Chapter 4

Rich regarded her, slack-jawed. "Shouldn't have happened? Gretchen -- last night felt right. Last night was the best sex I ever experienced; and I was sure the feeling was mutual. How can you say it shouldn't have happened?"

"You took advantage of me. You promised me you wouldn't take advantage of me but you did."

"Are you telling me you intend to go to the authorities and claim I raped you?"

"No. Of course not. I know it was consensual ... at the time. You seduced me."

"I did nothing of the sort," he objected.

"You did so! You knew I was upset. You took advantage of my emotional state."

"Gretchen -- I gave you plenty of opportunities to say stop or to say no or to give me some sort of sign I was unwelcome. If you had said stop or no or given me such a sign I would've stopped. I would've because I care enough for you and respect you enough to know that no means no. I was looking for a red light from you -- but you never gave me one. It was green all the way."

She stuffed the power brick into her suitcase, tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and looked around the room for her belongings. "I've heard how predators groom their victims -- how they do it incrementally one step at a time so nothing seems like a big leap. Then, they move in for the kill."

"Are you saying I'm a predator and you're my victim?"

"I'm saying you did something very much like that."

"That's how any relationship develops," Rich protested, "gradually, in increments. By that logic falling in love is grooming a victim."

"No -- it's not the same."

"How is it different?"

"It's different when one of the parties is twenty years older than the other -- that's how!"

"So that's it -- our age difference. Don't you remember our talk about how I think young and you think old and we meet somewhere in our late twenties? And last night -- that was real, Gretchen. I felt it and I know you felt it, too."

Tears began streaming down her cheeks. "I'd better be going. I'll take my chances with Debra." She headed for the door and fumbled with the deadbolt.

"Gretchen -- the offer stands. I'll go to the dean's office with you."

"No thanks -- I'll take my chances." She pulled open the door and headed down the corridor.

Rich ran after her. "Gretchen," he yelled. "I love you! I'd never do anything I thought would hurt you."

He saw her head down the stairwell. From his apartment he could see her at the corner, awaiting the bus. She appeared to be crying.

Rich wandered around the apartment in stunned bewilderment. The sofa bed was still extended and the covers askew. The network cable she had used still snaked across the floor.

He wandered back into his bedroom. Her yellow panties were on the floor. Rich picked them up, then wadded them into a ball and threw them down. "Stupid!" he said. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" He sat on his bed and buried his face in his hands.

He recalled from his altercations with Yvonne that women need time to cool down. How long would Gretchen require? He also understood that if he misjudged -- if he attempted contact too soon, then he likely would re-trigger the outburst and make things worse.

Rich decided to try to get on with life. He'd try calling her on Monday or Tuesday.

Monday morning, Rich headed to his campus classes. He found it difficult to concentrate on the lectures and he blew off a quiz for which he hadn't studied. Lunchtime he bought a bag of chips and a Twinkie from the Seven- Eleven across the street from the quadrangle. He sat on a bench hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Gretchen was walking, alone, with a bundle of books in her arms. Rich stood and approached her, but she altered her route and ducked into a building. He followed her inside but lost sight of her. He had to hustle to make his next class.

By Tuesday noon he felt he had given Gretchen ample cool-down time. He flipped open his cell and punched in her number. It rang and she answered.

"Gretchen -- it's Rich..."

"Don't call me again," she hissed and the call disconnected.

That evening, he sat at his laptop for his Second Life class. He logged on, navigated to the university's area and headed for the lecture hall. On the virtual door was a virtual note. Professor Strumpf's class for Tuesday is cancelled. Remember, your projects are due today. Email them to me and make sure the postmark is before midnight tonight. --L.S.

He loitered inside the building, having noticed that he could observe others' avatars approaching through the door. Gretchen's LadySonja never materialized.

Rich logged off and shut down the Second Life application. He began composing an email message.

Gretchen:

Rich stared at the screen.

I want you to know how sorry I am that I upset you

He shook his head and deleted the last line. Rich planted his elbows on his desk and rested his chin in his palms.

I'm sorry we had a misunderstanding

"No, no, no," he muttered and deleted the line.

I never intended

"The road to Hell is paved with intentions," he said under his breath. Rich grimaced and pressed the key to cancel the message. A dialogue box popped up asking if he wanted to save it as a draft. "Hell no!" he exclaimed as he clicked his mouse.

He powered down his laptop and flopped on his bed in his clothes.

