Chapter 5 #3
Honestly, it had been kind of sweet, in an amusing sort of way. The bad boy facing down ten second graders and defending his lack of a man-bun.
I giggled a little into the darkness of the guest bedroom and started a new thread in my messaging app.
I’d forgotten to text him earlier, but I’d do it now, and he could see my message in the morning and breathe a sigh of relief knowing that help was incoming. Friendly, affable assistance who knew his way around a soccer ball and was great with kids. I was pretty sure Brady could charm anyone.
Unsure of my opener, I typed my message and reread it a dozen times, like I was fifteen years old and texting my crush.
That wasn’t too far off. Jack definitely gave me butterflies, but I was over thirty.
It was silly to be this worried about impressing him.
Or more accurately, making a fool of myself.
Me: Hi Jack. It’s Bonnie. Just wanted to let you know that Brady agreed to help out with the team.
There. Simple and to the point.
So I wasn’t sure why I was fretting over it.
I debated adding my last name, but, in the end, I didn’t want to type Jensen despite it being accurate.
And I figured I didn’t need any sort of closing.
No plucky Have a good day! or Good luck this season!
We weren’t friends. I was just some woman who’d slept in his bed once. There were probably plenty of those.
After a deep breath, I made myself hit send so I would stop obsessing over a single text message. Good lord. Then I navigated over to my favorite social media app.
But almost immediately, a response popped up, and I dropped my phone on my face.
Oh crap. Jack had texted back. At 3:14 a.m.
Jack: Thanks for setting that up. The next practice is the same time, same place, if he can make it.
With thumbs fumbling across the keyboard, I hurriedly typed, I’m so sorry if I woke you. I thought you’d see my message in the morning.
Jack: What did I tell you about apologizing to me?
Me: Waking you in the middle of the night with a random text notification is a perfectly acceptable reason to say you’re sorry.
Jack: You didn’t wake me. I’m up.
Oh. Well, that was good. I was glad I didn’t mess up his night.
A nosy middle-aged Southern spirit must have possessed my body because I found myself asking suddenly, So, why are you up?
My eyes widened, and I tossed my phone face down on the comforter in horror. What had I just done? I’d delivered my message about Brady, and now I was trying to keep the conversation going.
I could imagine several scenarios in which Jack Ellis would be up late.
Maybe he was just getting home. Maybe he was wide-awake for a very fitting reason.
I imagined him leaving the Sterling House Bed-and-Breakfast after hooking up with a gorgeous leafer from the bar.
Tossing on his leather jacket and riding off down the street after rocking some woman’s world.
I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow, groaning. What the heck was wrong with me?
But then I peeked at my device and saw light coming from beneath the edge of the plastic case. So quickly I should have been embarrassed about it, but I snatched up my phone and looked at the screen.
Jack: A drunk tourist picked a fight tonight at Magnolia. The cops came, and it was a mess. I had to deal with the police report and give a statement.
I winced, thinking about how he’d had to handle another irresponsible inebriated person. Bartenders had it hard.
Me: I’m sorry. That sounds like a pain.
Jack: I can practically hear you comparing yourself to a drunk leafer. Stop it. And stop apologizing.
That was a general I’m sorry, I argued reflexively, annoyed that he’d read me so easily.
Jack: I noticed you ignored the other part.
Before I could defend myself, he replied . . .
Jack: What are you doing up so late? Pretty sure it’s past bedtime for most good girls.
Maybe I always felt uncool around Jack because he liked to keep reminding me how I was a good girl and he was a bad boy.
Believe me, I knew how different we were—how different we’d always been.
Maybe he felt like he needed to draw attention to those old roles to keep space between us.
Or, more likely, he could tell I had an embarrassing crush on him.
I didn’t have a quippy response or a funny answer. I was tired, and that was probably why I went with the truth.
Me: I have trouble sleeping sometimes.
It was something I hadn’t told anyone besides my therapist.
Dots appeared and then disappeared for a while, and I figured that would be it. But as I was putting my phone back on the bedside table, it lit up with another message.
Jack: When I was a kid, I couldn’t always get to sleep.
My grandmother taught me this trick. To think about something good.
Make a list of three of my favorite things.
Like three favorite breakfast foods, or three favorite TV shows, or whatever it might be.
It worked better than counting sheep. Maybe you could try that.
I smiled wistfully down at my phone, thinking how good I was at making lists instead of sleeping. I couldn’t imagine this would actually work.
But I still typed out, French toast with butter and powdered sugar, ham and cheese omelet, and Apple Jacks cereal.
Jack: Toast and apple butter, scrambled eggs, and blueberry lemon scones from Cubhouse Coffee Shop.
My grin widened, surprised he’d played along. Even more surprised when another message came through.
Jack: Okay, now TV shows.
Me: Sons of Anarchy, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Pushing Daisies. You?
Jack: Don’t laugh.
I absolutely did.
Me: Promise.
Jack: The Office and Naked & Afraid
Me: AND?
Jack: and Ice Road Truckers
Me: OMG
Jack: It was compelling, okay.
Me: No, I believe you.
Jack: I had to Google Pushing Daisies.
I huffed another quiet laugh and typed, I’m still bitter about that one. It deserved more than one season.
Me: Favorite bands?
And the dots to indicate Jack was typing appeared again, as if by late-night magic.
We kept going, and some of the tightness wrapped around me, the kind preventing me from sleeping earlier, loosened its hold.
My favorites were innocuous rather than damning.
Confessions in the dark that wouldn’t have made sense in the light of day.
These were lists I didn’t mind making. They were nostalgic and warm, rather than brittle mistakes or obligations holding me hostage, keeping my mind from rest.
I smiled more into the night than I could remember smiling inside this house in a very long time.
I learned about Jack’s favorite music and foods, the books he reread regularly, and the authors that he auto-bought.
The way he took his coffee—black at home or an oat milk latte at a coffee shop—and his favorite sports to watch—basketball, hockey, and baseball, in that order.
I was surprised by his honesty and giddy with the feeling of learning about someone new for the first time in quite a while.
And just like a weirdo on the internet, it was easier to be honest behind a screen.
I was able to forget how twisted up Jack made me feel when he was just three bouncing dots.
The one-sided attraction that made me awkward and tongue-tied in person was muted in the artificial glow of my phone.
The hazy memories of that night in his apartment weren’t front and center at the moment.
At some point, Jack’s three favorites idea must have worked because I woke up to an alarm going off, my phone still clutched in my hand.
After silencing the noise, I blinked groggily until my screen came into focus. And there, at 4:48 a.m., after I’d failed to reply to Jack’s request for my three favorite GIFs, he’d typed his final message.
Jack: Good night, Clyde. Sleep tight.