Sweet Talk

Chapter One

Jessie

“Hey, you still up?”

I nearly choke to death on the humongous bite of dry chocolate cake in my mouth. It’s almost 2 a.m., I’m sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter in my dad’s apartment, and I’m pretty sure I just got drunk-texted by the man I have a debilitating crush on.

Only, that wasn’t just a text. That was a voice message he texted me. I was not expecting to suddenly hear that moviestar voice in the middle of the night, in the middle of this shoebox kitchen, in the middle of a slice of bad cake that will seriously not budge an inch down my throat. I try to swallow the bite again, and when it still doesn’t give up the ghost, I spear my fork into the center of the cake slice for safekeeping and lean over to drink straight from the faucet.

Water runs down my chin, over my ear, and into my hair, and I’m a soggy, gasping mess by the time I give my phone my full attention again. I play the voice message that was just texted to me one more time.

“Hey, you still up?”

This has to be a mistake, right? He’s never texted or called me before. Not even during daylight hours. I glance at the clock on the screen of the ancient microwave and even though it’s missing most of its pixels I still confirm that it is, in fact, the middle of the night. It’s officially booty o’clock and he definitely just you up?ed me.

The question is whether or not he knows who it is he just propositioned. This has to be a misdial?

So, where do I go from here? Pretend I didn’t get it and leave him to discover his mistake on his own? That’s probably best . . . but . . . the thing is . . . this guy is so cute. Like, stupid cute. And cute isn’t even usually my bag. But he’s got this big, handsome puppy thing going on that just really . . . makes me wanna . . . Look, there’s no way I’m not texting him back.

I’m sure this was a mistake on his end, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an opportunity on my end and it’s the middle of the night, and I just wanna talk to him.

I text back Yeah? with a question mark.

It’s kind of brilliant if you think about it.

A moment later another voice message pops up and his voice fills the kitchen again.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

No, I text back. I was just eating chocolate cake.

I get another incoming voice message almost immediately. “Chocolate cake? At 2 a.m.? Weirdo.”

I laugh and text him back.

What did you expect?

“At 2 a.m.? That you’d either be sleeping and we’d just talk in the morning, or that you’d be racing to meet a shipping deadline,” he responds.

Who is this person that he thinks he’s texting? The middle of the night “you up?” text immediately points toward someone he wants to hook up with. But nothing else has been especially flirty. Not even his tone. In fact, I don’t think he’s drunk.

No work tonight, I text. Just cake.

“Ugh. Why are you making me read at this time of night?”

I blink and listen to that voice message one more time. He doesn’t like reading texts? I guess that explains why he’s voicemessaging me. I type a few replies, but I delete each one. Because each one is a lie or evasion, and that’s not really my style. Instead I press down on the voice-record button. No way out but the truth.

“Because I figured once you heard my voice, you’d realize that you were texting the wrong person.” Whoosh, I send the message.

I get another voice message almost immediately.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I texted the wrong person.”

“Yup. I figured. Have a good night.”

I send that last voice message with a sigh. Well, that was fun while it lasted. Four minutes of tepid texting with a guy who has me confused with someone else has unfortunately been the highlight of my month.

The sad thing is that not only do I want to talk to him, I really just wanna talk to anybody. Before that voice message, it had been almost twelve hours since I spoke a word aloud, and that was a simple “thank you” to Miss Laura in 5C when she dropped off the chocolate cake that almost took my life a few minutes ago. With Pops in the care facility, I’m alone almost all the time. Well, except for work, but that doesn’t count. My general demeanor doesn’t exactly foster small talk, and I don’t know anyone well enough for them to actually check in on me.

I hop down and dump the rest of the cake in the trash, because if I don’t, I’ll just keep eating it, and it tastes like a sponge someone used to wipe up some cocoa powder. I think she forgot the sugar.

I’m sudsing up the plate when my phone dings from the counter. I blink.

Did he text again? But I just have a good nighted him. I let him off the hook. There’s no reason for him to keep texting after that. I wipe my soapy hands on my sweats and pick up my phone.

“Okay, this is humiliating. But . . . would you mind telling me who you are?”

I gape at the phone for a second before jamming my finger on the voice-record button. I assumed he would have looked at the contact information and at least figured out who I was from that. Did he not save my last name or something?

“You still don’t know who I am? Then how am I saved in your phone?” I send the message.

A thought occurs to me, and I inwardly cringe. What if he did save my last name and that’s not the problem? The problem is that even with a first and last name he has no memory of who I am. This is . . . disheartening. Here, I’ve spent the last two months daydreaming about his dimples, and he can’t even put my face to my name. Ouch.

“I accidentally saved your contact as a bunch of mixed-up letters. I guess I wasn’t looking when I was typing it in. You’re right next to the person I meant to text in my contact list,” he messages.

Okay, so not quite as bad as I thought? I think back to the night he got my number from me. It actually makes sense that he would’ve mistyped in those circumstances. It was a pretty crazy night. He definitely wasn’t in his right mind. I guess I can forgive him this.

And now that I’m mulling it over, if he knew who I was, then we would have to stop texting because this would just be super awkward. But as it is, he has no idea who I am. So, I guess I can reply?

“Wow,” I send. And just like that he’s replying. “Okay, yes, I definitely deserve that judgmental wow. Like I said, this is majorly humiliating. I . . . take it that you know who I am?”

“Yes, Eliot Hoffman, I know who you are. I saved your name in my phone properly,” I send.

“Okay . . . I deserve that, too,” he replies. “All right, let me think. I recognize your voice, but I can’t place it. But I’m saved in your phone by both first and last name, right? Which I’m guessing means that we’ve met a few times but don’t know each other that well.”

I stare at my phone again for a long second. That assessment is scarily accurate. But that’s not the reason my heart has banged its way up into my throat. Is . . . is Eliot Hoffman chatting with me right now? I have a good nighted him at two in the morning, yet here he is, continuing to text me. I nearly take my thumbnail off in one nervous bite.

I thought the name of the game was going to be how to get out of this conversation with my pride still intact. But no. The name of the game is now chatting with a cute guy in the middle of the night without being the one to accidentally end the conversation first.

Let’s see . . . how to explain my overthinking. Ah. Okay. I’m not exactly known for my gentle touch with anything, but especially with guys. I’m one of those girls who punches the guy she likes too hard in the shoulder. If I think someone is cute, I don’t blush or bite my lip. I roll my eyes and mildly insult him.

But chatting with Eliot Hoffman right now is like realizing there’s some mythical creature standing in my kitchen next to me. If I freak out and rush him, he’s going to skitter away, gone for ever, no one would even believe he’d been there in the first place. This is a delicate dance. I clear my throat and think of how to reply.