I was devastated when I did. It wasn’t her curly hair, a bit frizzy from the game and a long day before that. It wasn’t the freckles on her cheeks, or the soft moonlight reflected in her aqua eyes. It wasn’t even her brick-red-and-gold plaid skirt, the modest black blouse she’d paired with it, or the knee-high black stockings that drove me mad anytime she wore them. It was how she looked at me.
