to my apartment, Professor. You’ve done your duty.”
My spine stiffens.
