I have a stupid-as-shit crush on my best friend’s sister.
I know the exact moment it happened too.
It wasn’t when I first met her, no, that was when I first found out she liked to wear tube socks with shorts. Nor was it the second time I ran into her, because she was a sour, bitter woman with an attitude that struck me dead in the nut sac. But even in her scary rampage, I thought she was pretty and interesting, but a crush? Not so much.
No, it happened many times after the first. I was a senior, and she was a sophomore in college. A nervous sophomore, who forcibly ventured out to yet another frat party, captured by her friends and held hostage to have a good time.
She was a fish out of water, and I couldn’t help but keep my eyes fixed on her as she awkwardly bumped into drunk assholes and tripped over empty beer cans, fixing her glasses that kept being displaced from the perfect perch on her nose.
She was unlike any girl I had ever met. Strong-willed, obnoxious at times with her intelligence, cunning, and never too scared to back down. She intrigued me, held my attention, made me want to know what was spinning around in that beautiful head of hers.
I had to find out.
That night changed everything. Maybe it was the beer coursing through me, or the sheer curiosity in the girl who looked completely and utterly out of place, but I was drawn toward her. I knew, in that moment, that I had a choice to make: either continue to sit with Lauren Connor and listen to the boring-as-shit stories, or remove my ass from the leather couch and say hi to Julia Westin.
Can you guess what I did?