I Made A Move On My Childhood Crush 18 Years Later

It was 11:05 p.m. on Thursday, Jan. 23. Jack Parker and I were squished next to each other on my bed, fully clothed with goofy, nervous grins spread across our faces. We were giggling nonstop, partly because we were both two drinks in, and partly because we couldn’t believe how crazy it was that this was happening. Jack Parker. On my bed. About to kiss me. My toes barely reached the edge of my linen duvet, but his legs dangled off, revealing an ankle tattoo that wasn’t there the last time we hung out. Because the last time, we were 7 years old.

Eighteen years ago, Jack Parker — a pseudonym because, well, I’m trying to make something happen here, so names have been changed — and I were squished next to each other at our desks in Ms. Martin’s second-grade classroom. We were having an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and while I don’t remember what gave us the giggles, I do remember we got in trouble and called out in front of the entire class — aka the hottest thing ever. From that moment on, my fate was sealed: I had the biggest crush on Jack Parker, and I would never feel more passionately about another person.

That is, until third grade, when I met Evan Carter, the class clown and troublemaker. And in fourth grade, when I couldn’t help but fall for Ben Foster over fractions and Fast Facts. And in fifth grade, when I obviously obsessed over Nate Andrews, his premature growth spurt and all. My tendency to develop life-ruining, all-encompassing crushes continued throughout my middle school and high school days. There was no greater aphrodisiac than a seating chart. No stronger weapon than a text asking, “Do you remember what the homework is?” And nothing I found more crush-worthy than a tween boy who wore basketball shorts in the winter.

“I wanted everyone to be jealous of me, the way you fantasize about flexing at your high school reunion, Romy and Michele-style.”

But as I’ve become an adult, something terrifying has happened: I’ve lost the ability to develop a crush. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends and situationships, proving I still have the capacity to get horned up and catch feels. But I truly cannot remember the last time I had a crush — someone you deeply long for, make fake songs about, and obsess over with pure, childlike excitement.

After pondering this thought for a while, I developed a theory: Modern adulthood doesn’t facilitate ideal crush conditions. Dating apps? I can swipe and swipe until I find exactly what I’m looking for. Hot guy at the bar? I can take him home — forget the yearning. My remote-work job in a female-dominated field? No office cuties to flirt with by the copy machine.

This really started to bum me out. I’m twenty-f*cking-four, and I refuse to resign myself to the idea that this thrill is a thing of the past. I may not be an expert in crushes anymore, but I thought if I could just retrace my steps and channel my younger self, maybe I would find my way back. So, I opened up Instagram and started typing.

Nate Andrews. Nathaniel Andrews. Ben Foster. @benfoster36. Evan Carter. Each boy either lived a thousand miles away, had no digital footprint, or appeared to have never grown taller than me (and I’m 5-foot-3 — apologies to my short kings). And then, Jack Parker. We were already following each other, something I didn’t remember given that he hadn’t posted since 2016, and I was shocked to see a single word in his bio: Brooklyn. He was my neighbor. He was right here. Before I could talk myself out of it, I typed out a message and pressed send. (That’s a lie. I created three different drafts in my Notes app first. I’m not a sociopath.)

“Hey!!,” I wrote. “This is extremely random, but I had the biggest crush on you in 2nd grade ms martins class haha, and I saw youre living in nyc so thought I may as well shoot my shot! LMK if you’d ever be down to grab a drink :)”

“There was nothing I found more crush-worthy than a tween boy who wore basketball shorts in the winter.”

I told myself he probably wouldn’t even see it, let alone reply. As I attempted to stalk his extremely minimal profile, I thought back to my own, which screamed my identity as a sex and dating writer with shameless thirst traps from New Year’s Eve, a bio reading “professional oversharer,” and a portfolio of essays about my sex life that leave little to the imagination. If he did see my profile, what would he think? Would he like this version of me, a far cry from the wholesome goody-two-shoes I was in second grade?

