AN: A million thanks to TheWeasleyBoys, TheLovelyJudy, and MaskedOperaGhost for your kind reviews! WeasleyBoys-yes, I just couldn't imagine their first date taking place anywhere but a coffee shop. LovelyJudy-Well, Alex will show up eventually…no points for guessing what his role in the story is, though. OperaGhost-I agree, he is rather underrepresented.
Charlotte walked back to her dorm, attempting to sort out all that had happened to her in the last few hours. She finished her homework in a trance and when she lay in bed, Frank dominated her every thought. His ill-fitting clothes, unkempt hair, and awkward demeanor made the intense worship she had for him dissipate slightly and turn into a softer feeling, one that she pretended not to be able to identify at first. I just met the man I'm going to marry. She smiled at the thought, unwilling and unable to deny how much she wanted it to be true. She forced herself to stop thinking about him, but a gentle glow remained in the back of her mind throughout the night.
In his home, Frank had a similar dilemma. The book he'd brought on the train was engrossing enough to let him push Charlotte from his mind, but when he was alone in the bath, she made her way to the forefront of his mind. Lovely. That's what she was, very lovely. Her conversation had been engrossing, her demeanor impeccable, and her knowledge extensive. He got undressed and climbed into bed, wondering if she would write to him.
Charlotte sent him her term paper the next day, proofreading it one final time, in spite of having gotten an A from Professor Evans. She included the proper instructions for addressing a return letter and pressed the envelope to her lips for a second before dropping it into the post box. After two breathless days, she got the reply. Her heart plummeted when she saw her paper had been sent back, covered in comments in red ink, but her attitude quickly changed when she read what he had written. His comments ranged from "Clever girl" to "Very well said and yes, that is what I was getting at" to "Dear Lord, did I really write that? I am a pretentious twonk, aren't I?"
Charlotte read through the document a little bit at a time, savoring every word of his. There was a short letter from him at the end, written in the small, precise handwriting she would have expected. She read it through and felt herself beaming uncontrollably. He had asked if she wanted to read through the latest draft of his new book before he sent it to his publisher. There were the obligatory remarks that she didn't have to if she was busy, or that she didn't have to make any edits if she didn't want to, but Charlotte paid them no heed, of course. She dashed up to her room and wrote back to him, incredibly proud of the fact that it only took four drafts to compose a response worthy enough to be read by Frank Alexander.
The book was mailed to her with many reassurances that it was just a draft and by no means a polished product and that did she not have to get to it right away. She dove hungrily into the piece of writing, reveling in its insight and form, and feeling triumphant when she spotted a small flaw and could consider herself a help.
She was finished in record time, and the edited book was sent back to a highly appreciative Frank. He found her notes to be exceedingly helpful to him, and after much deliberation, sent her flowers and a box of chocolates for her trouble.
Charlotte stared at his gift in wonder. No one had ever bought her flowers before, let alone someone of the opposite sex. Her roommate, Danielle, teased her mercilessly, especially since Charlotte kept claiming that the present meant absolutely nothing. She told herself time and again that Frank was just being friendly; the thought that he might have other interests was pleasing, to say the least, but foreign. She didn't want to get her hopes up, so she constantly attempted to silence the nagging voice in her head that had been insisting—
I've got to get used to the idea that nothing's going to happen.
They wrote to each other nearly every day for the next three months. Their discussions were entirely cerebral, a realm they were both familiar with, and after a while, Frank stopped proofreading his letters obsessively, and Charlotte stopped feeling as though she was going to vomit from excitement whenever she received one. Then, at the end of the school quarter, they met up again. Charlotte was spending her long weekend in town with her parents, as always, and spent all of Monday with Frank while they were at work. Frank and Charlotte spent the day together at an art museum, and after arguing over the Cubists, Der Blaue Reiter, and De Stijl, they ate at the cafeteria where they agreed that although some of the Pre-Raphaelites had their place, most everyone associated with the Art Nouveau movement should have been shot. He put a casual arm around her shoulder as they walked to the station and before she boarded the train, he gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. She turned and gave him a short, light kiss on the lips.
"Write me tomorrow, okay?" she asked, unsure of what else to say. "I want to know how your meeting goes."
"Wha-yes, right, of course. I-I shall." She boarded and he gave her a small wave before she rode the train back to school.
God, what have I done? As the train made its way across the countryside, she reflected that being with Frank had seemed so much more natural than she would have thought possible. She hadn't planned on kissing him, but it had seemed organic, to her at least. She knew that she wanted nothing more than to be closer to Frank, whatever that may mean. She was willing to make extra trips to see him if he wanted, and she would be amenable to going to bed with him if it led to that. She didn't want her kissing him to change anything. She didn't want it to go unnoticed either. What if he misunderstood and thought I was just being friendly? What if he understood and never wants to see me again?
I love him. It wasn't confusing and it wasn't painful, it was just a fact. One she couldn't get rid of or ignore. She sighed and pressed her forehead against the glass window, silently praying for him to love her back.
Frank trudged home in the dying light, trying to keep the sensation of Charlotte's lips against his in his mind for as long as possible. He knew all the reasons why he shouldn't be with her, why he shouldn't be interested. A brief glance at her Student ID had told him that she was twenty-two. Twenty-two, for god's sake. He'd had three books published before she was born. He couldn't even remember being twenty-two. Much as he tried to talk himself out of wanting her, Frank couldn't help it. He reasoned that Charlotte would grow impatient with some idiotic boy her own age. After all, Frank had spent much of his twenties and thirties in relationships with forty to sixty year old women. He knew he hadn't led her on in any way, not intentionally, at least. Did she mean it, though? Is she just uninhibited with other people? Either way, he knew he didn't want to lose her. As he reached his small home, he concluded that, hypothetically, if she did indeed feel about him the way he felt about her, they could, hypothetically, make a reasonably respectable match.