Meet Cute(2)

His blue-green eyes, the color of a tropical ocean, are wide, and that momentary gorgeous smile falters. Which I understand, because I’m being that girl. I am never that girl. Except in this moment.

I gain semicontrol of my hands, toning down the flap to an uncoordinated wave of dismissal, in an attempt to erase those last words. But it’s too late to take them back. I also seem unable to do anything apart from spew embarrassing, nonsensical word vomit all over him. “I mean, I loved your show. Like, so much. It was my favorite, like, ever. I watched it every Tuesday night for years. All through junior high and then by high school they had these It’s My Life weekend marathons and me and my girlfriends would have sleepovers and stay up all night. You were amazing as Dustin. I think season three was my favorite, or maybe season four. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re standing here. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.” I can’t believe my mouth keeps running.

With every overly loud admission, his jaw tics. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or irritated. Probably both. I wish someone would club me over the head and knock me out so I could stop this train wreck. I’m 100 percent starstruck, and even though I know I’m making an absolute fool out of myself, I’m unable to stop.

“Can I get your autograph? Maybe you can sign my schedule. Or my map. Oh! You can sign me!” I pick my knapsack up, along with my phone and earbuds, shoving those into my jeans pocket. I jam my hand in the front pocket of my knapsack, grasping for any kind of writing implement. I come up with a fistful of options, including a hot-pink highlighter. “Do you think this color will show up on my arm? Oh! How about my shirt? I mean, the pink doesn’t really match but whatevs, right?”

He covers my hand with his. He’s touching me again. On purpose! His eyes dart around, and he leans in close. “I’ll sign anything you want, but as much as I love your enthusiasm, and I really do, I’m trying to go under the radar, and you’ve got some cheerleader lungs on you.” His voice is much lower than mine, and I realize it’s an attempt to get me to quiet down.

I cover my mouth with my palm. “Right. Sorry. Oh my God. I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just…you have no idea. Or you probably do. I didn’t think you’d be so tall. And you’re even better looking up close. I always thought you must wear contacts. Your eyes are so pretty.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I really need to shut up.”

He chuckles. “Your eyes are pretty, too.”

I crack a lid, and he gives me a lopsided smile as he plucks a Sharpie from my hand and scribbles on my knapsack. I’m never throwing it out, ever.

“Hughes, we gotta roll out,” someone calls.

He holds up a finger, then caps the Sharpie and passes it back. “I gotta get to class, but maybe I’ll see you around.” He winks and turns away, breaking into a jog as he catches a bag from one of his friends.

“I just met Daxton Hughes and he told me I have pretty eyes,” I say as I continue across the quad. A couple of girls sitting under a tree give me a weird look, but I don’t care. This is the best first day of law school ever. Embarrassment hits as I make a quick stop in the bathroom to prevent hyperventilating due to excessive excitement. I fangirled so hard, and he was so nice. And he touched me.

I always imagined that if I met one of my favorite celebrities, I’d act cool, be all casual about it, treat them like a regular person. Obviously I was very wrong about that.

I spend too much time in the bathroom making sure I look half-decent, and I’m forced to speed walk all the way to my building. By the time I arrive I have only two minutes to spare. So much for getting a good seat. It’s fine. Visualize success.

I enter the lecture hall through the back door, so I don’t have to pass the professor on my way in. I’m sweaty and disheveled as I scan the room. Only a few empty seats remain. I murmur excuse me as I shimmy down the aisle, forcing people to move their feet and bags. As I close in on the open seat, I approach a set of outstretched legs and mutter another excuse me. I’m so high on the awesomeness of my morning that I don’t see the messenger bag strap. I trip again, and end up sprawled over the set of legs.

“What the fu—” A takeout cup lands on the floor, and coffee splatters my face and shirt, a puddle forming under the seat I planned to take.

I struggle to right myself without putting my hand in the puddle of coffee. “Oh my God, I’m so sor—” For the second time in the past twenty minutes, I look up into familiar eyes. “This is like that episode from season two!” I’m careful to keep my voice down this time.

Daxton smirks, maybe remembering the episode I’m referring to. The one where the girl trips and falls into his lap and then they end up dating for the next three seasons.

Before he can say anything, the guy beside him pipes up. “Jesus, Hughes, can’t take you anywhere without some fangirl throwing herself at you, can we?”

They all burst into laughter, but Daxton rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick, McQueen, and move your damn bag. It’s your fault she tripped.”

He rearranges his legs and helps me right myself. I drop into the empty one beside him, throat tight and cheeks heating with embarrassment thanks to his friend’s comments. It’s too late to find another seat, and I’ve already drawn enough attention. People are staring and snickering. I have to adjust my feet and keep my knapsack in my lap so I don’t step in the spilled coffee. I’m so glad my hair is down today, because my face is on fire.