MAYBE IT WAS the crisp February air, the students carrying their books, the ubiquitous flyers advertising shows for under-rehearsed punk bands, or the weird kid who wore racoon slippers to class—whatever it was, there was something about being on campus again that made Harry feel nostalgic.

Harry never finished college. He dropped out after his sophomore year. At the time, it had been the right decision, but it had interrupted his goals of becoming a world-renowned physicist and winning awards for his discoveries while a beautiful woman sat in the front row, beaming at him.

Harry met Amanda during his sophomore year at Indiana University Bloomington. For Harry—as it was for most men when a pretty girl paid attention to them—it was love at first sight. He had been sitting in the cafeteria eating a roast beef sandwich—bread, two rubbery pieces of beef, Swiss cheese, and mayo—trying to get over the awkward conversation he’d just had with the guy who made his sandwich. The guy, smelling of Swiss cheese and cigarettes, had just served a pretty girl and leered at her as she walked away. “That’s the kind of girl you let pick the corn out of your teeth,” he said to Harry, his voice sounding like an Amber Alert. Harry didn’t know if this was some pervy cafeteria saying or if the guy genuinely wanted her to become a dental hygienist.

At Harry’s lunch table, his friends Timothy and Lester were having an intense debate about the new Cape Canaveral spin-off, Cape Canaveral: Gamma Quadrant. Harry felt the show had some promise. It took place at the same time as Cape Canaveral: TOS in an unexplored section of space and featured new alien species with unique societies and cultures. They were planning a watch party when his friend Dave sat down with his girlfriend, Janet. Still disoriented from his experience in the lunch line, Harry missed Janet waving one of her friends over and didn’t see Amanda approach their table. Harry would later say that if he had seen her, he would have been too stunned to speak. Janet asked him to scoot over. Harry slid into the next seat, unaware his life was about to change.

“I think the new show has a lot of potential,” Harry said. “Assuming they don’t make the mistakes they made in the prequel.”

“You talking about the technology thing?” Dave said.

“You can’t have technology that’s more advanced than what they had in the original series.”

“It’s budgetary,” Amanda said. “When a show has a high budget, the producers feel they need to justify it by spending their money on special effects.”

“I get that, but…” Harry was about to launch into a diatribe about cannon responsibility and how a shared universe like Cape Canaveral owed it to the fans to respect the rules established in the original show, but when he looked over at Amanda, he stopped. Prior to this, the only woman he’d loved had been Lieutenant Megan Strata, Cape Canaveral’s chief science officer. But when he saw Amanda, he instantly fell in love. She was the beauty of his imagination—the elegant woman sitting in the front row clapping for him as he accepted his Nobel Prize. Harry introduced himself, stammering.

For Amanda, calling it love at first sight wouldn’t be accurate. It was more like curiosity. Amanda would later say, “Women don’t fall in love right away. Being swept off our feet is just a myth. What we are is interested. We’re interested in a man until he proves he really loves us, and then we allow ourselves to fall in love.”

Amanda noticed Harry’s awkwardness around her—it was impossible not to. Five seconds into lunch, he’d introduced himself as Harrick Eryson and spilled his soft drink all over his shirt. She knew he found her attractive and flirted with him just enough to keep him interested. This was a game she always played with men—a light shoulder touch, a perfectly placed laugh. She would string them along like this for months until they gave up or bored her; usually it was the latter. The men Amanda met were all the same, white baseball caps and budding alcohol problems. They would last a few weeks before she moved on. Fortunately, Indiana University Bloomington was full of young men for Amanda to string along.

Later, Harry’s friends would tell him the rumors about her, how she flirted her way into clubs and frat parties. But he wouldn’t believe them. To Harry, Amanda was a beam of pure starlight shining on his overcooked roast beef sandwich.

“So, are you, uh, are you a fan of Cape Canaveral?” Harry asked her. “Because there’s a movie marathon at the Bijou tonight.”

Since Harry wasn’t like the boys who normally hit on her, she decided to take a different approach. “That’s sweet of you. But I’m not into science fiction.”

