Mr. Wrong Number

“Dude.” Jack was sitting on a stool, eating what looked to be a breakfast burrito and scrolling through his phone. He said, “Why are you awake?”

“I’m going for a run.” I put my foot up on the other stool and tied my shoe. His shock was no surprise; I was shocked, too. I usually slept until twenty minutes after my alarm went off, wherein I would scramble to get ready and ultimately end up putting on makeup while driving. This early-morning thing was brand new for me.

I cringed at the smell of the burrito. “God, that smells disgusting.”

“Since when do you run?” He looked at me like I’d just said I was going to run for president. “You used to have Mom call you out of gym every time they had the national physical fitness test.”

“I was eight at the time.” I finished tying and switched feet. “You used to have Mom tell Mr. Graham you had a skin condition so you could wear a T-shirt for swimming. I’m assuming you’ve grown out of that, just like I grew out of my unathleticism.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“I don’t think your face is a word.” One day of living with my brother, and I was reverting to childhood behavior. I straightened and put in my headphones, forcing myself not to roll my eyes. Unbeknownst to him, I was still irritated that he’d told Colin everything, so his Mr. Ha Ha I’m Always Funny face just kind of pissed me off.

But since he was giving me pretty choice accommodations, I had to gut my feelings.

He took a big gulp of orange juice and then said, “You sure you should be running at six thirty in the morning, when it’s still a little dark? That seems dangerous.”

“I’ve got pepper spray in my sports bra; I’ll be fine.”

“Because bad guys definitely give you time to dig around in your Under Armour.”

“Whatever, Jack. I dare someone to mess with me.” Today was the first day of the New and Improved Olivia, the one who would exercise regularly, eat well, use a planner, and land a job. As soon as I had money, I was even going to implement a skin-care routine like a bona fide adult.

“Mom told me to look out, by the way.” Jack leaned back a little and grinned. “She said you’ve been ‘snippy’ since you got back and want to fight about everything.”

“I don’t have time to discuss all of the ways our mother is off base.” She was like a middle-class, real-life version of Emily Gilmore.

“Is she right about Eli?”

Well, that certainly made me stop in my tracks. I acted unaffected when I said, “I don’t know—what’d she say about him?”

Meanwhile, the sound of his name still made my heart hurt. I thought he was the one.

“Just that she thinks he dumped you or cheated.” He scraped together the scrambled eggs on his plate with the underside of his fork and added, “She said those are the only reasons you’d be burning his love letters.”

Yeah, my mom nailed it. Eli had done both. I didn’t want them to know the details, though. For the two years I’d lived in Chicago—one of which I’d lived with Eli—my family had acted like I’d finally outgrown my disastrous ways. I had an apartment in the Windy City, a boyfriend who liked craft beer and running, and a job as a technical writer for a Fortune 500 company.

It seemed that Livvie had finally become an adult.

What they hadn’t known was that the job was a boring entry-level position that barely paid the bills, the apartment building that I torched was owned by Eli’s uncle, so we were charged minimal rent, and Eli and I rarely saw each other during the week because he traveled for work.

It wasn’t until he got promoted and no longer went out of town that he realized (a) he didn’t love me anymore and didn’t know if he ever had, and (b) he loved my work colleague more than life itself.

“Actually, I dumped him because his love letters were positively ghastly. The guy rhymed ‘love’ with ‘glove’—can you believe that shit?” I put in my headphones and shook my head. “Don’t tell Mom that, though, because she liked him. I’m out of here.”

I left the apartment and stretched for a solid five seconds on the elevator ride down. I’d enrolled in a barre class back in Chicago that I actually went to a few times a month, so I was reasonably in shape and it would surely be fine.

Only . . . it wasn’t.

I ran two blocks—two—before I had to stop and put my hands on top of my head. I was gasping and seeing little stars, panting like I’d just finished a marathon, when I noticed it was a Starbucks that I was panting in front of.

Yes.

I pushed back my hair and pushed in the door, almost tasting my deliciously creamy frapp as the rich smell of coffee came at me. I knew it wasn’t exactly in the New Olivia plan, but a cup of coffee wasn’t going to push me off the rails.

