A text.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was at the undergraduate library, on the Wednesday after Mardi Gras. I received a text from a number I didn't recognize: "Hi pretty girl, want to go on a (insert fraternity name here) barcrawl with me tonight?".

I was confused. Who was this? And then it all clicked. F.

But I found his invitation a bit repulsive (a text four days later to go on a frat barcrawl? really?). I texted him back, declining his invitation. I had a boyfriend.

But he was persistent and a fast flirtation was established. I didn't go on the barcrawl with him that evening, but took him up on his invitation to study together the following week.

I was racked with guilt. I was dating a handsome liberal boy who cared about social justice. Who spoke on panels in front of universities about what it was like to be the boyfriend of someone who had been sexually assaulted. Who had puppy dog eyes. Who did nothing wrong. And I wanted to risk that for a frat boy with devilish blue eyes? Who worked at a bar? I was horrified when I heard the small voice in me saying, "yes".

I convinced myself it was innocent enough. We're just studying together, for chrissakes.

But I knew better. I knew it in the way he would look at me for just a second too long when he laughed. I knew it when he asked me out for ice cream the following week. I knew it when I was excited he asked and I wore a jean skirt because I remembered he once mentioned he loved girls in jean skirts.

And I should have known better when I let him kiss me, and I kissed him, outside of his apartment, a week later on the busiest street on campus.