“Oh,” Harry said, his voice deflating like a tire after running over shattered expectations.

“I’m more into psychological thrillers with surprise endings that seem inevitable when you really think about them.”

“Uh, yeah, those are cool.”

Harry had never had much luck talking to girls. In high school, he preferred hanging out with Timothy and their friends, who were all in accelerated classes. When prom came around, he and his friends had sat at their table all night watching other kids pop E and pour cheap vodka into their punch. Harry had found it incredibly tiresome to watch others stumble and giggle through what they had previously been told would be the best night of their lives while the slow jams of Boyz II Men and Brandy played in the background.

The rest of the lunch went like this: Harry tried to think of something to say to Amanda; when he couldn’t think of anything, he beat himself up for not thinking of something clever, then worried he hadn’t put on enough deodorant, then beat himself up for worrying about sweating too much when he should’ve been worrying about what to say to Amanda.

The next thing Harry knew, Amanda and Janet were rising from the table to dump their lunch trays.

“Um, hey, Amanda,” Harry said, half standing and almost spilling his soft drink again. “We should totally hang out some time.”

“Why?” Amanda asked.

“Well, we have a lot in common.”

“Like?”

“Like?”

“Yeah, like what do we have in common?”

Harry felt sweat drip from his armpits. He tried to think of the perfect thing to say, the perfect line that would make Amanda realize she needed to be with him for the rest of her life.

“We both like lunch.”

We both like lunch. This was the line that earned Harry Amanda’s phone number.

On their first date, Harry took Amanda to a park on West Howe Street for a picnic of Burt’s Big Beef takeout: two roast beef sandwiches, fries, and two chocolate milkshakes. He thought having lunch in the quiet park would be romantic. Amanda thought they were eating on a table birds regularly used as a toilet.

It was spring, and buds were sprouting on branches. The air smelled of fresh grass, fried grease, and misinterpreted social cues. Harry tried asking Amanda questions about herself, but she only responded with one-word answers. He tried to learn about her family, where she grew up, what she was like as a kid, but she wasn’t interested in sharing aspects of her life with him. She was only interested in getting him wrapped around her finger.

Amanda employed this strategy often—being emotionally distant with men, making them feel as though she weren’t interested in them, then later being all over them. To her, it didn’t matter how the guy felt or that she was manipulating him; she was going to get what she wanted, which was his heart. (She would eventually fall in love with Harry, just not while he had chocolate milkshake on his face.)

It would be doing Amanda a disservice to say her outlook was shaped by a single incident. She didn’t come from a troubled home or suffer abuse in any way. She was an only child with loving parents. If there was one thing you could say that shaped Amanda’s outlook, it was that growing up, she wasn’t happy. She was moderately popular, intelligent, and very attractive, yet she was dissatisfied with everything. She saw inequities everywhere, from politics to how people treated each other. She knew at an early age she couldn’t change the world. It was too massive, its systems of oppression too old. At sixteen, she made a conscious choice to look out for herself first. From her point of view, the biggest threat was men; they had created laws benefiting themselves and enforced them. So she decided to get everything she could out of them without giving up anything in exchange.

Sitting next to Harry on the bench, dipping her fries in her chocolate milkshake, Amanda didn’t feel sorry for him. She thought he was cute, but like all boys, he was dumb. She pretended to ignore him while he talked about his life, something he only started to do after her continued silence made it clear she wasn’t going to engage in conversation. Harry flung their trash in the garbage can, their empty cups clacking off the side. Amanda, sensing he’d given up, said, “You want to go to a party?”

“Right now?” Harry asked. His idea of parties involved soft drinks and role-playing games. Amanda hadn’t been interested in his story about his high school science fair project, so Harry doubted she’d care he was a twelfth-level paladin.

“Yeah, I know of a pool party going on. We should crash it.”

Hoping this meant Amanda was softening to him—which is what she wanted him to think—Harry agreed to go.