The place was buzzing with the early risers, those business-class, hyper-driven individuals who were already dressed in suits and ready to succeed. They were historically not my kin, but perhaps they would be in the near future. I walked over to the line and waited behind two corporately dressed men, trying to soak up a little of their success mojo while they discussed someone named Teddy.

But it wasn’t until I got to the front and placed my order that I remembered—oh, my God. I had less than a hundred bucks to my name. I was sub-hundo for a few more days, which meant I had no business getting coffee.

Or calling myself an adult, but that was another thing entirely.

“Oh, my God—I forgot my wallet.” It wasn’t a lie. I did not, in fact, have my wallet, but I usually paid with the app so it technically should’ve been a nonissue. My face was hot as I patted myself down like a moron and said to the smiley barista, “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize that I hadn’t reloaded the—”

“I got it.” She winked and said, “What’s the name for the cup?”

“Um, Olivia.” I felt a little emotional as I said, “Ohmigodthankyousomuch.”

I moved over to wait for my drink and felt even more excited about this life redo, because I was actually having good luck for once. That had to be a cosmic sign, right? I grabbed my drink when they yelled my name, then I unwrapped the straw and took a huge sip of my cosmically gifted beverage.

So, so good.

My phone buzzed, and when I pulled it out of the waistband of my shorts, I saw a message from my anonymous friend who I thought I’d unfriended the night before.

Mr. Wrong Number: I thought we were done, Misdial.

I was confused until I saw the message above his.

Apparently I’d butt texted him a series of letters and symbols.

Me: Sorry, that was a butt dial.

Mr. Wrong Number: Sure it was.

I giggled and looked up. The guy barista with the ponytail raised an eyebrow, but no one else seemed to be looking my way. I texted: Swear to God.

Mr. Wrong Number: Well, good. Because we are NOT going to banter, right?

Me: Right.

Mr. Wrong Number: You have a good day, Misdial.

Me: You, too, Wrong Number.

Mr. Wrong Number: kkljfhjdfshghgdhgh

I smiled, shoved my phone back into my shorts, and started humming “Walking on Sunshine” as I headed for the exit, excited to get home and tackle more job applications. The morning was rich with possibilities, and I wasn’t going to waste a single second. I was pushing the door to exit when it opened and my sister-in-law, Dana, was on the other side with her boys.

“You guys!” I nearly leapt through the door as I scooped up Kyle and spun him around. “What are you doing here?”

I squeezed that little cutie and sniffed his neck, where he still smelled like baby sweetness even though he’d just turned four and wouldn’t be sweet for long. Dana was smiling—no surprise, because my oldest brother’s adorable wife was always smiling—and holding Brady, who looked like he belonged on a babyGap billboard with his chubby cheeks and yellow sun hat.

“Our new place is just around the corner,” she said, shifting him on her hip. “Will said you were back, but I told him he couldn’t bug you yet.”

“Shut your mouth, Dana,” I said as Kyle giggled and leaned forward to hover over my straw. “I want you bugging me constantly. The only upside to moving back home is getting to hang with my dudes all the time.”

She laughed and said, “Well, you don’t have to tell me twice. Want to watch the boys today?”

I knew I had to job hunt, but surely two tiny humans wouldn’t impair my ability to do that, right? “Yes, please.”

She crinkled her perfect eyebrows. “I was kidding, Liv.”

“Don’t be kidding.” I leaned my face forward to grin at Brady, instantly getting that mush-happy vibe that my nephews always inspired. “Please don’t be kidding. You’re not allowed to be kidding.”

“Are you serious?”

I shrugged and growled at Kyle as he took a long sip of my frappuccino, which made him belly laugh while continuing to guzzle my drink. “I was going to job hunt today, but that can wait a few hours. Give me the care and feeding instructions and they can chill with Auntie Liv until lunchtime.”

“Oh, my God—that would be incredible.” Her whole face lit up as she set down Brady and reached for his hand. “We’re getting the rugs cleaned this morning so we had to vacate the apartment, but I just knew they were going to get bored after twenty minutes of running errands.”

“See? Win-win.” I pointed my chin at her diaper bag. “Does that thing have enough stock for multiple morning poopies?”

