“You seem weird.”

“What?”

Emily poked me with a long stalk of celery. “You seem weird. You seem off.”

I sucked in a large breath, held it in my lungs, and returned my attention to the Concrete Structures textbook I’d been perusing. I couldn’t recall a single detail about its contents.

“I’m fine,” I breathed out.

She poked me again. “No. You’ve been off for weeks, all summer in fact, but today you’re even worse than usual. Something is going on. You’re keeping secrets.”

I frowned at the textbook, staring at it without seeing the words, and shook my head.

But she was right.

I’d told her nothing of my interactions with Luca and I wondered if withholding this information somehow broke the unwritten best friend code. I didn’t think so.

This wasn’t anything as banal as me having a crush on my professor. Of course, I did have a crush on him. In an odd reversal of societal norms, Luca’s external hotness played second fiddle to the sexiness of his brain. Most of the class—both male and female—had a crush on his brain. Fact.

No. The secret I kept from my best friend wasn’t the crush.

“Tell me.” She poked me once more.

I closed my textbook with a smack. “Fine.”

“I knew it.” Emily shot up in her chair, jabbing the celery in the air. “I knew it. What happened? It’s got to be good if you’re this agitated.”

“I’m not agitated.”

“Yes, darling, you are agitated. You’ve been missing easy questions on trivia night. My guess is some boy has stolen your heart.”

“Why would you think that?” I tried to make a face of denial and failed, more curious for her answer than concerned she’d figured out the truth.

“Because that stone-cold fox hit on you last Tuesday and you were even more oblivious than usual.”

“Who?”

“The musician guy? The one who asked if you would sit on his lap?”

This time I successfully made a face. “He wasn’t hitting on me.”

“Yeah. He was. Pro tip, Anna: if any guy other than Santa Claus asks you to sit on his lap, he’s hitting on you. So spill it. Spill your guts. Spill them everywhere.”

I frowned, attempting to parse my thoughts. “Okay, first, you have to promise not to tell anyone. And I mean anyone. No one can know about this conversation. Ever.”

“Oh. Okay. Crap. Fine, I promise. Jeez, who is this guy? A professor?”

…

…

…

…

Shit.

Emily’s eyes widened and she inclined her head forward.

I held my hands up. “Wait, just listen—”

“Don’t tell me, it’s the Russian Lit guy, right? Damn. I guess I need to take this class. Everyone talks about this guy.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Puh-lease. I’ve seen his picture. You don’t have a crush on him?”

“I do, but—”

She waved the rest of my words away with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “I thought something serious was going on with you. I can’t believe you fell under his spell.”

I made a face. “What do you mean, under his spell?”

“Like I told you before you took the class, this guy is the resident sexy professor of infamy. He’s famous on campus for being hot and unobtainable. Since he was hired, there’s always a story floating around about students—both undergrad and post-grad—throwing themselves at him and being unceremoniously rejected, and then reprimanded and reported for their shenanigans.”

“What kind of shenanigans?”

“When I told my friend Darcy—you know, from poly sci?—when I told her you were in his class, she told me a story about a girl last year who waited for him—naked—in his office. He was giving a tour to the foreign language endowment chancellor and . . .” Emily pursed her lips, giving me a meaningful look. “Let’s just say it was awkward in every language.”

I winced, on behalf of Luca but also on behalf of the girl. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, but not the first or the last time he’ll have to deal with naked students or unrequited crushes. I guess I’m surprised you’d be so agitated by the power of a pretty face.” She reached for and patted my hand. “But, in your defense, his face is exceptionally pretty.”

I absorbed this information, my mind tripping over the words unobtainable and unrequited, thinking back to Luca’s email earlier in the evening.

I hadn’t read the message outside the lecture hall. I’d waited until I was away from Taylor and in the safety of my own car, then I devoured it. It had read,

Dear Anna,

There is a matter I need to discuss with you. I’ll be in my office after class.

-Luca

“Sorry to burst your bubble.”

I blinked at my friend. “What?”

“Your bubble. Your fantasy bubble that had you and this Russian Lit guy moving off the grid and quoting depressing gothic romance to each other.” Emily grinned at me teasingly.

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “But let’s just say—for the sake of argument—he was interested in me.”

Emily grinned. “Oh, I like this game. Like, what is the first thing you’d buy if you won the lottery?”

I shook my head, but said, “Fine. Okay. Like that. Theoretically, let’s say Luca—”

“Luca?” She giggled. “Oh, are you two on a first-name basis?”

Releasing a pained sigh, I debated whether or not to show her the emails and tell her about the kisses.

Kisses. As in plural of kiss.

Kisses that I couldn’t keep myself from daydreaming about or reliving in the privacy of my bedroom. Those kisses.

“Just humor me.” I endeavored to smile at my friend. “Let’s say Professor Kroft was interested in me, what should I do?”

“Other than sit on his face?” She pursed her lips together, considering. “Maybe tie him up and take lots of pictures? Of course, pretend-Professor -Kroft would totally be into it.”

