Beau Fortier starred generally in most of my cringe-worthy teenage fantasies.

We met him once i was a junior in senior high school, a time that revolved exclusively about bad hair, failed forays into flirting, and scientific questions into which make of wc paper worked very best for stuffing bras.

That is, until Beau moved in to the small guest house just beyond my bedroom home window.

A 24-year-old law pupil at Tulane, Beau was as mysterious if you ask me as second bottom (both in baseball and in the bed room). He about The Beau & the Belle was old. Intimidating. Hot. Children my age experienced chicken hip and legs and chubby cheeks. Beau acquired calloused hands and a jaw lower from steel. Our interactions were scarce-mostly involving small stalking on my end-and yet deep down, I desperately hoped he noticed me as more of a potential fan when compared to a lovesick loser.

Turns out, I used to be fooling myself. My fragile ego learned that lesson the hard method.

Now, ten years afterwards, we’re both back Fresh Orleans, and guess who all of a sudden can’t take his eyes off little ol’ me.

My old friend, Mr. Fortier.

But things have changed. I’m old now-poised and confident. My ego wears a bulletproof vest. The butterflies that once loaded my stomach have got all perished.

ONCE I was a teenager, Beau warned me to protect my heart.

Let’s hope he knows how exactly to guard his.