I wasn't dumbfounded because I'd just come face-to-forehead with a bona fide A-list celebrity. I was shooketh because I'd just come face-to-forehead with my elementary, middle, and high school crush. And it had been a brutal crush in the same way the cocktail of teenage hormones, being the tallest girl—by far—since preschool, shyness, and inexperience are brutal.
Rex was the only boy’s name I’d ever doodled next to mine in notebooks, the only guy I’d ever had sex dreams about—sorry if that’s TMI, but it is what it is—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 aunt 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 those actions did not fill me with nostalgia.
I hadn’t been boy crazy. I’d been Rex crazy. And now here he was.
Presently, long dormant embarrassment tinted by an unflattering shade of shame spurred my movements. I stepped to the register and tapped the screen, waking up the payment system. Unable to help myself, I hazarded a hurried glance over my shoulder, gobbling up the sight of Rex in the flesh even as I did my best to redirect my thoughts.
I was the bartender, he was the customer, he wanted to start a tab, and so that’s what I would do.
But first, one more look at those forearms.
No. No! If you look at his forearms, you will drool all over your buttoned up shirt!
Wresting my attention away, I slammed my eyes shut and willed the fogginess in my head to clear. I watched Rex’s televised pro football games whenever I could, but I hadn't seen him in person since graduation. He’d been slated to sit right next to me, since our last names were so close, but I'd done Rachel McQuaid a solid and let her take my spot.
First, she'd also liked him since forever. Second, she was kind and funny. And third—truthfully—she’d had a better chance of snagging his attention than I did. They’d had classes together because they were both smart, so he already knew her. Also, she wasn't freakishly tall like moi.
Currently, I stared at my cash register like it was the control panel of an alien spaceship while giving most of my attention to Rex’s license photo which, apparently, I’d been absentmindedly caressing with my thumb.
Yeah. Gonna stop doing that right now.
Gathering a deep breath, mostly to breathe in some sanity and breathe out a whole tornado of tangled creeper instincts and emotions, I ceased my weirdo thumb caress and ran his credit card.
No wonder he hadn't looked up from his phone. The guy probably couldn't go anywhere without being recognized and ogled. What I remembered of Rex was that first and foremost the dude didn't enjoy attention. I suspected this was still true now. You could just tell when he gave interviews after a game, he only wanted to discuss the game. If a sports broadcaster asked him about his personal life, he'd give them a bored stare, and then change the subject back to the game. Sometimes, if they persisted, he’d add a muttered, Fuck off, and then walk away.
But when or if he did deign to speak, he was so nice. So, so, so nice. Like, the anti-bully. He'd been a hefty kid in elementary school, big for his age. “Solid” as my Uncle Mac would’ve said. Most folks thought he was taciturn and aloof, but when it mattered, and if you were paying close attention, he could be such a gentle giant. A wistful sigh escaped me at a memory of kid Rex picking class rejects for his kickball team during PE, me included.
Ugh, I needed to step back from the ledge of my obsessive admiration and just give the poor man his cards back. Then I needed to leave him alone, let him finish his drink, get him another if he so chose, and leave him alone some more.
Pivoting on my heel, I faced him and stretched the rest of the distance to deposit his license and credit card on the bar. “Here you go. Signal if you need a refill,” I said on a rush, hoping my voice had emerged just as monotone as his had moments earlier.
I grabbed a bar towel to needlessly wipe my jittery hands and strolled down the length of the galley . . . to Kaylee . . . who I definitely hadn’t forgotten was still there.
Damn.
Kaylee watched my approach. When I drew even with her, she pounced forward, whispering, “What did he say? Did you—”
“Nothing!” I squeaked. Closing my eyes, I took another brain-cleansing breath and leaned my hands on the bar. “Nothing,” I said much slower, calmer, quieter, and opened my eyes, arranging my face to feign nonchalance. “He, uh, just asked for a beer. I gave him one. And there you go.”
Her suspicion was as plain as the lack of bangs on her forehead. “Um, nope. Tell me what really happened.”
“Nothing happened with him.” Y’all, the story of my life in four words.
Her gaze narrowed, flicked over me. “Then why do you look so skittish?”
“Do I?” I shrugged, frowning like I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Yes.” Her gaze continued its pensive assessment, and I understood why.
I’d always been exceptionally gifted at concealing my feelings, even more so now. When I’m distressed or faced with a jarring situation, I wasn’t usually one of those people who got clumsy or jittery. Clumsy bartenders do not exist because they don’t stay bartenders for very long. I’d learned how to redirect chaos and unpleasant emotions inward, burying everything until I could unpack it all later, while my exterior radiated coolness, calm, indifference.
As a bartender, this skill came in quite handy. But as a person who can’t stand upheaval in any form—as in my whole being rejects it on a cellular level—this was a coping strategy, one that had served me well during my twenty-eight years. Which was likely why my looking skittish at present concerned my friend.
Doing my best to keep my attention on Kaylee and not on the star of all—literally ALL—my fantasies, I forced an unconcerned smile. “So, anyway, are you—”
“Do you know him?” she guessed, watching me carefully. Before I could think of a way to deflect, she sucked in a breath. “You know him.”
Aaaaaahhhh!
“How do you know him?”
“Kaylee—”
“How?”
“I went to high school with him,” I said, deciding this truth was best. Better she didn’t realize him was Rex McMurtry. Even though Kaylee was a good friend and we often watched his games together, I’d never told her about my past—or lack of a past—with him. If she realized the big guy was Rex “TW” McMurtry, she’d go over and ask for an autograph.
“Ohhh.” She leaned back, her chin lifting as her gaze grew sympathetic. “Well then, you’re off the hook.”
“Off the hook?”
“Yeah. I'm not going to force you to flirt with some a-hole from high school.”
I angled my head to the side. “But you'd force me to flirt with a stranger?”
“Absolutely. A-holes from high school are the worst. Ask me how I know.”
“Uh, okay. How do you know?”
“I don't want to discuss it. See? That's how bad high school a-holes are. Even I don't wish to talk about it, and I want to talk about everything. Blah. How disappointing.” She craned her neck, glancing at Rex again and giving him a look of judgy disappointment. “Did he recognize you?”