Aquinas' Story - 1. Aquinas Leaps

What did he just say? I wanted to check my ears. I wasn't sure that I'd heard my colleague across the table from me correctly. Did he really just come out to me like that?

But he was still talking. "I just thought you needed to know that about me right now, so you can decide."

I examined my friend seated on the other side of the small square restaurant table. Eyes a little too bright, hands folded in front of him with the appearance of calm, but full of tension. The taut tendons above the knuckles gave it away.

"Decide what?" I parried.

"If you still want to go through with this. You know, be, er…friends, I guess." He looked embarrassed and anxious and ready to dart away.

"Of course I want to do this. Doesn't matter at all to me. I owe you dinner for all the work you did with my research, at least. And besides," I added, reaching across and giving his hands a brief, friendly squeeze, "I really do want to be friends."

And believe me, I did. My brain and heart were all an uproar, but I tried to remain outwardly calm.

He visibly relaxed at my words, even though his hands had momentarily started under my touch.

We'd met because my quantitative research on religious attitudes and understanding in North America was going nowhere. Yes, I had plenty of data collected. But I had very little idea of how to make it tell me anything useful. New Testament scholars like me tend to neglect statistical methods on their way to their D.D. Instead, we immerse ourselves in theology and archaeology and literature.

Compounding the problem, I was new this fall. Finally, my department chair took pity on me and suggested I seek the help of one of the College's kindest statistical souls, Professor Fletcher Jones. Ironically, he's not in Mathematics, he's in Biology; he specializes in birds. Ornithology.

Two weeks ago, I rather apprehensively tapped on his office door after making an appointment like any undergraduate. Expecting a severe, curt, scientifically abrupt reception, I got a warm, friendly greeting from the shortish, bearded individual behind the desk instead. Lively dark blue eyes peered out from under a full head of unkempt brown hair. He seemed full of energy and interest in my project.

While the priestly mysteries of statistics are beyond my ken, Professor Jones – "please call me Fletcher," he insisted within moments of our meeting – made it all seem so simple. Moreover, he volunteered to help walk me through the data crunching program on the College system, and within a few days I had useful and informative statistics to reinforce my otherwise brilliantly written paper.

Well, I'm sure the math was good, anyway. Maybe it would see the light of publication.

At the end of it, I'd asked Fletcher out to dinner.

And I'd wanted to do it. Over the course of ten days, I'd gotten to know Fletcher better than many of my colleagues in my own department. Of course, maybe it was easier between us, as there were no incipient professional rivalries to worry about. I'd already inadvertently stepped on the toes of Cameron Carson Ph.D., Distinguished Professor of Comparative Religion.

Fletcher was a breath of fresh air compared to some of my stuffier colleagues. And he was unselfconsciously beautiful. I could admit that.

Once we began working together in earnest, Fletcher was funny, kind and eager to help. He read my paper, made some interesting suggestions from a layperson's perspective, and made my final edit much easier to write. He even laughed at some of my jokes.

After messing around with my numbers for a couple of hours one afternoon, Fletcher and I got into one of those ghastly theological discussions that people always assume religion professors want to have. Except that it wasn't like that.

Fletcher listened, nodded thoughtfully, and took his time digesting what I had to say. And he wasn't afraid to gently, tactfully, poke holes in my sometimes long winded exegeses, either. I felt we really enjoyed each other's company.

He surprised me by his diffidence – to the point of being shy, really – when I asked him out to dinner to celebrate my paper being sent out for review.

But I'd pressed him on it. "Come on, Fletcher, please. This couldn't have happened without you. I'm begging you. I'll even order a limo," I added grandly.

Fletcher looked shocked. "No need for all that." Then he smiled briefly, and I couldn't stop feeling insanely delighted. "I'll come."

We set the time and place.

So here we were, nice place – not a fancy restaurant, but great food and good service – and Fletcher finally relaxed. He'd been keyed up and anxious since I'd picked him up at his office.

And now I knew why.

I wanted to tell him how nervous I had been, how many times I'd changed my tie and shirt, how many scenarios of my screwing up a perfectly wonderful budding friendship had played through my mind. Because what he had to tell me was the same thing I had to tell him.

Only, I couldn't do it.

I was enjoying him too much. Not only is Fletcher an incredibly intelligent, funny, observant man; he's incredibly attractive, too. And, adorably, it doesn't even register with him. Besides, I told myself about a dozen times, just because we appear to share something terribly important doesn't mean he'd think about me the same way I think about him.

I hadn't been able to get the wiry, cheerful ornithologist out of my mind at all for days on end. I sincerely doubted he'd had the same problem with me.

"Can I get you something to drink to start?" Our server had arrived.

I ordered a merlot, and Fletcher took a single malt. "Didn't know you bird guys hit the hard stuff," I tried to joke.

"Well, I don't really understand how you religion people change all that water into wine," he returned, smiling his marvelous smile. "I'll stick to something I understand."

Dinner went like that – happy, friendly, conversation. Jokes and playful barbs flew across the table as if we'd been friends for years. Where had Fletcher been for so long? Why had I not landed here sooner, before my less-than-graceful middle age?

Because, let's face it, while my height helps disguise it, I still inhabit the frame of a middle aged college professor. I harbored no illusions that Fletcher might find me attractive. Fantasies, yes, illusions, no.

The end of our evening came far too soon, despite anything my watch told me. I followed the directions Fletcher gave me as we drove in contented silence to his home. Unsurprisingly, he had a home very much like himself: small, modest, very comfortable-looking. Trees and shrubs surrounded the craftsman-style bungalow where I drew up and parked.

Fletcher hesitated a moment. "Thanks for dinner," he said almost shyly, "I really enjoyed myself."

"It was the least I could do," I said lamely.

Why couldn't I tell him? Why couldn't I do just that much? Would I scare him off if I did? Ruin the evening? Explode our rapport? But I didn't want the evening to end, either.

Fletcher lingered in the car a second longer. I did nothing as I watched him open the door, knowing I'd regret it. I'd serve a life sentence for cowardice in the first degree.

I waited for the door to slam shut on our newfound connection, our easy friendship. Already my academic brain was churning out useless vocabulary - phileo, infatuation, agape, fixation, lovestruck - trying to drown out the desperate yearning I felt to prolong our evening, to deepen our bond.

But the car door stayed open.

Fletcher tripped – on what, I didn’t see, but in one second, he lay sprawled out on the grass by the curb; in three I was out of the car, and helping him up, dusting him off.

"I'm sorry, didn't mean for you to have to do that," he said, embarrassed.

I resisted a glib response. I turned my head. "Your house is beautiful," I commented sincerely, instead.

He swiveled and looked up at it. He smiled again. "Yeah, it is. It’s small, but it’s home."

"Nicer than my apartment," I commented without thinking.

We stood awkwardly again.

"Well, thanks again," he said. We shook hands. Ugh.

Fletcher started walking up the driveway beside the porch. He entered the deep shadow between his house and his neighbor's.

"Wait," I called out.

Fletcher turned and I swiftly closed the ground between us. I stood close to him, his surprised eyes staring up at mine. Before I could lose my nerve, before I could argue with myself any further, I bent down and kissed him.

My hands naturally found their way to his face, and I held him fast while our lips touched, brushed gently together and then pressed together. He opened to my tongue, and his hands snaked around my waist. Electricity danced between us; I could feel Fletcher shiver. Did he hear my heart clanging away beneath my ribs?

We came up for air, breathless as a pair of high schoolers. "I've wanted to do that since the first day we met," I whispered, holding Fletcher close.

He stirred, looking up at me with a happy, glazed expression on his face. "What did you just say?"