I never looked forward to see my high school teacher years later in the middle of a crowded farmers’ market. But there he was, calling my name like no time had passed. This led something I never could’ve imagined.

When I was in high school, Mr. Harper was the teacher everyone admired. He was out-going, funny, and a handsome teacher.

“Claire, great analysis on the Declaration of Independence essay,” he told me once after class. “You’ve got a sharp mind. Ever thought about law school?”

I remember shrugging awkwardly, tucking my notebook against my chest. “I don’t know… Maybe? History’s just… easier than math.”

Life happened fastly. I graduated, moved to the city, and left those high school memories behind. Or so I thought.

I was 24 and back in my sleepy hometown, wandering through the farmers’ market when a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Claire? Is that you?”

Except now, he wasn’t “Mr. Harper.” He was just Leo.

“Mr. Har—I mean, Leo?” I stumbled over the words, feeling my cheeks heat.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Mr.’ anymore.”