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I nodded, glancing down one of the short hallways then the other. I noted that I only heard music coming from one room, but there was a mass of kids going in and out of the five classrooms, each with either a decorated pillow case or an orange plastic Jack O'Lantern bucket to hold their treats.
I leaned close to Claire to suggest we skip the line and make our donations later when my eyes snagged on a red-haired and bearded man coming out of one of the classrooms, holding the hand of a blonde little girl — not more than seven — dressed like Tinker Bell.
I felt a shock, a jolt from my throat, travel down my collarbone to my fingertips, weave through my chest and belly and hips and thighs. I lost my breath on a startled gasp. The shock was followed by a suffusion of spreading warmth and levels of intense self-consciousness — the magnitude of which I hadn’t experienced in years.
My eyes greedily traveled over every inch of him, dressed in blue Dickies coveralls that had been pulled off his sculpted torso, the long sleeves now tied around his waist to keep the pants portion from falling down; they were dotted with grease stains and dirt at the knee and cuff. He wore a bright white T-shirt and black work boots. His thick red hair was longish and askew, like he’d just run his fingers through it…or someone else had just run their fingers through it.
Beau Winston.
I knew it was Beau and not his twin Duane for three reasons. He was smiling at the little girl. Beau always smiled. Duane never smiled. Also, he appeared to be helping the little girl in some way. Beau was friendly and outgoing. Duane was moody, quiet, and sullen. And lastly, my body knew the difference. I’d always been reduced to a blubbering mess of teenage hormones at the sight of Beau. Duane, though identical in looks, did absolutely nothing for me.
My adolescent crush — nay, my adolescent obsession—was walking toward us, his attention focused solely on the child next to him. He looked like a ginger-bearded James Dean, only taller, broader, and a hell of a lot sexier. I think I forgot how to breathe.
“Jess,” I felt Claire nudge me with a sharp elbow, “Jessica, what’s wrong?”
I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Beau, from watching how he walked, how his hips moved, the way his T-shirt pulled over his pectoral muscles and was tight where the short sleeves ended at his biceps. I was all kinds of abruptly aroused.
Goodness gracious, I thought I might incinerate on the spot.
How some pre-teens lose their minds for Boy Bands, rock stars, and hot celebrities, I lost my marbles for Beau. It all started when he climbed a tree to save my cat. I was seven. He was ten. He kissed me on the cheek. He wiped my tears. He held my hand. He hugged me close.
He was my hero.
My infatuation with him was like a wound that re-opened every time I laid eyes on him. I wondered for a flash whether there was something truly wrong with me, whether there were other twenty-one year old women out there who still experienced a paralyzing avalanche of hot, raging lust at the sight of their first crush. Really, he was my only crush. Shouldn’t I have outgrown this by now?
My voice was a weak whisper, and my mouth was dry when I finally answered, tipping my head just slightly toward the pair. “That’s Beau Winston.”
There was a little pause, and I knew Claire was looking past me to where I’d indicated.
“No.” She squeezed my arm with hers. “No, that’s Duane Winston.”
I shook my head, forcing myself to look away from all his manly deliciousness, even though my heart protested wildly, and met Claire’s eyes. “No, that’s Beau.”
Claire’s mouth hooked to the side as she studied my features; I’m sure my face had gone mostly pink, a byproduct of being blessed with freckles and an insane, persistent crush on the nicest, sexiest, fu
Growing up, every time I saw him I’d spend the next hour or day lost in a teenage love fog; duration depended on the length of time I’d spent in his presence, whether we’d spoken, and if he’d inadvertently touched me. I once went two days without washing my hand because he’d accidentally brushed it as he walked by.
“I’m telling you, that’s Duane. Beau’s hair is shorter.”
“Nope.” I shook my head again, more resolutely this time as I tried to regulate my breathing and body temperature. “I don’t go haywire around Duane. That must be Beau.”
In fact, I didn’t much like Duane. During the same episode that initiated and solidified my life-long adoration of Beau, my aversion for Duane had also been established. While Beau was climbing the tree to save my cat, Duane was throwing rocks at the branch. While Beau had been kissing my cheek, Duane had been mocking his brother.
I could tell Claire was trying not to laugh as she added, “Cripes, you weren’t kidding when you told me you had a crush on that boy. Is this the first time you’ve seen either of them since high school?”
“No. I saw Beau once at the Piggly Wiggly during my sophomore year when I was home for winter break. He was buying bacon and green beans, and I stood behind him in line.”
She stopped trying to hide her smile and gri
I stared at her, wanting to deny it, but also not wanting to lie. She was right. I could recall the conversation word-for-word, action-for-action. He’d turned to me and asked if I’d mind passing him a gum package that was just out of his reach. I tried to shrug, but I’m sure it looked more like a minor seizure. Then I fumbled for the gum, accidentally knocking an array of breath mints to the floor.
He’d knelt and helped me pick up the felled mints, our hands touched, I almost fainted, and I was certainly bright red. Then he smiled at me. I almost fainted again. Then he helped me stand, and I almost had a heart attack.
He asked, “Hey, Jess… are you okay?” dipping his head close to mine, his amazing blue eyes all sparkly and lovely and concerned.
I nodded, not able to speak because his hands were still on my forearms, and gazed up at him. Butterflies and music only I could hear — that time it was Eternal Flame by the Bangles — drowned out the sound of his voice and the next words from his mouth. I did see that his lips curved in a barely-there smile as he studied me.
Then my brother Jackson appeared and ruined everything by telling Beau to mind his own business. Beau shrugged — an actual shrug, not a semi-seizure — and turned back to the cashier. He paid for his bacon and green beans and left.
I was such a doofus. Though I had introverted proclivities, I was not a shy person. I considered myself confident and levelheaded. But Beau Winston had always rendered me beyond completely tongue tied. He rendered me stupid.
Now, nearly three years since the last time I’d seen him, my hands were balled into fists, and I couldn’t quite force my fingers to relax. I could feel and hear the whooshing of blood through my heart and between my ears. I was, in a word, completely ridiculous.
Okay, that was two words. I was so ridiculous, I’d lost the ability to count.
“Jess, seriously…are you all right? Your face is turning bright red.” Claire squeezed my arm, drawing my attention away from the sound of my blood pressure.
“Yeah.” I knew I sounded weak. “Just let me know when he’s gone.”
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
I shook my head quickly.
Her nose wrinkled; her eyes flicking over my shoulder briefly, presumably to his approaching form; she squeezed my arm again. “Honey, most of those Winston boys are nice boys. Why don’t you talk to him?”