As you may have guessed, Jack Parker did reply to my message. But his response was so shocking, so unbelievable, that I texted my best friend before I finished reading it to inform her of the news: Jack Parker has been hacked.

“Hi!! Mia this is so crazy,” he wrote back, “for the last week I’ve been thinking about asking you out because I saw you were in NYC and well very cute :) and can’t believe you beat me to it! so flattered you thought of me. I would love to get a drink next week.”

I trust that the girls will get it when I say I cycled through 1 million emotions after receiving this message, my brain a broken slot machine of possibilities. First, denial. This cannot be real, there is simply no way that Jack Parker has been thinking about me for the past week. Soon, I was power tripping — I wanted everyone to be jealous of me, the way you fantasize about flexing at your high school reunion, Romy and Michele-style. I texted the group chat of my childhood friends, letting them know I was achieving our collective dream (he was the It Boy in elementary school — almost unnaturally tall and genuinely sweet, you couldn’t help but swoon). Then: giddiness, dancing shamelessly around my room to Taylor Swift’s Lover album. As “Cruel Summer” blasted through my apartment, I paused to look at myself in the mirror. This, I recalled. This is what a crush feels like.

Our date was a week later. Casual drinks at a Williamsburg jazz bar. Or at least, I hoped it seemed casual to him — to me, it was anything but. I made three shopping trips that week, self-tanned up my butt-crack, and had more than a few spirals. As I walked to the bar, my brain went in circles: What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s really weird now? What if we get married, but then he dies? Wait, I paused again. This, too, is what happens when you have a crush. You go a little crazy.

“Having a crush was simple as a kid, because you couldn’t really act on it — and therefore you’d never really get your heart broken.”

I silently told myself to chill the f*ck out, b*tch, as I walked inside and spotted Jack Parker in the corner booth. He stood up: tall, just like I remembered. We chatted: funny, a little shy, not so different from before. We drank: tipsy, flirty, a side I’d never seen before. We bonded over the past — Ms. Martin, computer class, and a play date we supposedly had that I somehow memory-holed. (“I promise,” I told him, “I would remember if we had a play date.”) We caught up on the present — college, jobs, exes, bad mushroom trips, and hey, were you actually thinking about me last week? Our knees connected under the table and never came apart. Asking him back to my apartment was a no-brainer.

So, now we’re back to the beginning: 11:05 p.m. on Thursday, Jan. 23. Jack Parker is at my place and he looks so cute and he’s giving me those eyes like he’s about to kiss me. Little does he know that at about 11:21 p.m., he’s going to be doing a lot more.

“I’m starting to like him and it’s really scaring me,” I told my therapist a week later, after that first date turned into a second then a third. “I feel like I need to cool down and be more chill about the whole thing.” My love life hasn’t been smooth sailing this last year — I went through a blindsiding breakup, attended some slightly traumatizing first dates, and got ghosted more times than I could count.

As I momentarily dissociated from therapy (sorry, queen), something clicked: My crush drought hasn’t been due to my lifestyle or dating habits or the fact that I can’t keep my pants on. Instead, it’s the guard that went up from becoming older, wiser, and more scared. Having a crush was simple as a kid, because you couldn’t really act on it — and therefore you’d never really get your heart broken.

“I don’t think you should chill out,” my therapist told me as I zoned back in. “I think you should let yourself be excited. It’s OK to be scared — do it scared.”

Jack Parker came over that night, and then he stayed to watch Love Island with me in the morning. Slowly but surely, he’s shed his identity as Jack Parker, It Boy of Mckenzie Elementary School, to reveal himself as Jack, This Hot Guy I’m Seeing Who I Think I Really Like.

“This has been really fun,” he texted me after our first date. “I’m very glad I was your second-grade crush.”

“I think we may need to update your status to current crush,” I replied.

“That’s even better.”

He was right — it is better. Having a crush is different than before, but it also means more, because you know what you have to lose and you’re putting yourself out there anyway. And because you get to have sex now — I may be a born-again crush virgin, but I’ll always be a slut at heart.