Jessica POV

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along to her music with my made-up lyrics when she stops playing mid-song.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She never stops mid-song, so naturally, I glance in her direction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s leaning forward, staring right at me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She holds up her index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and she sets her guitar beside her and runs into her apartment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the hell is she doing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And oh, my God, why does the fact that she’s acknowledging me make me so nervous?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She comes back outside with a paper and a marker in her hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s writing. What the hell is she writing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She holds up 2 sheets of paper, and I squint to get a good look at what she’s written.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A phone number.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. Her phone number?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I don’t move for several seconds, she shakes the papers and points at them, then points back to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s insane. I’m not calling her. I can’t call her. I can’t do that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The girl shakes her head, then grabs a fresh sheet of paper and writes something else on it, then holds it up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Text me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I still don’t move, she flips the paper over and writes again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have a ?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A text.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seems harmless enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she holds up the papers with her phone number again, I pull out my phone and enter her phone number.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stare at the screen for a few seconds, not really knowing what to say in the text, so I go with:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me: What’s your question?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She looks down at her phone, and I can see her smile when she receives my text.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She drops the paper and leans back in her chair, typing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When my phone vibrates, I hesitate a second before looking down at it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her : Do you sing in the shower?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me: I don’t know what kind of question that is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hit send and watch her read the text.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because her smile is so... smiley.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s as if her whole face smiles right along with .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder what that smile looks like up close.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her: I just want to know if you sing in the shower. I happen to think highly of people who sing in the shower and need to know the answer to that question in order to decide if I want to ask you my next question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I read the lengthy text, admiring her fast typing.

 

 

 

 

 

Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing in the shower?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her: No, I don’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me: How can you think highly of people who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in the shower?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in the shower is why I think highly of people who do sing in the shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This conversation isn’t going anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me: Why did you need this vital piece of information from me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She stretches her legs out and props her feet up on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a few seconds before returning her attention to her phone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her: I want to know how you’re singing lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even added lyrics to them yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Busted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stare at her text, then glance up at her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s watching me, expressionless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why the hell didn’t I think that she could see me sitting out here?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I never thought she would notice me singing along to her music.

 

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