“It does.”

“Well, then, hand it over.”

Dana went inside and got her coffee before we made the exchange. She squeezed me into a ginormous hug, and just like that—we were off. Dana was very nearly skipping as she headed toward her car, and we were skipping as we took off in the other direction, where my apartment awaited.

Just being around those little turds made everything better. We played I spy outside for an hour (though Brady pretty much just screamed the words I spy but had no idea what we were doing), rode the elevator up and down the building three times, shouting, “See ya!” whenever the doors opened and closed on a floor, and then we spent a solid forty-five minutes blowing bubbles off the balcony while aimlessly hoping to hit selected targets.

It was amazing.

I dragged my air mattress into the living room and we made a fort, using it in conjunction with the sofa and the coffee table turned on its side. We were so into our little hideout activities, which was pretty much just eating popcorn in the fort and singing songs from Moana, that I didn’t even hear someone come in until I looked out of the fort and saw a pair of sleek dress shoes approximately twelve inches from my face.

“Um, hello?” I poked my head out of the fort like a turtle and raised my eyes.

Sure enough, there was Colin, staring down at me with his head tilted slightly as if he was trying to figure out what he was seeing. I scrambled out, my face hot, and I swallowed when I got to my feet and he was looking down at my Kennedy Homecoming T-shirt.

Yes, I’m wearing a tee from senior spirit week; eat it. I blew my bangs out of my eyes and tried to remember how to form words, but I struggled because Colin looked like my roommate . . . only he didn’t.

This Colin was wearing an impeccably stylish blue suit with a plaid tie and the kind of gorgeous leather dress shoes that always made me wish my squatty hooves fit into men’s footwear. This Colin had on a starched white button-down shirt and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that sat perfectly atop his strong nose.

Roommate Colin was cockily attractive, but Smart-Businessman Colin was downright delicious.

His hands slid into the pockets of his pants. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to discover you weren’t alone in your fort.”

“Ha ha.” Kyle crawled out, and Brady followed. I picked up Brady and said, “What are you doing here?”

An eyebrow went up. “At my house? You’re asking what I’m doing at my house?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Kyle walked right up to Colin and said, “Your watch is really cool. Did it cost a lot of moneys?”

Colin’s mouth split into the prettiest smile, a wide, funny thing that made my stomach do a full 360 as he said, “It did. A lot of moneys.”

“I wish I could have it.” Kyle did the pouty thing that he was so good at, looking sad but in a cute, puppy-eye way, and murmured, “That would be dope.”

Colin’s eyes shot to my face. “Did your aunt Olivia teach you that word?”

“No,” I said, the exact second Kyle said, “Auntie Liv said it means good.”

Colin laughed and my phone buzzed. It was Dana, letting me know she was parked in the loading zone. I looked at the boys and said, “Your mom’s here. We have to race to get all of your stuff back in the diaper bag before she beats us and wins the game. One, two, three, GO!”

Kyle took off running toward the office, and Brady laughed and cluelessly followed. I started picking up toys while Colin went into the kitchen and pulled a Tupperware container out of the freezer. “Those are Will’s kids?”

“Yep. Kyle and Brady.” I started jamming things in the bag, 100 percent certain it was never going to zip. “Sorry, by the way. I didn’t know you came home for lunch or I would’ve asked before I brought them here.”

Totally a lie, but polite, at least.

“No worries. I’m not staying, I just forgot my lunch and thought the walk home would clear my head.”

I looked at his perfect image and wondered what he had on his mind. “Did it work?”

“Um.” His jaw clenched and he grabbed his keys from the counter. “Not so much.”

My cheeks got even hotter, and my impulse was to scream, I’m sorry, okay?! but I controlled myself and said, “Well, I hope your day gets better.”

His eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t.”

Finally, I felt like smiling at Colin, and I said, “I might, Beck. You just never know.”

Five minutes later, as if they were all a passing storm, I was home alone in the apartment and it was quiet. I was getting a later start than I should’ve on the applications, but it was going to be okay. Regardless of how on-brand it was for me to blow off responsibilities for whatever sounded fun, this was different.

I was still standing firmly on New Olivia ground.

•   •   •

THE REST OF the week really tested that theory.

