Mr. Wrong Number

The next couple weeks fell into a weird, unplanned routine. I filled out job applications and wrote boring car descriptions while Colin went to work, and then Colin would call on his way home to see if I needed anything. I always came up with something—food, trash bags, a growler of O! Gold from Upstream—just so he had to come visit me.

And visit he did.

Every night he came into my apartment, loosened his tie in that way that I loved, and spent the evening hanging out with me. We ate together, watched TV together, and used each other’s bodies in the most delightful way. Like clockwork, he gathered his stuff around midnight and went back to his place without ever pushing to stay over.

It was perfect.

If it weren’t for the fact that I was terrified he was going to break my heart, I’d say things with him were about as close to perfect as they could possibly get.

I was sitting out on the balcony with him one afternoon after he’d left work early, both of us reading as the threat of autumn cooled the air, when my phone rang. I didn’t know the number, but still picked up and said, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Olivia Marshall?”

I glanced at Colin and stood to go inside. The last thing I needed was him hearing me get a call about an overdraft charge or something, although I was pretty sure my account was still in mediocre shape. “This is she.”

“Hi. This is Elena Wrigley, the editor of Feminine Rage magazine.”

I opened the slider and went inside, trying to sound unaffected and cool. But that magazine was my favorite; it was like People combined with Teen Vogue combined with McSweeney’s. I managed to find my voice and deliver a perky “Hey.”

“I got your application for the content writer position. Do you have time to talk?”

I walked over to one of the stools and sat down, terrified to get excited. “Of course.”

“I’m going to be honest with you. I got your application because recruiting was going to pass it to the content editor, but then they read about the fire. The story actually cracked me up, and I fell down a rabbit hole of finding information about you.”

“Shit.” Dammit. I just said shit to a potential employer. “I mean, um—”

“No, it’s a totally appropriate response.” She was laughing, so I let out a breath. “I have to ask you, though, Olivia, if you have a sense of humor about these things or if they’re sore subjects.”

“I definitely can laugh at myself. May I ask why?”

“Of course. But I don’t want to offend you, so please jump in if I am.”

“Okay.” I was intrigued.

“We used to have an advice column called Ask Abbie. It was super popular because Abbie was kind of bitchy, but also hilarious and good with the advice.”

“I remember,” I said. “I loved reading it.”

Colin opened the door and came inside, carrying my book along with his.

“You read it? Awesome.” She sounded happy, which was encouraging. “She left, and we’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it. It was all about her voice and her personality, so we didn’t want to just shove someone else in her place.”

“That makes sense.” I was trying not to get excited, because it couldn’t be what it sounded like, right?

“But when I read about the fire and the flooded dorm thing, I thought, how hilarious would it be to have an advice columnist who, on paper, is kind of a mess?”

I didn’t take offense, and the idea was a little funny.

“I also had a tip that you were the writer behind the 402 Mom, which, by the way, was a really great column.”

I wanted to say thanks, but probably wasn’t allowed to, so I made a noncommittal sound.

“Thankfully, I went to college with Glenda Budd at the Times, so I was able to call her and poke around.”

Oh, my God; she’d talked to Glenda.

“And while she couldn’t confirm the 402 Mom thing, she was able to tell me that the writer always met her deadlines, provided exemplary work, and was a delight. Glenda was sad to see her go.”

“She said that?”

“She did. Now.” She cleared her throat. “How do you feel about embracing your bad luck? Making it your strength?”

Colin gestured that he was going to go, but I shook my head. I wanted to tell him all about it when I was done.

“Can you stay like five more minutes,” I whispered.

He looked surprised and said, “Of course.”

He went over to the couch and sat down, grabbing the remote like he was at home in my apartment.

I said, “I’ve spent my entire life laughing at myself and my bad luck, Elena; that’s kind of my sweet spot.”

She started talking, brainstorming, and we just clicked. As opposed to 402 Mom, this would be capitalizing on who I was, adding my own ridiculous anecdotes into the column. We talked for an hour before she asked if I could come in the following day for a formal interview.

When I finally got off the phone, I went over and plopped down next to Colin. “I am so sorry that took so long.”

He muted the TV. “Shut up. Tell me all about this job.”

And I did. It was Colin, so I should’ve played it cool and acted like it was no big deal so he couldn’t mock me later, but I’d pretty much left guarding myself from him by the wayside. I told him every detail, and when I was finished he said, “Just make sure you get what you’re worth.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, I don’t exactly have a lot to bargain with.”

“I know, but your writing speaks for itself.” He said matter-of-factly, “Don’t let them think they can have you on the cheap; you’re too good.”

I leaned against him and said, “Oh, my God, you’re so incredibly into me it’s a little pathetic. You think I’m so great and—”

I couldn’t finish because he pushed me down onto the couch, got on top of me, and shut me up in the very best way. By the time I was breathing heavy, he lifted his mouth and gave me a wicked grin. “Why do I even like you when you’re such a pain in the ass?”

I grinned back. “You’re just a glutton for punishment, I guess.”