Emma:
The moment the door closes behind me, I freeze.
Standing at the kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of graded papers, is a man about my age. His dark hair is styled to look messy, casual, even though the rest of him screams anything but.
“Emma, this is my T.A., Cornelius Tidwell; he was just leaving.”
I took in the calculated way Cornelius looked at me, how his eyes were drifting up and down my body as if he was drinking me in, the barefoot, rain-soaked mess.
“It’s nice to meet you, Emma.” He says softly, just as he was walking out the door, turning for one last look just as the crack of the door closed between us, and suddenly, I had an idea.
If I had a boyfriend, one who would claim our relationship had been lengthy in time, one who would say there was nothing between Wrig