“Emily.”

“Anna.”

“Be serious.”

“I can’t. This is a fantasy.”

My sigh this time sounded more like a growl. “I need your help. I need you to listen and be serious for a minute.”

Emily’s grin faded and her eyes passed over me, dimmed with concern. “Fine. Let’s be serious.” Her words were halting.

“Remember the motorcycle guy? From last February?”

She nodded, the knit of her eyebrows betraying her continued confusion.

“That was Professor Kroft. You set me up with Lucas Kraft. And I accidentally emailed—”

She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as her eyes bulged.

“—Luca Kroft. He met me at the restaurant, remember?”

Emily nodded wordlessly, still stunned.

“I had no idea when I signed up for his course. Then, the first day of the semester, we recognized each other and he asked me to stay after class.”

I filled her in on the rest. I told her everything. The details erupting, a deluge of events colored by sporadic feelings and fears.

She was completely quiet except for additional gasps. Mostly, she just stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Professor Kroft,” I paused, holding her gaze so she could see my uncertainty, then pulled the phone from my bag and showed her his latest email. “He sent me this, just after class.”

I watched her read it, her eyes now at their maximum diameter.

“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed, turning off the phone and staring at the black screen. “I mean, he’s the king of mixed messages, you know? And he’s right, I am a lot younger than him. He’s got to be—”

“Thirty-one,” she blurted, her first words in over five minutes.

I nodded. “Right. So that makes him ten years older. And it’s not just the age difference. Like he said, I’m immature. I’m goofy. I’m—I’m not his kind of nice.” Repeating the words made my chest ache.

Emily finally blinked, as though waking from her trance of shock and awe. “This is incredible,” she said to the room. “I mean, yeah. I can see why it happened, why he digs you.”

“Really?” I asked, disliking, but resigned to, the disbelief in my voice. “He’s sophisticated, a world scholar.”

“He graduated from Oxford, post-grad at Princeton with a PhD in Russian Literature from the Slavic Department, top of his class.”

Now it was my turn to gape at her.

She shrugged. “What? I looked him up after seeing his picture. I was curious.”

Pushing aside the uncomfortable feelings inspired by her admission, I continued my earlier thought. “Right. So, he’s this big deal, impressive professor. And I’m . . . ? What? An adequate waitress? A superb student? A juggernaut at jigsaw puzzles? Terrific at Trivia Tuesdays?”

“No. You were terrific at Trivia Tuesdays. Now you suck at Trivia Tuesdays because you’re preoccupied. But, yes, I do understand why Professor Kroft digs you.”

“Explain it to me.” I grabbed her hand as I made the demand. “Because it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“First off, clearly he’s attracted to what you look like. Let’s just get that out of the way. He liked what he saw back in February, and he’s probably not used to women disappearing on him.”

“Okay. Fine. I accept this as fact, with the caveat that it has to be more than what I look like, because I’m nowhere near the best looking girl in the class.”

Emily made a face. “See now, you underestimate yourself. You’re a queen. A hot slice of co-ed cake. However,” she held up her finger as though to stop me from interrupting her, “I will concede that I believe, as guys get older, it’s less about ‘the prettiest’ and more about the intangible that makes a woman beautiful. It’s about chemistry and shared passions. You’ve always been passionate about books. You read more—for fun—than anyone else I’ve met. Plus, your opinions are often radical, but never boring. You’re creative and odd. And smart. And fun. And awesome. Maybe he’s got the hots for your brain.”

I kicked this theory around, deciding it was—at best—incomplete.

“He said I was immature.”

“He called you, what was her name? Natasha?”

“That’s right.”

“And he implied he was Andrei? Then what draws Andrei to Natasha? Start there.”

“Her cheerfulness,” I recalled, thinking back on the book and trying to remember Andrei’s first impressions. “But then later, her beauty and innocence. Andrei is a—” I struggled to describe the character and finally decided on, “He’s world-weary. Jaded. He listens to her sing at one point and it inspired him to live his life more deeply. She’s like a muse, for him to be a better man, to look at the world with new eyes. He’s attracted to the idea of her, I think, more than the real her, especially at first. Or at least that’s how Tolstoy wrote it.”

Emily nodded, absorbing all this information. “Maybe that’s why Professor Kroft runs hot and cold with you? He thinks he’s attracted to the idea of you?”

“Maybe . . .”

Possibly.

“He’s world-weary and jaded and there you are,” she continued philosophically. “You don’t throw yourself at him. In fact, you run in the other direction. Multiple times.” She said this last part accusingly before adding more gently, “You’re an enigma. You said he looked up your middle name?”

I nodded, confirming this.

“This is like a fairy tale.” Emily sighed, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

I wrinkled my nose at her. “It’s not like knowing my name gives him some power over me. I’m not Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Too bad he can’t say it three times and your clothes fall off.”

“Emily.”

“Admit it. That would be awesome.”

My cheeks heated, because I was thinking about it, and it would be awesome. But I needed to get the conversation back on point.

