Her door sounds with a click before I finish closing mine, so I give up for the night and twist and hook the latch at the top. Unable to help myself, I rest my head against the door and count to five, then look through the peephole with one last dash of hope in my belly. It bursts quickly when the hallway is empty on the other side.
I turn to face my room—two double beds, a white wooden chest of drawers and entertainment center, a table with a coffeemaker on top, and a window with a view of the Fourth Street parking garage. I laugh to myself, wondering if Maddy’s sizing her room up right now, too, then I toss my bag on the far bed and step into the equally plain bathroom to run water over my face. The shower looks tall enough that I might not have to hunch, so I push the curtain back and twist the knob, happy when I feel the water turn hot.
I tug my shirt over my head and walk out to the room, tossing my shirt, along with my jeans, over the arm of one of the wooden chairs near the table. As I turn to walk back to the bathroom, a quick movement under my door catches my eye. A small square of paper, folded in quarters, is flicked underneath, and I hear the sound of the keycard registering and a door clicking closed a second later.
My mouth starts to curve as I step closer to the paper, and my hopeful suspicion is confirmed as I kneel down and pick it up. I see the first three numbers before I completely have it unfolded, and when I flatten it against my chest and hold it out to read, I fist pump with my other hand.
“Still got it,” I say, celebrating to no one. I have a weird feeling Duncan can hear me though, and I chuckle at the thought of him eating his nightly bowl of cereal and holding up his hand to give me an air high five.
I carry the note that reads call me with a series of beautiful numbers underneath into the bathroom, and I lay it on the counter next to the small bar of soap shaped like a leaf, then I strip off my boxers and climb in for the greatest hot shower of my life.
Maddy
I gave a boy my number once, in junior high. My parents’ number, actually. He told me he wanted to invite me to his birthday party, and almost as much as I wanted a call from a boy, I wanted to go to the birthday party. It was at an amusement park, and all of the coolest kids were already invited. The call never came, and I was devastated. I decided to hate the boy for the rest of my life—Colton Churchfield; I’ll never forget. He works at a gas station now—management. I saw him once when I pulled in to get a coffee and fill up on gas. He looked miserable, and I was overjoyed.
This time, there is no party. There are no hopes of running into Will years later, in a dead-end job. There’s just a man. With my phone number. Fifty feet and two doors away from me.
I keep getting up and looking through the peephole, excited at the thought that maybe he’s just coming over instead. Part of me wants that. Most of me wants that.
My phone in my palm, I leave the comfort of my hotel bed, shoes dumped by the dresser and socks still on my feet, and shuffle back to the door to look again. I stand on the tips of my toes and let my head rest against the wood, pressing my phone between my hand and the door. When it buzzes, I drop it, fumbling as it bangs against the door on the way to the floor, bouncing end-over-end and eventually landing behind the trashcan just outside the bathroom. I pick it up quickly, but stay near the door, pulling my legs in to sit crisscrossed with my back to the hallway just on the other side.
His text is on the screen.
There is something to be said about unlimited hot water.
My lips curl into my cheeks as I read, and I bring my hand to my face to feel my expression, proof that this smile is happening automatically—an instant reaction to the smallest note from him.
Will makes me happy.
I write him back.
I was thinking the same thing about expensive sheets and a comforter as thick as a mattress.
I wait while he types, bringing my knees up and cupping my phone in my hands, like I want to keep his messages a secret for only me. When my phone buzzes with his call instead, I feel my cheeks grow warm, and I scrunch my legs in tighter as I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I say.
“How’d you know it was me?” he chuckles.
“I already gave you a special ring,” I lie. “A Fat Elvis song.”
“Wow, Fat Elvis. I don’t even warrant skinny, movie-star Elvis,” he says.
“Fat Elvis is better,” I say, stretching my legs out and crossing my ankles as he laughs.
“I think we need to explore this more,” he says.
“There really is no debate. His music meant more when he was older. More emotion,” I reply.
“You mean more drugs,” he fires back.
“Better clothes.” That response makes him laugh hard, and I love the way I hear it coming from his chest, like it’s deep—genuine.
“I liken myself to more of a Jail House Rock kinda guy, is all,” he says, finally.
“Hmmm,” I hum, lowering myself so my head is propped against the door, and I’m now lying on the floor, as close to him as I can be without leaving my room.