Boys don’t cry…Sheesh.
After Pete & I had our great (& surprising) time at Great America, it was back to business. I had very important tasks to complete at work. Like washing all the coffee mugs, answering the weird looking phone with way too many buttons, and avoiding Pete at all costs.
Not an easy fete when you’re the receptionist. Word.
Why would I avoid poor, old Pete? Poor old, toothpick coaster kissing Pete??
Well, because I was freaking EIGHTEEN years old. I wanted to have fun. Drink beer at the frat house. Smoke pot. (Yup…I went there, many times….mmmmmm!) I wanted to be a kid. And let’s be honest here. I was soooo a kid. So I got back together with my high school boyfriend after breaking up with him the Great America weekend (what a schmooze….he didn’t even notice!!) and pretty much decided Pete was just some nice cupcake making grandpa who dated all the girls who sat at my desk. Done deal.
When Pete couldn’t accept my diagnosis, I decided it was time to get serious up in here.
So I wrote him a note. What? Don’t forget. I was EIGHTEEN.
I thought my note would finalize this crazypants fascination Pete had. Also, I was pretty damn good at notes. I mean, I was right out of high school…where the one thing you learn is how to write (& fold) a note.
Yeah…apparently not so much. That flew back & smacked me in the face when Pete showed up at the office after reading my note….his eyes were red & his response was loooong. Oh. So. Effing. LONG.
Shit.
I read his reply. Ohhhh boy. Did I feel like a bitch. You could’ve crowned me Ruler of Bitchland right then & there. The crowd would’ve gone wild. So I did what any embarrassed teenager would’ve done.
I dumped my high school boyfriend & started dating Pete.
And so it began. The epic story that is Sara plus Pete. Pete plus Sara. Pera. Sate. :)
