A Place In your Heart

Chapter 4: Before he leaves

By the time Jessica got home, she was done. Not tired-and-fine, just done. She dropped her bag by the couch, kicked her shoes off without bothering to untie them, and collapsed into the cushions like the day had physically been sitting on her chest.

One of those shifts. A woman had complained for almost fifteen minutes about a room she hadn't even checked into yet. Someone else lost their key card three times in two hours. The vending machine on the second floor ate somebodys money and Jessica had to fill out a form about it.

Everything about the day was just stressful.

She closed her eyes.

Finally.

She should've been thinking about sleep. Instead she was smiling, which she only noticed because her face felt weird doing it after a day like that.

Manuel.

She still wasn't over how different today had gone from yesterday. After seeing him with that woman, she'd spent half the morning convinced she'd read him completely wrong, just another guy who was charming because it was easy for him, because it worked on everyone.

Then there'd been the payment mix-up. The laughing. The snack. The snack especially.

None of it meant anything, really. She knew that. A snack wasn't a declaration of anything.

But it had made the day better, and at least he hadn't treated her any different after she'd gone cold on him that afternoon. Which, thinking about it now, made her feel a little bad for being weird with him in the first place.

Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her, someone messaged her.

She picked it up without really looking.

Unknown number.

She frowned and opened it anyway.

Hi, Jessica.

She stared at it for a second. Another one came through right after.

It's Manuel.

She sat up so fast her back protested. "What."

She read it again just to be sure she wasn't imagining it.

How did he even get her number.

Before she could type anything, a third message landed.

Don't be mad. I had to ask around a little to get it.

A little?

She almost laughed out loud, alone in her apartment.

How exactly did you get my number?

The reply took a few seconds.

I asked one of the guys at the front desk. He wouldn't give it to me at first.

Good, she typed.

Eventually he did.

She shook her head, smiling at the screen like an i***t.

You really went and dug for my number?

Longer pause this time. She watched the little dots appear and disappear twice before his answer finally came through.

Maybe.

She bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smile and lost that battle immediately.

He even added the blushing emoji.

It was a phone number. That was all. But the fact that he'd actually gone and asked around for it did something to her chest she wasn't in a hurry to name.

Why? she typed.

His answer took longer than she expected.

I wanted to talk to you.

She stared at those four words for a solid thirty seconds.

Manuel talked to everyone easily, she'd seen that already, at the desk, with the woman in the lobby. He probably said things like that without putting much weight behind them.

Still, she was smiling at her phone in an empty apartment like a teenager, so.

You could've talked to me at the hotel, she wrote.

You were working.

She laughed under her breath.

So?

So I didn't want to keep you.

She leaned back against the couch cushions. That was actually kind of considerate, for a guy who'd walked in that morning looking like his whole day was already sorted.

Okay, she typed. So what did you want to talk about?

The typing bubble popped up. Vanished. Came back.

I'm leaving tomorrow.

Her smile dipped a little. She already knew that — she'd been the one who fixed his receipt, after all. Three-night extension, ending tomorrow morning. Still, reading it from him felt different than reading it off a screen at work.

I know.

You do?

I checked you out. Remember?

Right.

She could practically hear him laughing through the phone.

You thought I didn't know?

I was hoping you'd pretend you didn't.

She laughed for real this time, out loud, at nothing, in her living room.

Texting him felt different than talking at the desk. She couldn't see his face, couldn't read whatever his expression was doing, which meant she wasn't spending half her energy trying to decode him. She just had his words. Somehow that made it worse. Or better. She wasn't sure which.

Where are you going? she typed.

Home.

Where's home?

A few hours away.

That's very specific.

You asked where. I told you where.

She rolled her eyes at her phone.

You're annoying.

You've known me three days and you've already figured that out?

Three days is enough.

A pause. Longer than the others.

Maybe I need more time to change your mind.

Her fingers stopped over the screen.

Change my mind about what?.

She stared at the message, deciding whether to ask, when the next one came through first.

About me.

She let out a breath. Of course. He knew she'd been weird with him that afternoon.

She started typing. I never said I didn't like you.

She looked at it. Too much. Deleted it.

I never said I didn't like talking to you.

Safer. She sent it before she could second-guess it further.

His reply came fast.

Good.

Then, right after:

Because I like talking to you too.

She set the phone face-down on the couch cushion for a second. Her face felt warm, which was ridiculous, she was alone in her apartment at nine at night.

"This man," she muttered to no one.

She picked it back up.

You're probably saying that to every girl you meet.

No reply for almost a full minute. She watched the screen like it owed her something.

Then:

Maybe.

Her smile faded a little.

There it was. The Manuel from the lobby. Charming with everyone, honest enough to admit it, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time.

She should've been annoyed. Instead she found herself laughing again, quieter this time.

At least he didn't pretend otherwise.

Her phone buzzed once more.

But I still wanted your number.

She looked at that one for a long time.

She didn't know what tomorrow would look like once he checked out and got in whatever car was taking him home. She didn't know if he'd actually keep texting her after that, or if this was just something he did — one number among a few, nothing that would matter in a week.

She didn't even know what this was, exactly. Three days wasn't a lot.

But right now she wasn't thinking about the woman from the lobby, or what Manuel might say to someone else tomorrow night.

She was thinking about one thing: he'd gone through the trouble of tracking down her number, when he could've just let it go.

And she liked that a little too much for her own good.