Something About Her

Unable to sleep, I sling my legs over the side of the modern hotel bed swiftly and dance over to the balcony that overlooks Chicago’s dazzzzling fire station. The sirens were relentless; every half hour red and blue flashing lights swept across the hotel room’s walls before disappearing into the bustling city.
I look over my shoulder and my hair sweeps uncomfortably into my face. The locks of sandy hair hinder my view, but it’s left me enough vision to conclude my family is still sound asleep. Blowing air shortly through my nose as to silence my laughter, I look, embarrassed, at my parents and two younger brothers sleeping in contorted positions, with bright orange earplugs sitting squished in the opening of their ear. I remember the little tin tray the earplugs sat on upon arrival to the hotel.
“Please, take a pair. Our pleasure.” A short little note printed on vanilla colored cardstock. How ironic that little sign and tray was; it was as if they were saying, “ We positioned our pricey and mediocre serviced hotel across from the loudest block in all of Chicago, but we’ll be able to muster a few pair of free earplugs out of the sheer kindness of our heart.” Hah.
My arms begin to feel a little numb from the cool steel railing, but tonight was our last night here in the windy city before we left for Michigan (via train – my family as well as our accompanying friends were old fashioned sometimes.) so I wasn’t about to miss a single moment out here on the balcony.
I left the screen door open so I could hear my family, if they were to wake. It had to be sometime near midnight, which was late for me. Of course.
“We have a 911 call, three blocks east of Stony Island. Small bakery fire and-“

That was my signal to go in. If I left the screen door open while there were the screeching battle calls of fire trucks, why, the entire hotel would be down my throat. I dismally acknowledge the dispatcher of the fire station down below the hotel and walk back into the cooled dorm and latch the sliding glass door closed. I step over my youngest brother – Keegan – who’s contently sleeping on the floor in his Lightening McQueen blowup bed and peel back the sheet to my own bed.
I feel the bags under my eyes start to grow heavy and start to slow my thoughts while making the transition into a writer’s heaven, when my phone lights up underneath my pillow. It’s him. It’s Hunter.
Earlier in the week I had broken up with Jacob. I don’t even think you could even classify us as a couple anyways… just sayin’. He was my first crush since the fifth grade and he was shy and quiet, pretty much a blonde, male version of myself. But shorter. Much, much, shorter. We had been ‘going out’ for almost five months without a single word to each other (two shy people personally don’t make the best of couples) when I decided I was over convincing myself that I could have a ‘boyfriend’ just like all the other girls. All the other girls. It was a phrase that was sewn into my conscious, it singed off all the self-confidence I previously had upon entering my teen years. Me being the classy and sophisticated young woman I am, wrote Jacob a hand-written letter (cursive, too.) and gave it to him at lunch. Long story short, the poor kid started crying his eyes out, and it only drew more and more attention until finally the lunch monitor read the note herself and confiscated it for my permanent record. Hunter Laurence, being who he is, followed me around all day making me feel guilty about the entire situation, given he was Jacob’s friend. Sometimes fate comes creeping in just where you least expect it.
“I have a confession but plz don’t make me cry…”

I grin at his cunning text and shake my head. We’ve been texting all weekend and I’ve never known what it felt like to have a smile plastered on your face for no reason.

“I’ll try my best, you know me though…”

“The letter you gave Jacob? I have it.. lunch monitor never took it. :) I have it. :) :) :) :)”

The text was relieving, satisfying, and a little surreal. I felt my cheeks getting warm, and I knew the twinkle in my eye had been restored, and not just because of the screen brightness of his sweet text reflecting upon my corneas. Hunter was at the top of the social hierarchy. It was unusual for him to be single, let alone talking to someone outside of the social communism. It was almost midnight when I told him I really did have to go. Nothing like this had ever driven me to stay up this late.
“No, don’t go :(“

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Hunter. That is, if I ever forgive for the note.”

“Oliviaaaaa :) :) :) :) :)” I click my lock button and shove my phone slowly underneath my pillowcase, my hand still wrapped tightly around its rectangular case. You know, in case he calls.