The party was at a frat house, made of brick walls with large Greek letters hanging above the entrance. It was on a block called Frat Row, a two-block strip of frat houses known for binge drinking-related fatalities, basement mattresses, and excessive dares involving fireworks and butts. Parked outside was a moving truck loaded with kegs of the cheapest beer imaginable. Young men dressed in matching khaki shorts and navy blue polo shirts unloaded the kegs from the truck.

Amanda dragged Harry to the pool. The water was clear and blue, but no one was swimming. It was as though the pool were filled with mature decisions and everyone was avoiding drowning in adulthood. Instead, they hovered around the wall of kegs, drinking and talking loudly.

Harry felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was because he was the only one wearing a swimsuit to a pool party, his towel flung over his shoulder, or that everyone was staring at him, but he had the distinct feeling he didn’t belong.

Amanda was another story. When she walked in, all the guys recognized her and waved; a few came over and offered her a drink. She put her arm through Harry’s, letting all the boys know he was her escort. Their gazes turned brutal, both possessive and dismissive, as though Harry had stolen a trinket they refused to admit was priceless.

While Amanda filled her cup, not having to wait in line, Harry noticed a group of guys huddled in a circle talking and looking over at him.

“Hey,” one of them said, approaching Harry. “I’m Topher. What’s your name?”

“Uh, I’m Harry,” Harry said, suspicious of the blond-haired kid.

“Hey, Harry. I’m Topher P.,” another blond-haired kid said. The Tophers could have been confused for twins whose mom had dressed them in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts.

“So you know Amanda? That’s cool,” Topher said.

“How do you know her?” Topher P. asked.

“Lunch.” When the Tophers stared at him blankly, Harry added, “We’re just hanging out.”

Harry wished he could have said, “She’s my girlfriend,” although he had a feeling the Tophers would have smirked and given each other looks that said, Yeah, right, more than they already were.

“That’s cool, bro,” Topher said. “Do you like motorbikes?”

“What about wraparound sunglasses?” Topher P. asked.

“Huh?” Harry asked, completely confused. The Tophers put their arms around him and guided him away from Amanda. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw some guy—whose name he suspected was also Topher—talking to her.

As they walked, Harry detected some animosity between the Tophers. He couldn’t have known this, but Topher P. was angry because, even though he and Topher had pledged together, he was known around the house as Topher P., when he would rather have been referred to as just Topher. His frat brothers had debated on which Topher should get an initial at the end of his name, and all thought Topher P. rolled off the tongue better than Topher H.

“Do you belong to an organization?” Topher without-the-distinction-of-a-last-initial asked.

“I’m in a couple of study groups,” Harry said.

“This guy’s funny,” Topher who-didn’t-like-going-by-Topher-P.-but-begrudgingly-accepted-it-as-an-easy-way-to-tell-the-Tophers-apart P. said.

“I mean an organization like ours,” Topher unburdened-by-an-initial-and-therefore-free-to-be-whatever-type-of-Topher-he-wanted-to-be said. “You should think about pledging, bro.”

“We could always use some cool bros,” Topher who-secretly-cried-at-night-because-he-felt-as-if-by-taking-an-initial-he’d-given-up-what-made-him-unique P. said.

“Harry doesn’t have time to pledge,” Amanda said, taking his arm. “He’s too busy taking care of me.”

Although he didn’t know exactly what Amanda meant by this, Harry blushed.

“Sweet,” Topher so-carefree-from-the-strain-of-an-identifying-initial-he-constantly-felt-the-urge-to-perform-an-interpretive-dance-but-didn’t-because-he-worried-what-his-frat-brothers-would-think said.

“Nice, bro,” Topher who-one-day-after-years-of-therapy-would-come-to-realize-the-value-of-his-life-wasn’t-determined-by-having-an-initial P. said.

“I need to talk to Harry in private.” And with that, Amanda escorted Harry away.

As they walked, Harry thought he heard the Tophers mutter, “Bitch,” and “Skank.” He turned around, expecting angry faces, but the Tophers only waved and smiled, their teeth white and razor sharp like those of alcoholic sharks.

Harry knew he was the one who should have been angry. All he wanted to do was spend time with Amanda; instead, she’d spent the afternoon talking with some frat boys.

