I remember the day I announced to my family that I had been appointed a 'professor's helper' while being a 1st year student. Helpers usually were students from 3rd year on, but I was only a freshman of sorts and was already told I was so good I could teach the class. I'm sure the professor mentioned to the faculty I was Rick Morgan's stepdaughter, one of the top benefactors of the school, but he wouldn't say that to me. While my mom congratulated me, Rick just nodded, as in, she's my daughter, of course she would.

"Not surprising, kid. Don't let it get to your head."

Growing up, that's what was expected of me. Good grades, always. Good behavior, always. Excellence. Even my mom fell for it. Even I fell for it and I hated getting a 'regular' grade. Sometimes I did struggle with things like Math and, although I made it up with the other subjects, it was still a cause for Rick to give me the ice treatment. He acted like I didn't exist and I hated that and blamed myself for not being good. As much as I headbutted with him to myself—I never really raised my voice against him or argued with him until much later, as an adult, I still longed for his approval because he was the only father I knew.

I read recently that young girls who tend to gravitate towards older men usually have had some kind of absent father, problematic father, strict father, trying to unconsciously fill a void. What people nowadays call daddy issues.

Well...

Alex acknowledged me.

He very meticulously taught me what he wished me to help him with. How I had to read an essay and what to look for. Spelling mistakes, phrasing mistakes, things that weren't clear. I had to mark them very lightly with a pencil and then hand it over to him for the final grading.

We never met at his office, it was too small he said (probably was). Instead, we met at the beautiful library in campus that was open until 11 pm. It was a huge place with huge windows, and those library sounds of people walking, sitting down, turning pages, and speaking quiet. We sat close, next to each other, because we couldn't raise our voices.

At first I was nervous, unsure if I could play the part. But Alex trusted me and after a while, I found it easy. The work, that is. Spending more time with him proved a test because that crush that I couldn't control was just overflowing me. I actually worried it could be an obstacle on what I had to do. And needless to say, I knew it was wrong.

Wrong?

As long as nothing happened, it wasn't wrong. But if something ever did happen, why would it be wrong? Just because someone said (who?) a student and a professor together is wrong?

That was my crazy, 18-year-old mind back then, fueled by hormones and confusion.

I believe that, subconsciously, I wanted to steer away from Nathan. It's just that no other person had caught my attention like that, like Alex. And Nathan, of course, noticed and had something to say about it.

You see, when I met Brian, Nathan wasn't around. This time he was and only then I realized how much our thing (whatever it was) sabotaged our potential relationships. Even more reason to not pursue it: I saw him going out with a girl for a while but not giving himself time to actually get to meet her, then he went for me. He did that in school, in college and afterwards. But I was never that girl for him, no matter how much he insisted. Again, as I've said before, time would prove me right.

At first, he teased me for my so-called crush on this professor. But when he found out that I was working with him, that I was riding to campus with him almost every morning, that I wouldn't shut up about him and our talks in the car and in the library, that I was spending almost every free hour with him working and I didn't mind, with this young, attractive professor, he began to have a stronger opinion about it. I assured him there was nothing to worry about. There was no way, no how, Mr. Fitzgerald would look at me like that.

You may have noticed by now that I used to tie people, situations and time frames to music and songs and I still do. Back in those days I remember Nathan began going through a short-lived Joy Division/New Order phase (he's like that: he becomes obsessed with a band or artist, or song or album, and then it goes away and another obsession appears). With Joy Division it was the bass, the bass, the bass. He had already decided to learn to play bass but had to make the time. He made me a tape and of course, the songs were catchy so I kept playing it—and humming the songs. Even when working at the library, I was humming without realizing, until I looked up and caught Alex's gaze. He was smiling and I felt my heart jump whenever he did that.

"Sorry. The library." I stopped and probably blushed. "Sorry."

Always apologizing.

"No, that's fine." Alex went back to his paper, but still talking to me. "'Love Will Tear us Apart,' that's a good song."

Oh, he knows it?

"It is. My friend Nathan made me a tape."

"Right." He smiled. "The star pitcher?"

Alex knew about Nathan. I had mentioned him casually and he had seen him with me, around campus, leaving my apartment. And, to be honest, most people around campus, just like back in high school, knew who Nathan was.

"Yeah. He's listening to them non-stop. He wants to learn to play bass. The bass, the bass, the bass. Listen to that bass." I sighed. "Yes, I know, it sounds like a truck, it's massive, I know." I shook my head smiling.

"So he wants to be a musician as well, huh? Is there anything that boyfriend of yours can't do?"

"I know, right? He—" Nope. "he's not my boyfriend, Mr. F."

I must've turned red. I know I did.

"Oh, well, my mistake," he shrugged. "Your friend, then."

