2. Amaya

I remained silent for several seconds, and he encouraged me.

"Be honest, there's nothing wrong, nothing worse than anything else... We can have varied tastes; just as we can like a classic, we can also enjoy something that critics consider bad, and that's okay."

"I like paranormal romance stories, human-alien romances, and mysterious creatures transforming into humans," I said with fear, as people often tended to mock these preferences. "I mean..."

"You like the dirty aspect of those kinds of relationships, right? Or am I mistaken?"

His direct and honest conclusion left me speechless, so I was truthful.

"I like that those were created by women and tailored to our ideals," I admitted, my face flushed. "Within those ideals, there's pleasure, love, and the needs that most women have when it comes to relationships."

"Don't you find that concept naive?" he asked, his tone almost sounding mocking.

I furrowed my brow at that.

"Not because it helps us escape from reality..."

"But it distorts women's perspective of ideal standards, and that leaves us guys in a bad position because we can't meet those expectations," he said with a touch of mockery.

At that point, I narrowed my eyes, finished putting the books on the shelf, and then crossed my arms.

"You guys don't meet women's expectations because you don't even try to meet the basic requirements for that," I argued with a sharp tone because I found his attitude quite audacious. "You only put in some effort at the beginning when you want to get what you desire from a woman, but then... You don't do anything more, you leave most of the work, most of the burden to them... Women end up not only supporting the foundations of relationships but also doing most of the things to make it work, while men only contribute financially and often hide them like a dirty secret."

Well, I realized I went a bit overboard when I took it too personally and let out what I thought about my analytical comparisons of my parents' relationship.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry about it. I understand your perspective to some extent," he said seriously, but his voice had a warmer tone, making me realize he was being more receptive. "It was nice talking to you. I'll look for some alien books; they should be fun to understand."

After that, I heard him walking toward the other aisle, and curiosity got the better of me. I peeked around the shelf to try to see who he was talking to. I hadn't been able to see him before, but at that moment, I saw a tall, well-built man with a generous backside dressed in a suit walking toward the stairs leading to the upper floor.

I was quite curious, but not curious enough to follow him like a stalker. I had my limits, and despite the little debate we had, I was happy enough to smile.

I had had an honest conversation with a man about books, tastes, guilty pleasures, and I hadn't died of embarrassment in the process. So much so that when I reported my departure half an hour later, Kendra, the librarian, looked at me with amusement.

"What happened? You went from almost crying because the kids asked you something tough to having that satisfied woman's smile like you just had a roll in the hay?"

"Kendra!" I scolded her.

Though yes, it had been something like an intellectual roll in the hay.

"Oh, don't be so prudish. I know what you read—classics and non-classics—so don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I know all about those books with Martians," she teased.

"Of course, I know what you're talking about, but it's a topic I'm not going to discuss with you."

She burst out laughing in a decidedly immodest manner, and I remembered she always did so without malice but with the intention of bringing up entertaining topics. Honestly? The woman was my heroine in more than one sense; she had a confidence that hardly anyone else possessed.

"Alright, you puritan, but before you go, three more books about werewolves in love came in. You can add them to your list of borrowed books," she added with a triumphant smile.

"Oh, my God! You're terrible..."

"And you adore me for it. I already registered them in the system for you and left them under the cabinet where you keep your stuff."

"Thanks, Kendra."

"Not just thanks; give me an extended review with all the details about what happens in them, and we won't have any problems."

I shook my head, said goodbye, grabbed the books, and put them in my bag. Then, I left the library and walked the blocks I usually did to get to the student residence.

I felt amused, but during the journey, I felt like I was being watched, and it wasn't the first time that had happened this month; it had occurred several times in different places. I wondered if my father had something to do with it.

After all, he was a very controlling man.

I stopped at an ice cream parlor nearby and ordered a tub of pistachio ice cream, my favorite above all. I ate it as I got closer to the building and greeted the girl who did the checks. She stopped me after I took three steps toward the elevator.

"I think someone was following you. The man who was doing it left when he saw you come in," she said with a bit of concern, and I nodded.

I was sure it was the work of my father, but I didn't understand why he was doing this now.

"Thanks, I'll be more vigilant, and if anything happens, I'll call security," I told her, and I saw her furrow her brow.

I understood her skepticism, but it was more about downplaying the situation because the first few times I reported an incident, my father did his best to make me look like a complete fool when the campus investigated. So, I learned when to report and when not to.

I went straight up to the suite that had been paid for since I moved in, courtesy of the money my mother earned from event organizing, photography, and owning restaurants. I knew everything she had was the result of her hard work, unlike my father's wealth, which was undoubtedly connected to his position in the Yakuza.

I wasn't going to lie to myself about that.

I shook off the thoughts, opened the door to my suite, and sat down at my desk. I pulled out my journal and recorded my interaction with the mysterious man from the library. It had been so much fun that my smile not only didn't fade but grew even wider, until my phone rang with a call from my mother, which I answered immediately.

"We need to talk, suki."

Those words didn't bode well, especially after she used my affectionate nickname. It meant one thing: whatever she was about to tell me was related to my father.

The problem was that I hadn't spoken to him in five years, and I didn't want to address him. I had forbidden my mother from bringing up the topic, so the fact that she was breaking that promise indicated that whatever she had to say must be quite serious.

"Tell me."