“So what do I do?”

My friend stared at me for a long time, so long I didn’t know if she was going to answer.

But then she said, “Forget him.”

I released a breath and glanced at the ceiling of my apartment. “Be serious.”

“I am. I’m being serious. I mean, I understand your hesitation. You like the guy, he’s brilliant, engaging, charismatic, mysterious, and all that—more than just his handsome face—makes him sexy. He’s definitely attracted to you, but he’s also pushing you away just as much as he’s pulling you in. So, forget him.”

My mouth fell open, showcasing my shock, because that was not at all what I expected her to say.

“Truly?”

“Yes. Truly. He’s tepid, not hot. If he can’t see how fucking awesome you are, if he can’t put himself on the line for you and go all in, pursue you like you deserve to be pursued, then—really—is he worth risking your heart? No. He’s not. That makes him not your kind of nice.”

My heart sank.

But she wasn’t finished. “To clarify, your kind of nice doesn’t play games. Sounds to me like he’s a game player. He can’t make up his mind, so he jerks you around. You don’t need that shit. No amount of handsome is worth that kind of heartache.”

“It’s not his handsome that I’m attracted to. I mean, it is his handsome, but it’s also—gah!”

“I know, I know. Like I said, it’s everything—”

“Exactly.”

“Except his cowardice. And that’s a deal breaker.”

My stomach and chest felt empty and I realized the sensation was disappointment. I was disappointed to an extreme degree.

“You’re right,” I conceded, willing away the heartache.

She gave me a sad, commiserating smile. “Sorry. As your best friend, I can give you no other advice.”

I gazed at her, at my best friend and her best friend wisdom. “No. It’s fine. It’s what I needed to hear. Thank you for talking it through with me.”

“No problem. And please do think of me should any other hot professors kiss your face off.” Emily poked me with her celery stick as she stood. “I’m going to open that box of wine you’ve been saving. Tonight feels box o’ wine worthy.”

I still had Luca’s champagne; it was in the back of my pantry. But I didn’t want to drink it with Emily. The oddball in me had been saving it for him, for Luca.

“Fine. But we have to use my grandmother’s china.”

“Teacups?”

“Of course,” I confirmed, reaching for my phone, “always teacups.”

“Right-o.” Emily turned and crossed my tiny apartment. She knew where I kept my grandmother’s teacups because box o’ wine nights always called for teacups.

Meanwhile, I opened my email, hitting reply to his, and tapped out a message to Luca. I decided that being blunt was the best course of action. At first, I typed everything I was thinking and feeling, a la,

Dear Luca,

As a preface to this message, I still firmly believe the source of Anna Karenina’s sorrow and downfall was, fundamentally, lack of self-worth.

With that in mind, and in case you didn’t know, I really like you. You’re brilliant. You’re an incredible teacher. I love talking to you, debating with you, listening to your thoughts. I love how passionate you are about matters of the soul and heart and mind.

Bonus, you’re one of the few people in the world who looks good in leather pants *and* a bowtie (though maybe not at the same time . . . jury is still out).

But I also really like myself. Just as I am.

What I don’t like is being kissed by someone who believes I’m not mature enough to, I don’t know, date? (I hope you don’t use the term ‘Netflix and chill’). Even if that person’s kiss is so blissfully transformative that the memory of him, of the touch of his lips, has infected every thought thereafter.

However, learning from Anna Karenina’s abysmal example, I’m officially tapping out of whatever this thing is between us. I don’t like games or game players. I might enjoy reading about wretchedness and epically tragic love stories, but I have no desire to live one.

As of now, I consider this resolved.

Wishing you the best with all your future endeavors,

Anna I. Harris

I reread the message, knowing it was good and honest. Yet I hesitated. It felt too . . .

Too . . .

Honest. Real. Naïve. Trusting. Vulnerable.

Unable to press the send button, I saved a draft and turned off my phone. I went to the bathroom, debating the length of the message, word choice, and nuances of sentence structure.

I was overthinking.

Leaving the bathroom, and frustrated with my lack of action, I pulled up the email again, copied it and pasted it into a new message. Then I deleted all the parts that made me feel vulnerable, leaving me with,

Dear Luca,

I still firmly believe that the source of Anna Karenina’s sorrow and downfall was, fundamentally, lack of self-worth.

Therefore, and learning from Anna Karenina’s abysmal example, I’m officially tapping out of whatever this thing is between us. I consider this matter resolved.

Wishing you the best with all your future endeavors,

Anna I. Harris

Still honest. Still real. But without the messiness of putting myself out there. It felt safe. So I sent it.

“What should we drink to?” Emily appeared, holding two teacups full of wine.

I accepted my cup and clinked it against hers. “To being smart.”

Emily gave me a small smile, saying nothing. I endeavored to return it as we both sipped our boxed wine and I congratulated myself on being smart.

And clearly having so much self-worth, that I never take any risks without a guarantee of success.

“Pass the box.”