Well, even I didn't know for sure.

The more time I spent with Mr. F., the closer we got. At the time I didn't know if it was my imagination or my heart wanting it to be that way but I felt he was more and more interested. I mean, he did have that thing that when he talked to you you felt as if you were the only one in the world, and not only with me, I witnessed it whenever he talked to other students, or whenever he helped them. The other classes just adored him—I'm talking about everyone, not just the girls, although I'm sure I wasn't the only one with a crush.

Anyway, we stayed working until very late, until the library lady kicked us out. Almost every night. Then we went to this 24-hour diner just outside of campus to eat. And our talks got deeper and two-sided: I opened up to him and told him about my life, how I grew up, my wishes (although I didn't have many back then); I even told him about the pressure I felt from Rick. In return, he did tell me more about him, his family, his upbringing. I finally learned that he was exactly ten years older than me: he was 28 at the time, which to me was remarkable for a college professor. I felt he was excellent in what he did, and that is what I (back then) aimed for. He mentioned that although his family 'had money' he felt his childhood was pretty normal—if you can call yearly trips to England and owning horses 'normal.' His mother's side of the family was English and he said when he spent time with them his accent changed and that he didn't like it too much—I did notice that sometimes it slipped when he pronounced the 'O's' and in his intonation, and in some of the words he used.

And then he told me about his son, Charlie, and whenever he talked about Charlie his eyes lit up. He showed me a picture he kept in his wallet, and I can't say they looked exactly alike but I remember they had the same eyes, same stare. He didn't mention Charlie's mother, at least not yet.

He did have a habit I didn't appreciate: he smoked. I smelled it in him. While we worked at the library he went out several times for smoke breaks, as back in those days you could smoke everywhere outdoors. Oh, well. No one's perfect.

And I suppose I don't have to elaborate on what happened next. I really cannot explain what I began to feel, and I know you won't know either because all that I'm telling you is just a brief summary, but I honestly don't know what else to say. I was fascinated by him. What I had felt for Brian, even what I had felt for Nathan back when he woke everything in me for the first time, came close to what I began feeling for Alex.

Was it love? I didn't know. But it was getting more and more difficult to control.

One freezing cold night during one of our talks in the diner, after I casually mentioned I had to break up with my first boyfriend because of distance, he told me (or confirmed to me, as I had already suspected) that he was separated from Charlie's mother. That he had initially waited for things to get better, but that he was losing hope. His eyes were flooded with melancholy which told me he probably was still hopeful. Mine filled with a bit of jealousy.

I told him, "what about if someone else is waiting for you, Mr. F.?"

He just scoffed, smiled and hung his head down. He had a great profile and I noticed that when he got serious or tense he clenched his jaw and that made his jawline even sharper.

The things you remember.

We didn't talk more that night. As we headed home, my mind was all over the place. It began to snow just before we got to our building. I ran inside, began sprinting upstairs when I allowed the madness take a hold of me and dared to stop abruptly, turn around, and face him, which in turn made him almost trip into me—what I was going for. Also, we were at the same level because he was a couple steps below me. I looked at him for a second and I read it in his eyes... and I went for it and kissed him. He returned the kiss. Yes, I realized he wanted it too.

But he split from me, slowly and almost cautiously. He went his way up and I stood there, with my back against the wall, hearing his steps go up and further. I came back to myself, ran upstairs and he was already at his door. It was dark in that old building, and cold. He wasn't smiling, he was serious, with that jaw clenched, just looking very intently back at me. It was like we were both frozen. My breathing was still agitated from before and from sprinting up.

I breathed in and held it.

He turned and faced his door, took a deep breath himself and then just looked back at me. And I read it in his eyes again.

I went up to him.

It was all a blur because it was dark and because we hardly stopped kissing. His hands all over me. I was out of my mind. It was all very clumsy and almost desperate, almost like we wanted to drink each other. But we eventually stopped, or perhaps I did because I had to breathe. I remember sitting down at his small round table while he made us tea, in silence. Then he placed a cup in front of me—I remember the china, white with blue flowers. Surely his mum got it for him. He was quiet as we drank the tea.

I promised him in a whisper that I wouldn't tell anyone what had just happened. He only smiled.

As I write this I'm trying to imagine what was going on in his head at that moment. I had no idea if he had done that before, with a student that is. I had no idea if he had been or tried to be with anyone after splitting from his wife. He was probably as confused as I was—and wanting this as much as me which made him even more confused.

He probably never thought I would be the one to go for it first, and he probably thought this was all kinds of wrong.

I got up to leave but he reached for my hand, gently pulled me to him and his eyes spoke to me one more time, asking me to not leave. I sat on his lap and we kissed and, as rushed and even forbidden as it may seem, we made love until the morning after.