Thursday morning Rich found himself on campus after meeting with his advisor. He drove toward Gretchen's dorm, parked on the street and sat in the lobby on a bench near the checkpoint leading to the residential floors.

He spotted a petite Asian girl with long, black hair heading from the locked doors into the lobby. Rich jumped up and sprinted after her. "Gretchen..." She turned. "I'm sorry -- I mistook you for someone I know." He returned to his spot in the lobby and waited, watching the foot traffic come and go.

A tap on his shoulder startled him. He looked up to see one of the campus security guards. "Got business here, pal?" the guard asked him.

"I am a student here," Rich replied. He saw another guard standing behind the one questioning him. "I'm looking for a friend."

"Let's see your ID."

Rich patted his pockets. "Shit -- I think I must've left my wallet in my apartment."

"Come on, buddy -- let's go."

"I am a student here," Rich protested. "I just met with Dr Artemis of the MIS department. I'm one of his graduate students. Call him if you don't believe me. My name is Rich Snyder, and my student number is 087319925."

The first guard glanced at the second. "Maybe you should just move along, pal," the second one said. "You're making the residents here uncomfortable."

"Okay..." Rich stood and headed for the door. He got into his car and drove toward his apartment. In his rear view mirror he could see one of the guards jotting down his license tag.

By that evening, he still had not seen nor heard from Gretchen. It was time for the Second Life class, and he knew Professor Strumpf was giving out the grades for their projects. He figured Gretchen would not miss this.

He logged on fifteen minutes early and navigated to the appropriate location. With his keyboard he moved his avatar to stand behind a column, hoping to remain undetected. LadySonja never appeared.

Rich directed his avatar into the lecture hall. Other students' figures began filing in. The professor's voice came over the speaker.

Let's call this to order. I have the grades for the RFP project. As it turns out, we have a tie between Team Alpha and Team Gamma for first place. These were the only teams that picked up on the little curve ball I included in the requirements. One proposal is slick -- a little shaky in some of the technical areas, but certainly acceptable; while the other lacks gloss but is spot on with the figures. What would we do in a real-world situation like that? We'd invite representatives from both sides for a final review. What I have done in the past for this course is to have the team leads make a final pitch...

She paused.

I see we have the leader for Team Gamma here, but the leader for Team Alpha is absent. I have no choice but to award Gamma the contract, the decision by default. Congratulations, Team Gamma...

Rich sat through the class. When it was over he logged off Second Life and started another email to Gretchen.

Gretchen:

I have no one to blame but myself for what happened. I let my hormones overrule my better judgment. I hope you can forgive me. I admire you and I want to keep you in my life

He shook his head. "Too much about me and not enough about her," he muttered and shook his head again. "I can't do this in email. I just can't do it." Rich deleted the message, powered off his laptop and went for a walk around the block.

On Friday, Rich awakened with fresh resolve. He showered and shaved, and then set about stripping the sheets and blankets from the sofa bed. He folded it back into a couch and dumped the sheets into a laundry duffel. He disconnected the spare network cable, rolled it up and stored it in a drawer.

Then, he toasted an English muffin and smeared it with peanut butter for breakfast and sat at his desk with a textbook, preparing for a quiz later in the day. He drove to campus, participated in class and aced his quiz. On his way home he stopped at the neighborhood Blockbuster and rented a couple of DVDs.

He made himself dinner and then sat at his laptop to try composing another email to Gretchen.

He sat back, reviewed the message, pointed his mouse over the Send button and hesitated. He deleted it instead, powered down his laptop and carried the DVDs into his bedroom.

Saturday morning, Rich lugged his dirty-clothes duffels to the laundry room and loaded their contents into a washing machine. He sat in shorts and a tee shirt while waiting for the cycle to complete. Then, into the dryer went the load and he sat for another wait. The machine finished, he sorted and folded his clothes and the sheets.

He returned to his apartment and stuffed the clean duds into drawers. His eye fell on his laptop. He checked his email -- nothing.

Rich composed an email to Gretchen -- the only one he found himself capable of sending.

Gretchen: I want to see you. -- Rich

He pressed the Send key and spent the next fifteen minutes pressing the Check Mail key. Nothing showed up.

He shut down his laptop, retrieved his vacuum cleaner from the closet and began running it over the carpeting. Over the noise of its motor he thought he heard his doorbell.

Rich shut off the machine and listened. The doorbell rang again. He looked out of his window and saw a female figure standing with her back to the building. Her long, jet-black hair extended to her shoulder blades.