“Ignore the Tophers,” Amanda said. “They’re just jealous.”

“Okay,” Harry said, not understanding what was happening at all.

“They pull that pledge stunt with anyone they don’t know. If you had said you were interested, they’d have gotten you so drunk you would have passed out in the bushes.”

Amanda guided Harry into a sitting room. A fireplace sat in the middle of a wood paneled wall, waiting for the last drips from red plastic cups to be dumped into it. Amanda sat on the couch and pulled Harry next to her. Outside, the party raged. The Tophers introduced an unsuspecting freshman to a beer bong that had regrettably been named Steve Bong. (King Bong, Donkey Bong, and Bong Henry V had been suggested, but in 1992, a very drunk frat brother had dubbed it Steve Bong as he was passing out, and the name stuck, as did the dicks drawn on his sleeping face.)

As Harry sat next to Amanda, she could tell he was uncomfortable. She normally didn’t feel sorry for the guys she dated. But for some reason, Harry reminded her of a sick kitten in need of some milk and a warm blanket, and she wanted to wrap him up and comfort him.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” she said. “This isn’t your crowd.”

“My friends are a little more studious than this,” Harry agreed.

“I don’t know about that,” Amanda said. “Topher’s prelaw, and Topher P. is majoring in astrophysics.”

“The future leaders of America,” Harry said as a kid threw up on the window.

“I get it,” Amanda said. “You think you’re better than them because you spend your Thursday afternoons studying.”

“I didn’t say that.” The kid who had just thrown up leaned against the slimy window then slid down to the soggy ground.

“When we graduate, who do you think is going to be running the world, the kids without any social skills or the guys who partied?”

“Are those my only options?”

“It’s going to be the Tophers. They’re the ones who’ll land high-paying, important jobs because of the connections they make here. They’ll be able to walk into any law office or brokerage firm—as long as a former frat brother works there—and get fast-tracked to being a partner. Their careers are set. But you don’t get that. You think all you have to do is work hard, and it’ll pay off. But it doesn’t matter how hard you work or how smart you are, you will never achieve even the slightest of what the Tophers will achieve, because you don’t know how to act around people. And because of that, one day, the Tophers will be the ones deciding your fate, and you’ll still be you.”

Amanda crossed her arms, expecting Harry to apologize, but instead of a tearful apology, only the ticking of the grandfather clock Topher P.’s great-grandfather had dry humped until it was six minutes slow answered.

“I’m going to go.” Harry rose from the couch and stepped over sixteen cases worth of empty beer bottles before walking out the door.

Amanda was stunned. No one had ever left her on a date like that before. Part of her was insulted, another part impressed. Maybe she had misjudged Harry. She leapt from the couch and sprinted after him.

“Harry, wait!” She chased him to his car. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

“You stated your thesis and defended it with supporting evidence. What more could I do?”

“You fight. You try,” she said. Under the evening sun, Harry seemed different; he glowed. “You don’t run away just because a girl sends you mixed signals. That’s all part of the game.”

“I don’t play games that are rigged.”

“You’re not very good at this dating thing, are you?” She grinned, seeing something in Harry she hadn’t seen before—a mix of integrity and potential.

“You would obviously rather be with the Tophers.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Prove me wrong.”

“Shut up, you pathetic, little man and kiss me.” Amanda would later deny saying this, feeling it was both mean and melodramatic, like something the villain in a soap opera would say.

Harry, on the other hand, didn’t think it was mean-spirited. When she spoke, Harry saw something melt inside her. When he would later recount the story to their friends, Amanda would accuse him of exaggerating, but Harry would grin, knowing it was the moment she fell in love with him.

Harry kissed her in front of the frat house. It was his first kiss, and he hoped he wasn’t terrible at it. But he figured, if Amanda was insisting on making out in public, she would ignore his lack of skill.

“Let’s go back to my place,” Amanda said, holding both of Harry’s hands.

Later, Harry went home and circled the day on his calendar. In one day, he’d had his first kiss, lost his virginity, and got his first girlfriend. And nine months later, he would be a father.