Page 5 of The Upstairs Crush

My knees are jelly. My brain? Gone. I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself even more. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I tell Jay as he hands me my tote bag. I manage to fumble my keycard, get inside, and shut the door, but I don’t even make it two steps before I’m sagging against the wood, hands pressed over my heart as a huge smile breaks out on my face.

I can’t stop grinning. Not even for a second. My cheeks ache. I probably look deranged as I strip off my jeans and collapse on my bed, clutching a pillow to my chest like a twelve-year-old with a crush. Jay’s smile is burned onto my retinas. That kiss. The way his hand spread across my back like he owned me already. The way he looked at me like I was a thousand-dollar dessert and he’d skipped lunch and dinner.

I barely sleep. I toss, I turn, I replay every second of him, that velvet-rough voice in my ear, the way he watched my mouth when I talked. It’s a miracle I’m not late to school.

My third graders smell freedom in the air and immediately transform into sugar-fueled goblins. I spend all morning dragging people off the floor, confiscating slime, and running emergency damage control on a sparkly explosion that somehow involves two tubes of glitter gel and a glue stick. By noon, I’ve lost the will to live.

I flop into my seat in the teacher’s lounge, rip open my sad sandwich, and check my phone. My hands are shaking. There, glowing on the screen, is a new text.

Jay

I’m counting down the hours until tonight.

Holy. Shit. I’m actually swooning. I type out several replies before I finally settle on one.

I can’t wait either.

Jay

What do you want on your pizza?

Are you guys doing pizza two nights in a row?

Jay

We skipped last night so we could have pizza with you tonight. What do you like on your pizza?

My heart melts. Actually, it liquifies. All that’s left of me is a puddle of goo.

I type back with shaking fingers:

Sausage, mushrooms, extra cheese, and a little jalapeño if you’re feeling dangerous.

Jay

Danger is my middle name. We’ll be ready at 6. Come on up.

I’m pretty sure I make an embarrassing sound. Oof. I glance around, but the only witnesses are a pair of traumatized kindergarten teachers, who are already working on a nervous breakdown, so they won’t remember my tiny display. Everything is fine. I’m totally fine.