I landed five—five—job interviews, which thrilled me. I felt like I was going to have a job before Eli even realized that I’d left the city. I was going to be gainfully employed before my mother even had a chance to interrogate me for hours on end about my progress.

Hell, I’d probably have multiple offers to choose from, right?

Wrong.

Because at each of the interviews, I came down with verbal diarrhea.

At the first one, I accidentally mentioned the fire. When I was asked why I’d moved, my mouth had betrayed me and dispensed the truth instead of the generalities I’d carefully practiced.

Mr. Holtings, my interviewer, looked at me over his readers and said, “Fire?”

And for some reason, trying to explain it made me giggle. I started describing what had happened, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling while I said it.

“There was a, um, a fire, and my apartment building burned down.” A stifled snort.

And sadly, with each sentence I spewed, I could hear the ridiculousness of the words and how nuts my laughing made me sound. Which, of course, struck me as more and more hilarious and I lost all control.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was being careful.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “But that possum came out of nowhere and knocked over the bucket.”

I had to pause to wipe at my tears of laugher.

I was definitely not getting the job.

At the next interview, I accidentally mentioned the Tribune and then tried to backtrack and say I hadn’t worked there.

“Wait.” The very nice woman narrowed her eyes and said, “You worked at the Chicago Tribune? How come you didn’t put that on your résumé?”

“Oh, I, um, I didn’t really work there.” I smiled and my brain short-circuited and I actually said the words “I was just kidding.”

Side note: If you ever land an internship at a major newspaper, never engage in a conversation with your coworker about their vibrator, even if said coworker was the one to bring it up and you were just being polite. As it turns out, if someone in the lunchroom overhears and goes to HR, they will fire you both, regardless of who owns Purple Thunder.

But I digress.

Regardless, I was killing myself with my ability to speak. If I could just get a job, I knew I’d make any employer happy. Because I was a good writer. I could proficiently communicate almost anything on paper.

But I had to somehow get through face-to-face meetings first.

At the next interview, I tripped over a chair and reflexively grunted out a semi-loud fuck me as it happened. But the two interviews that followed actually went fairly well. I didn’t get a callback, and I didn’t become buddies with the interviewers, but the fact that I didn’t destroy my own chances was a good sign, right?

The only good thing to occur during that series of unfortunate events was the daily communication I exchanged with the stranger. He’d sent a funny butt-dial text the night after my erroneous Starbucks message, and since then we’d been texting every night. Nothing important, just pointless, idiotic conversations about nothing.

The night before was no exception.

Me: What do you think the first guy to ever milk a cow was thinking?

Mr. Wrong Number: Come again?

Me: Ew, I doubt it was that. But was he just super curious, like I wonder what this thing does? Or did he see a calf nursing and he was all DUDE MY TURN?

I’d pictured him shirtless and leaning back against his headboard, smiling as he texted back, but I knew all the while it was pure fantasy that my anonymous bestie would be ripped.

Mr. Wrong Number: Maybe it was a bro thing, where two guys dared each other to touch the teat and then—boom—out squirts the milk.

Me: Touch the Teat. Band name—called it.

Mr. Wrong Number: It’s all yours.

Me: Am I interrupting something, btw, with my cow-teat inquiry?

Mr. Wrong Number: Nope. Just lying in bed, wide-awake.

Me: Please don’t go creeper on me now.

Mr. Wrong Number: What? I’m not a creep. I’m just lying in bed, naked, practicing my rope-tying skills while listening to Robin Thicke.

I shook my head and rolled over on the air mattress.

Me: Nausea-inducing level of creep right there.

Mr. Wrong Number: Which was the problem? The rope or the nudity? Or the Thicke?

Me: The combination. Brings to mind all the distasteful options of what one could be tying. While Thicke-ing it up.

Mr. Wrong Number: I shall *restrain* myself.

Me: I see what you did there.

Mr. Wrong Number: Is there a reason why the teat question is in play, btw?

Me: I can’t sleep, so sometimes instead of counting sheep I start considering the bizarre questions that my brain is constantly churning up.

Mr. Wrong Number: The things you wonder about are batshit crazy.

Me: Like I don’t already know that.

