"Good morning, Bert!" I call, my voice bright. I feel chipper and chirpy and full of sunshine, just like I have since the other day in Mr. Gabe's kitchen. Benson comes running up to me, yipping the entire way. When I bend down to pet him, he launches himself right into my hands. Squirming and wriggling around, he tries to lick me but is quickly distracted when I set him down to reach into my bag. He's already accustomed to the treats I've taken to carrying around for him.

I pull out a dog treat and squat down to his level. "Good morning to you, too, Benson. Would you like a treat? Are you going to sit for me like a good boy?"

Benson reclines back on his haunches. As his tail wags, the force causes his entire little body to shake with it. When I drop the treat, he jumps into the air to catch it, gobbling it up.

"Only one treat, Dorothy," Bert chides. "Don't fatten up my dog, you hear me?"

"Aw, Benson, your owner is no fun," I tell him as I hide the rest of the treats in my bag. "Tomorrow I'll bring you another one."

"You and all the other students here who Benson mooches from."

"Benson, are you two-timing me?" I coo, scratching him behind the ears. "Say it's not so."

"He's a real heartbreaker, that one is," Bert murmurs. "Speaking of heartbreakers, girlie, what have you got up your sleeve? Are you about to break my heart with one of your masterful chess moves?"

I laugh. "I think you're deliberately trying to flatter me to throw me off my game."

Bert gives me a wave of his hand. "You're one of my better opponents, and you know it."

I sink onto the bench opposite him. I have enough time before my next class to play quite a bit of a game with Bert. In fact, this morning I was awake bright and early, humming in the shower and bouncing around the room as I got ready. It was enough of a deviation from my regular bleary-eyed morning routine that Luna told me to shut up or she'd have me murdered for being too chipper.

I practically skipped my way across campus.

This must be what it's like when you're fooling around with someone. Hooking up with someone – I think that's what college students say.

I'm hooking up with someone.

It sounds so grown up and adult and mature.

I'm hooking up with my professor.

That sounds… like something else entirely. It sounds way too grown up. It sounds scandalous.

It sounds as far from my normal behavior as it possibly could.

Do orgasms make you feel like you're drifting through life floating on a cloud? If this is what happens to me after Mr. Gabe puts his fingers in me, I can't imagine what would happen after we have actual sex.

I think my hormones must have gone haywire, because all I can think about is how much I want his hands on me.

"Thinking about Oz?"

Bert's voice breaks through my daydream. "Huh?" I ask absently as I try to focus on the chessboard.

"Your head isn't in the game, Dorothy."

"I beg to differ, Bert. My head is right where it needs to be," I tell him as I move a piece.

He clucks his tongue. "Amateur move, Dorothy."

That's what I get for being distracted by thinking about Mr. Gabe and his magic finger. "Well, I'm an amateur player."

"Has anyone ever told you that self-deprecation isn't a virtue?"

"I was taught that pride comes before a fall."

Bert snorts. "Bullshit. Or hogwash, as my grandmother would say."

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, and Bert raises his eyebrows as I thumb the phone screen. "You know, in some cultures, you could be executed for using a cell phone in the middle of a chess game," he chides.

"I think you're making up facts, Bert," I say, laughing as I look down at the phone. My cheeks warm at the sight of a message from Mr. Gabe.

"Anyone ever told you you're a smartass?" Bert asks.

"You'd be interested to know that not very many people have told me that, Bert." I type out a reply to Mr. Gabe:

"New boyfriend?" Bert asks.

"Not exactly."

Mr. Gabe is definitely not a boyfriend. I don’t even want a boyfriend anyway. I'm eighteen years old, a college freshman with my whole life ahead of me. I've spent my life being sheltered from everything. I'm only just now getting to experience anything at all.

Bert raises his eyebrows. "Not exactly?? You're all dressed up."

"I'll have you know that I'm all dressed up for myself."

My phone buzzes again.

I roll my eyes at his message but also at the way heat floods my body in response to it.

I hit send. When I look up, Bert is staring at me. "What?? I don't have a boyfriend."

"Uh-huh, sure you don't. I know that look. That's how my wife looked when she first met me."

I pick up a chess piece. "So she looked like a beautiful, spectacularly intelligent, unavailable woman?"

"Yes on all counts," he replies. "Still is. She also looked the way you do – couldn't stop smiling. Of course, neither could I. Had a stupid grin on my face all the time."

"Well, that is definitely not me," I tell him, forcing an exaggerated frown. "See? No smile."

"You're a terrible liar, Dorothy."

"You know that my real name is Purity."

"Dorothy suits you better."

"So you've decided to name me, then?" I tease, waiting as he studies the board. "How long have you been married, Bert?"

"Fifty years. Well, fifty-one come March," he amends. "I haven't shown you a picture of my Gloria, have I?"

My phone buzzes, but this time I ignore it as Bert reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn leather wallet, opening it to an even more worn photo of him and his wife. He pulls it out with trembling hands.

"She's so pretty," I tell him. "And you were so handsome. Is this your military uniform?"

"Yes, ma'am. Twenty years in the United States Marine Corps." He pauses. "Just like your writing professor. What was his name again? Professor Ryan."

It takes me a second to realize that Bert is talking about Mr. Gabe like he knows him. "How did you know that about Mr. uh, I mean, Professor Ryan?"

Bert shrugs. "Just do, I suppose. This might be a big city, but the college is a small town."

"Oh." I look down at the board, wondering if what Bert just said about college being like a small town is a warning. Small towns are full of idle gossip. The last thing I need is someone gossiping about Mr. Gabe and I, so I quickly change the subject. "Do you have any kids, Bert?"

"Oh Lord, Dorothy," he says, reaching for his wallet again. "Now you asked for it. I've got kid and grandkid photos out the wazoo in this thing."

Bert shows me photos and tells me funny stories about his grandchildren between chess moves until the clock in the quad rings out and I realize that I've been sitting there with him for an hour. Jumping up, I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. "I have to get to class!"

"Click your heels, Dorothy," Bert calls over his shoulder as I dart off.