Page 25 of Prosecco with My Professor
“Yes, briefly.” I should tell him she lives in my same building so that even if she wasn’t in any of my lectures, I’ll be running into her all year long. But I don’t. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is; I don’t want to talk about all the things I’ve learned about her and scrutinize any future interactions I have with her.
Vincente hesitates before carefully saying, “You know that even though she’s older than most of our students, it would still be inappropriate to have a relationship with her?”
“Yes, of course. I said nothing is happening, didn’t I?”
Vincente leans back into the booth and sips at his wine. “Somethingalready happened, Santo.”
He glares at me.
“I cannot undo the past,” I point out, which Vincente grudgingly accepts. We talk about other things—the caliber of students and how the new director is doing—and after our glasses are empty and our bellies full, we head back to the university. I’m already bracing myself—my last course of the day has one Emma Chance on the roster.
12
Emma
When I gotmy schedule for the first term, it did not surprise meat allthat I had Santo as a professor for my Business Analytics class.
Earlier today, Professor Vincente Romano and I did a mutual double take when we recognized each other from the bar. I hadn’t known that Santo’s friend was a professor, too, but perhaps I should have guessed. It was about halfway through his class when it occurred to me that Santo might have told Professor Romano about taking me home and what happened after that. It made me want to crawl under the table. I don’t need anyone else at the school knowing about it.
Not that I thought Santo would kiss and tell, but still.
Now, in my fourth session of the day, I enter the room for Santo’s—that is, Professor Offredi’s—class.
Professor Offredi isn’t surprised at all when he sees me, his gaze passing over me with a bland, welcoming look, just like with every other student. The school brags about a one-to-one faculty-and-staff-to-students ratio, so I don’t think that I’llalwayshave a class with Professor Offredi, but I also suspect that a lot of the “faculty and staff” are people who get more involved in the internships or the development center or even the administration.
I listen to the student introductions. Our schedule isn’t like mine when I went to college, where there were classes that met Monday and Thursday, classes that met Tuesday and Friday, and then once-a-week classes on Wednesday. It is a more consistent schedule—every day, four sessions a day from 8:15 a.m. to 4:15 p.m. What’s really throwing me off is that lunch isn’t until 1:30 p.m., so by the time it comes around, I am starving. I’ll have to pack snacks to scarf down in the fifteen minutes between the second and third sessions.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that we use last names here. I’mMs. Chance,and when Santo—damnit, Professor Offredi—says Ms. Chance, even in his sexy Italian accent…well, I’ve never wanted to get rid of my married name more.
At the time of the divorce, it hadn’t even been a question since my kids had the last name Chance, and, except for Sara, Tessa, and Jade, most people knew me as so-and-so’s mom. I mean, I had other friends, but they all had kids who were friends with mine.
When I date someone, maybe it would be nice to go back to my maiden name.
Not that I’m thinking about dating after my fiasco with Sa—Professor Offredi.
Anyway, I would have to think about that more. Some time off in the distant future when I’d fully recovered from the incident.
Based on how uncomfortable I am sitting in Santo’s presence right now, it might be a while.
Watching Professor Offredi interact with the class is wildly different from having met him at the bar. While the Santo I met was quietly charming, delivering lines as if it were a foregone conclusion that a man would hit on me, Professor Offredi is very serious, frowning with intensity as he listens to each student’s introduction.
He isveryhandsome. Around the room, quite a few people have their eyes on Professor Offredi instead of their fellow student. Has he ever been involved with a student before? Probably not. Or at least, if anyone knew about it, they’d have fired him, right?
His gaze meets mine, and I hope I don’t have a dopey expression on my face.
Oh, look at my professor; he’s so dreamy.
I straighten up. The entire class is staring at me. I’m sitting at the end of the row, and I guess the people behind me have finished. Whoops, my turn. I’ve had two weeks of introductions to nail mine down, so even Professor Offredi’s gaze can’t make me waiver.
“Hello, I’m Emma Chance. I have a background in small business management and marketing and am from Austin, Texas.”
It’s short and sweet, less information than most people share, but I’ve seen in this time that everyone—and I meaneveryone—is more qualified to be here than I am.
The class moves on, and our professor goes over the curriculum for the next five weeks and explains how the grading structure works. None of it is surprising, and Professor Offredi assigns us reading and videos to watch for homework.
When we’re dismissed, I gather my notebook and pack my things up. I’m done for the day, thank goodness, and am looking forward to a glass of wine and a lie-down. Before I can stand up, though, someone stops in front of my table.
I look up at a Black woman with box braids and a bright blue and yellow scarf holding them back. I’ve seen her around in the all-student sessions and in passing. She grins at me. “I hear a fellow American.” She’s got a general American accent, so I can’t place where she’s from, but her smile is broad and she offers me her hand. “Shonda.”
