“Have you heard?” Arla ploughs through my front door like a heat-seeking missile.

“Heard what?” I close the door and watch my friend march into my living room as if she owns this place. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I echo.

She switches the TV on and turns to the local news channel. It looks like something has happened, and now I remember that people at work were talking about something, but I didn’t pay any attention to it because I had a report to do. I stare at the screen because Arla stands and stares at me as if I should know about this.

A reporter talks against a backdrop of police cars and officers. Groups of shocked students huddle together, hugging and comforting one another. A police officer commends college security who were able to apprehend the student but the main topic is about a college professor who was shot in the altercation.

“Onlookers say that Lance Turner, a professor at Redmond College in Boston, shielded the shooter’s victim from fatal injury, but was himself shot in the process.”

“That’s… that’s …” It can’t be him. “Is that …?”

Lance Turner? I gasp. My mouth turns dry. The man who walked away and left me.

“The shooter, now in police custody, is believed to be an ex-boyfriend of the young woman who was targeted. Thankfully she is safe and well. Let us, once more, turn our attention to the man who is being hailed as a hero in what could have so easily become a tragic event.”

“Mr. Turner!” Arla exclaims, clapping her hands wildly. “Your Mr. Turner. Can you believe it? He’s a professor at Redmond College now.” Arla’s eyes are wide open, like her mouth. She reminds me of a fish.

“He’s not my Mr. …” But my words taper to a whisper. I stare at the screen as tiny explosions erupt in my chest. He’s been here the entire time?

In the background, the reporter’s voice is sharp and clear. “Lance Turner, the forty-three year old mathematics professor has been teaching at Redmond College for …”

At Redmond College.

I try to process the news, struggling to make sense of it all—the shooting and the shocking new detail that Lance Turner, my high school teacher, the man I was obsessed with as a student, the man I’ve tried to forget, has been here the whole time. Not far away in Nebraska like the rumors I’d heard, but here in Boston.

I struggle to breathe and sit down trying to take it all in but it feels as if someone has drilled a hole in my lungs.

It’s been eleven years since I last saw him. Now he’s on the TV; it’s a photo of him. My stomach churns, throwing up all sorts of feelings at a man who cared for me, who listened to me, who became more than just my high school teacher. This is the first time I’ve seen him in eleven years and it’s jarring. His face is hard to forget; there’s grey in his hair now, and it’s short, like a buzz cut. His face is smooth, and they’re still there, his high sculpted cheekbones. He’s lean and wiry, and not much different in build to when I first saw him.

If I saw him in a bar or a club, I’d go home with him.

But with Lance … the man I knew, I would want more. Not just the night, maybe more than tomorrow.

I don’t know who taught me that love is hard. My mind blurs when I try to pin it down. Was it my parents and their messed up lives, or was it Lance who made me believe in the mantra I’ve lived most of my adult life by.

“He saved that girl’s life,” Arla says proudly, as if she had a hand in it. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. It happened a few hours ago.”

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, more to myself, than expecting an answer from Arla.

“Didn’t you hear what they just said?” Arla shrieks. Of course I heard, but it’s a total shock to my system to accept that he’s been living and working here.

“It’s possible that the two of you might have crossed paths,” Arla says, her soft, round face flushed red with excitement. “Or you could have been at the same coffee shop, walked into the same store and not known, you could have walked across the same street.”

I tune her out as I still stare at the screen, unable to shift my gaze.

“I cannot believe you didn’t know about this,” Arla repeats. “Have you had your head under a blanket the whole time?”

“I’ve been working,” I reply, feeling dazed, as if I’ll wake up from this dream. “I haven’t turned on the radio or the TV.” I came home earlier than usual to work on a report I’m preparing for a client. I’m under pressure to get this done and I haven’t checked my email or social media. Preston and I have been trying to outdo one another at work. We both want to impress the boss because there’s only one promotion coming up in our department and I intend to claim it.

I frown at the TV screen. “How badly was he hurt?”

“He’s at the hospital. I don’t think it’s anything serious.” Arla replies, with a twinkle in her eye. “This is soooooo exciting!”

“Why?”

“Why? Why? Because he’s here! You were so broken hearted when he left, and you’ve wondered for years what happened to him, and now you can finally find out.”

I wish I hadn’t confided in Arla so much about my high school crush on Mr. Turner. But it had been much more than a crush. It was real, my feelings for him, and what he felt for me, or so I thought.

“Are you going to the gym?” I notice Arla’s ultra-bright leggings and bright orange zip-up top. The sports center has become her favorite place of late.

“I was, but I can be here for you if you want.”

“For what?” I ask.

“This news! I know what he meant to you.”

“That was a long time ago,” I push back, “and I wasn’t crazy about him.”

“Yes, you were!”

I ground down on my clenched teeth. Mr. Turner appeared in my life at a time when it was falling apart and when I needed him the most. He was my safety net, my safe haven. He was there for me, and he was the only one, because even Shaun failed me. Or maybe I failed him first. He was my first boyfriend. I was a late starter, you could say. We should have been friends, instead of girlfriend and boyfriend.

But then Mr. Turner came along and I fell for him. I didn’t dive in headfirst. I didn’t trip. At first I was too sensible to fall for his looks like the rest of my peers but later, as we got to know one another, I found someone who had time for me, someone who was willing to listen and be there and help me. That’s when my eyes opened, and I began to really see him. That’s when I realized why the other girls were fawning over him. He was handsome, and kind, and easy to talk to.

It was an emotional connection that we shared, and gradually, slowly, I became obsessed. Shaun and I splintered away from each other but my high school teacher became a place of comfort.

Until he disappeared without a word. It’s taken me a long time to get over him, and I won’t allow thoughts of him to seep back into my mind. “Nothing happened,” I insist, testily.

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