Jonas Schwartz isn't just good at playing football. He's also good at playing hearts, and four years ago, he played mine like it was the easiest game of his life.
Brokenhearted, I ran off to art school, swearing to forget about my one-off secret weekend with the star quarterback.
I'd heard whispers about his injury, but I never expected Jonas to return to our hometown to rehab his knee, and I certainly never thought he'd show up on the other side of my door with a pizza in hand.
He looks good. Better than before.
Whatever—I'm over him. I've completely moved on.
I just wish my heart would get the memo . . .
