The Scrabble board between us is a mix of long, fancy words and short, desperate ones. Manuela is ruthless. She lays down “zenith” on a triple word score, and the little sound she makes while tallying points is pure satisfaction.
“It’s the bilingualism, Connor,” she says as she looks up, a cheeky grin forming on her face. She flips her hair and adds, “We learned all the big words first.”
“Yeah, alright,” I say, pulling my letters, but I smile at her cheekiness. We both reach into the bag at the same time, and my fingers brush hers, just enough to notice but not enough to make it weird. Except my brain apparently wants to make it weird because now I’m aware of the heat of her skin and the faint lavender smell from whatever lotion she used after her shower. Last night, when we got back for dinner, they were still out in town—a cooking class that turned, allegedly, into a rowdy girls’ night that had them all waking up right around lunch today.
I focus on my tiles like they might spell out an escape route. They don’t.
“Zany,” she says a minute later, setting down the tiles and claiming another ridiculous amount of points.
“That’s not even a word,” Jack says.
“It is,” she replies, her voice calm, almost amused. “A man who is a stupid, incompetent fool. Look it up.”
“Oh babe,” Elle says, making starry eyes at her partner. “You’re so handsome.”
Manuela shrugs, but there’s a flicker of a smile in my direction because she knows I’m enjoying this more than I should.
By the time Elle “accidentally” plays a made-up word and somehow gets away with it, the game’s devolved into mock arguments and Jack declaring himself morally opposed to two-letter plays. I’m not winning, but I don’t care. Not when Manuela laughs like that—soft but sharp at the edges, like we’re sharing this secret.
When we finally pause, Elle stretches and emerges from her cocoon, standing up quickly like she suddenly perked up after her mandatory resting period. “Okay, let’s take a break before someone flips the board,” she says, eyeing her fiancé with slits for eyes. “I’m ordering pastries from the resort. Any takers?”
“I’ll make more coffee,” Jack says, already standing. He wraps an arm around Elle’s waist as they head toward the kitchen together, leaving the two of us in the living room with the rain and the steady hum of quiet around us.
I sink back into my chair, trying not to look too obviously at Manuela as she pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over her legs. She tucks her feet under, knees angled toward me. She doesn’t say anything, simply lifts her gaze slowly until it meets mine.
The look lingers. Long enough that I have to clear my throat.
“Comfy?” I ask, my voice rougher than I want it to be.
“Very,” she says, tilting her head, eyes flicking toward the empty seat next to her. “But you’re over there all by yourself.”
My pulse stutters. She didn’t say I could join her, but that’s what it sounds like. I’ve been so out of practice that every word has me second-guessing myself.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. “Is that a hint?”
“Maybe,” she says, a soft laugh in her throat. She tugs the blanket higher, but her legs shift slightly under it.
The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Rain taps harder against the glass. Everyone else is out of sight, and it feels like the house has shrunk to this small corner, just the two of us.
I stand and cross the short distance to the couch, heart thudding harder than it should for something as simple as sitting down. The cushion dips under my weight, and the blanket shifts when I brush my knee against hers.
“The rain reminds me of summer storms back home,” Manuela says, looking out the window.
“Yeah?” I ask like a dumbass who apparently has forgotten how to even hold an adult conversation. But she makes me nervous in the best of ways, and being around her is becoming a very welcome distraction. “Tell me about it.”
“I’m from a super small town in the mountains,” she says, gesturing with her hands. “Almost like this but not as fancy,obviously. Very middle class.”
I watch the way her fingers move, painting the picture in the air. She doesn’t even realize she does it. It’s the kind of detail that makes me want to lean in closer, to catch every word coming out of those lips.
“What’s it called?” I ask.
“Tres Fuegos.” She says it with that easy lilt, like fire and music rolled into one. The tone of her voice changes as she says it in Spanish, and I wonder if she has a different personality when she’s back home. “Tiny place. Everyone knows everyone. When something happens, the whole town knows before your family does.”
I laugh quietly. “Sounds like a nightmare.” But also sounds like my family and friends.
“Sometimes it is.” Her smile curves, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “But also… safe, in a way?”
Safe. I roll the word around in my head, glancing at her profile. There’s a part of me that envies that. My family knows me too well in ways I’d rather they didn’t, but safe isn’t a word I’d use. Expected, maybe. Bound. But not safe.
