WARNING: THIS IS FOR ANNA NO ONE ELSE NEED CARE<\/p>\n
You\u2019re digging around on the shelves under the register, really hoping the size medium bag you\u2019re barely peeling off the wood with the tips of your fingers isn\u2019t the last one, when you hear someone\u2019s elbows hit the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, uh, I really <\/em>need to prove my friend wrong\u2014where could I find a Star Wars encyclopedia? The old one?\u201d<\/p>\n You freeze, because that\u2019s a voice you couldn\u2019t mistake. A daydream is one thing. His dreamy brown eyes are entirely another, in the light of Powell\u2019s, in full, real, holy shit<\/em> daylight.<\/p>\n Dylan O\u2019Brien\u2019s cocky grin has scrolled past on your dash a thousand times, probably a lot more than that, but you\u2019re still screaming internally and wishing you could post this, that stupid face with the stupid nose wrinkling underneath a Mets cap. The shock makes you latch onto one phrase, burned into your mind\u2019s eye: #pows. #pows. #pows.<\/em><\/p>\n So instead of your usual happy greeting, you squeak out, \u201cWelcome to Pows!\u201d<\/p>\n He lifts those ridiculous eyebrows and the corners of his mouth in a happy wolf grin. \u201cStar Wars?\u201d<\/p>\n You point, and he slaps the counter gratefully and bounds away. Your whole body rotates to watch him go, even as you pinch the top of your hip, just to make sure.<\/p>\n Ho. Ly. Shit.<\/p>\n You try to busy yourself filling in the gaps in the merch, but your adrenaline\u2019s flowing so freely your hands can\u2019t stop shaking. You keep looking towards the door, hoping he doesn\u2019t slip out before you can spot him. He won\u2019t say goodbye, of course. But if you don\u2019t see him leave, you\u2019ll watch all day, just in case.<\/p>\n And then he\u2019s in line, two people back. He\u2019s got the Star Wars Encyclopedia <\/em>hugged to his chest and he\u2019s tapping his foot to a song no one else is hearing. You go through the motions of ringing up the woman at your register, but really you\u2019re calculating: if the guy on the register next to you finishes his transaction before you finish yours, he\u2019ll get Dylan\u2014because there goes the hipster girl in front of Dylan, oh noooo<\/em>, he\u2019s going to make all of his faces at someone else while I\u2019m busy helping make someone\u2019s day.<\/p>\n Everything is terrible.<\/p>\n And then, everything is wonderful. Because Dylan steps aside with a half-smile to let the middle-aged woman behind him go in front of him to your coworker\u2019s register, and then his eyes drift to you and he grins, just a little bit bigger. Your internal scream could shatter glass.<\/p>\n When he sailor-swaggers up to your register, dropping the slim book on the counter with a satisfying fhwwap<\/em>, you can hardly speak, you\u2019re so overcome.<\/p>\n \u201cYou were so helpful! I found it,\u201d he says, patting the Darth Vader face on the cover. \u201cI wanted you to check me out.\u201d<\/p>\n Oh<\/em>, you think, oh, well, you\u2019re blunter than I thought<\/em>. Your cheeks burn as you ring him up and you nod. \u201cI appreciate it,\u201d you manage. You\u2019re a little bit proud of being clever, but mortified that he\u2019ll take it wrong. Slash exactly how you meant it.<\/p>\n Credit, he answers before you can finish asking him, and, \u201cI don\u2019t need a bag\u2014thanks again!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally good day!\u201d is what comes out of your mouth.<\/p>\n The receipt printer seems to move in slow motion. Wait<\/em>, you realize, I can\u2019t ask him for his autograph\u2014that\u2019s what a <\/em>starstruck fan would do\u2014<\/em> But a signature on a credit receipt is kind of necessary. Shit.<\/p>\n You\u2019re realizing this as he\u2019s already scooping up the book, touching the brim of his cap with an apologetic look, as if to say, Sorry we couldn\u2019t hang out, friend<\/em>, and trots towards the door.<\/p>\n Everything slows down. Somehow you remember to grab a coupon\u2014maybe he\u2019ll come back for discounted Star Wars books, someday<\/em>, you think as you dodge coworkers in various stages of bagging or ringing. You swivel around the end of the counter and your hair flutters around your ears as your shoes squeak on the floor.<\/p>\n \u201cDylan!\u201d you call. He turns, eyes brightening.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry,\u201d you manage, \u201cI need your autograph.\u201d And you wave the receipt, hoping he doesn\u2019t think you\u2019re just some silly girl who watches Teen Wolf.<\/p>\n He totally gets it, setting the receipts up against the doorjamb so he can scrawl his loopy signature. He writes something else too before he hands it back to you, pen squeezed on top. Your hands brush in the exchange and your neck warms.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks again, Anna,\u201d he says. And, miracle of miracle, he winks<\/em>.<\/p>\n As you stand there clutching the receipt, pinching it against the pen so hard it crinkles, you revel in the fact that he looked for your name on the receipt. To read it on purpose.<\/p>\n Of course he meets a puppy on the sidewalk outside, and even in his rush to leave he squats to wrestle with it. You look down at the receipt to see what else he wrote. It\u2019s a phone number.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" WARNING: THIS IS FOR ANNA NO ONE ELSE NEED CARE You\u2019re digging around on the shelves under the register, really hoping the size medium bag you\u2019re barely peeling off the wood with the tips of your fingers isn\u2019t the last one, when you hear someone\u2019s elbows hit the counter. \u201cHey, uh, I really need to … <\/p>\n