Amy Lucas thought her eleventh-grade English teacher was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Not that she was such an expert on men, much less men over, say, seventeen. Still, she’d had her share of silly crushes on famous older actors and musicians and even a few local newscasters, so she had some frames of reference. (She used to get butterflies in her stomach whenever she passed her neighbor, Pete, a farm team jock who in summer would wash his car in the driveway without a shirt.)
To Amy, Mr. Cronin was not only good-looking—there was something about his ropy forearms and rolled-up shirtsleeves that made Amy’s heart stop—but kind and patient and so incredibly smart. He seemed to know about everything and not just books, though he certainly made an avid reader out of Amy that year. But she was not alone: All the girls had crushes on Mr. Cronin. They knew his clothing by heart, could anticipate when he would get a haircut, would laugh almost in unison at his witty remarks. They would hang around him after class, hoping for a compliment about their book report or an answer they’d given that period. They would wonder in private and in pairs about his marriage. Had anyone ever met his wife? Seen a picture? Was she pretty? Did she know how lucky she was?
It was all fantasyland though. Jim Cronin may have been sexy and charming and brainy and generous, but he never, ever acted flirtatiously. He never “accidentally” touched any of the girls’ hands, talked to them up close, allowed his eyes to meet theirs for that extra second, made an even remotely off-color remark. In truth, he never seemed at all aware of the rapt attention he received from his female students. He was known as a stand-up guy, a talented teacher, and unerringly likable.
So it couldn’t have come as more of a shock when one day after everyone else had filed out of the classroom, he asked Amy, who was absent-mindedly still at her desk immersed in that day’s chapter, if she might want to have a cup of coffee with him sometime. Just like that: no preamble, no guile, no leering stare, no words of warning or explanation. She didn’t drink coffee—not yet, anyway—but that was beside the point. Who even knew if coffee would really be involved? Still, as polite and unforced as Mr. Cronin was at that moment, his intentions were unambiguous. Even to someone with as little sexual experience as Amy.
What was not obvious was: why her? She was pretty enough, but far from the most attractive or brightest or most popular girl around. She was mostly quiet and studious; friendly but unassuming. She hardly jumped out as teen-mistress material, especially for someone as dreamy as Mr. Cronin. No matter, she found herself saying yes to his offer with a confidence and resolve she barely knew she possessed. In retrospect, she realized she had no idea what she was doing.
They never did have that coffee. Instead, Amy and Jim met up the following Saturday at Woodward Park, which despite its popularity, was an easy place to go unseen—if that was your intention. At first, Jim didn’t act as if there was anything to hide: He suggested they take a walk around the park’s enormous, winding lake, which was scenic but conveniently deserted that cool and overcast December day.
They talked about books and poetry; Amy mentioned she’d written some poems but they weren’t very good, and Jim urged her to keep at it. He praised her work in class and she told him what an inspiring teacher he was. When Amy asked what they’d be reading next, he said Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. He asked about her other classes, and she described a chemistry project she was struggling with. If either of them was nervous, it didn’t outwardly show. Amy found Jim as mellow and engaging in “real life” as he was in school; Jim would later tell Amy he found her as soulful and mature as she was in class. He never brought up why he’d asked her to join him that day—nor did she. It felt like two new friends taking a stroll in the park.
Until it didn’t.
They made love on a small, secluded grassy stretch beneath an immense canopy of magnolia trees. It didn’t just “happen”—one thing did, in fact, lead to another—though Amy, alarmingly in control of her senses, was given the power to stop it at any time: Jim asked her permission every step of the way. He was no more aggressive or demanding than he was in class, but still a wholly captivating presence. Amy fought not to ponder the implications of what they were doing—it was undeniably dangerous, wrong, and stupid—and, for once in her circumspect life, simply gave into the moment. It was a thrilling combination of pain and pleasure, freedom and validation. That she lied and told Jim she was on the pill when he revealed he hadn’t brought a condom (Was he careless or was this truly not premeditated? she wondered) was debatably her biggest mistake. Still, she would have been lying if she didn’t admit, at least to herself, that she’d dreamt about this happening since she first stepped into Jim’s classroom.
Through it all, she still called him Mr. Cronin.
He told her about his wife. How they were trying to have a baby, but couldn’t. How it was taking a toll on their marriage. Amy didn’t know what to say but it didn’t matter—he just wanted someone to listen.
They saw each other for a few weeks until they knew they couldn’t continue. Jim was afraid for himself—and Amy. It had gone too far. He confessed that he’d never done anything like that before—had never even considered it—and never would again. He hoped she’d understand. She said she did. It was the truth. Amy cherished the sweet moments they’d shared and tucked them away to think about whenever she felt lonely or sad or unloved. She and Mr. Cronin resumed their student-teacher relationship as if nothing had happened. She finished the class with an A, but only because she truly earned it.
Except for telling her parents, Amy remained a sphinx about her affair with Nate’s father for the rest of her life. Until now.