Anyway. I wasn't dumbfounded because I'd just come face to forehead with a bonafide A-list celebrity. I was shooketh because I'd just come face to face with my elementary, and middle, high school crush. And it had been a brutal crush in the same way the cocktail of teenage hormones and inexperience are brutal.
Rex was the only boy’s name I’d ever doodle next to mine in notebooks, the only guy I’d ever had sex dreams about—sorry if that’s TMI, but here we are—and the sole reason I’d gone to football games or any other optional school related event.
I’d joined Girl Scouts in sixth grade because his mom was the troop leader. I’d started drinking coffee my freshman year so I could sit in the diner across from where he washed and detailed cars during his spring and summer after-school job. Recalling now about my actions then did not fill me with nostalgia.
I hadn’t been boy-crazy. I’d been Rex-crazy.
And now, there he was.