But today, on the last interview, the clouds parted and things went really well. Glenda, the editor at the Times, was super friendly and we actually connected. I was behaving like a normal human adult and she was really funny, and it couldn’t have gone better.

Until.

She said, “What we’re looking for with this parenting columnist is someone who can add a real voice to the section. A writer who can tackle parenting topics but still makes readers laugh—or cry—with their very distinct point of view.”

I smiled and nodded, but my brain was scrambling. Parenting? What in the literal hell? I’d applied to be an entertainment blogger, not a parenting columnist. I’d seen the post for the parenting position, but I didn’t apply for it because—news flash—I wasn’t a parent. Like, the idea of squeezing out an entire human and being the person solely responsible for their survival had literally given me nightmares.

Could you even imagine?

Surely I’d lose my grip and drop the kid in the alligator swamp during a leisurely trip to the zoo, or maybe I’d just trip and fall on top of them because tripping was kind of my thing. If there was any way to klutzily, accidentally destroy my tiny human, I would most assuredly do it.

Glenda said, “I read some of your work at ohbabybaby.com, and it’s exactly what we’re looking for. The tongue-in-cheek comedic angle while still addressing legitimate parental topics is pretty much the vibe we’re interested in.”

“Great.”

“Your article about that Kardashian kid’s wardrobe made me cackle.”

I smiled. That piece had been one of my favorites.

I’d taken the job writing articles for OhBabyBaby as a side hustle to my boring technical writing job because living in Chicago was expensive. The site’s target audience was parents, but it actually wasn’t a parenting site. I’d done articles on which celebrities looked best pregnant, whose kids had the best wardrobes, the funniest Pinterest fails, and, of course, gender reveal nightmares.

Was that why she thought I was applying for the parenting job? Had my résumé been read and then promptly misrouted to Glenda because of OhBabyBaby? I opened my mouth to address it, when she asked, “How old are your kids, by the way?”

I swallowed. Blinked. Scratched my right eyebrow. “Two. Um, two and four,” I heard myself say, and I immediately wanted to slap myself in the face.

Her face lit up. “Mine are two and five! Boys or girls?”

I felt my armpits get instantly sweaty, and I pictured my nephews. “Both boys.”

“Mine are both girls.” She beamed at me and I hated myself. I was a lying, child-faking loser, and I didn’t deserve the kindness of this woman. She said, “Everyone tells me to buckle up for the high school years.”

I shrugged, and pictured the boys again. It was less severe a lie if I pictured actual people as I lied, right? I conjured up Kyle and Brady again. “Mine are killing me now—I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to those years. Because if I have to watch one more episode of Paw Patrol . . .”

“Right?” She shook her head. “I mean, what kind of town leans on a teenage boy to solve all of their problems?”

“An idiotic town whose mayor has a pet chicken. I mean, that fact alone should have sent up all the red flags.”

We small-talked about our kids—please kill me—for a few more minutes before the interview ended. She shook my hand and said she’d be in touch, and I honestly wanted to cry as I rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Because I wanted that job.

I wasn’t a mom and knew nothing about being a mom, but I wanted that job so bad. And not just because I desperately needed employment. I wanted to work with Glenda. I wanted to write tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic-yet-sweet parenting articles. My creative side was tingling because I knew I could totally kick ass at that job.

If only I had kids.

I walked back to the apartment slowly, teetering in the cheap black pumps I’d worn to homecoming my junior year. I tried talking myself into a little positivity as I headed home; there were still exciting things happening in my life, right?

I was living downtown, which was my absolute favorite thing, so that was cool. In a great apartment, no less, even if it was with my brother and I had to sleep on a bed that was made of a raft.

Things really could be a lot worse.

Hell, I could be living with my parents.

And I was still getting up early and running every day; for me, that was huge. Even though I panted like a dog and had to stop to walk every three blocks or so, I was a week into my new life and still trying to make it stick.

It helped that Colin was gone. He’d been away in Boston on business, and if he were home, I probably would’ve blown off running because no way could I ever have him as a running buddy. But with him out of the picture, I’d been able to jog without stress.

I’d also been sneaking into his room and napping on top of his fancy pillow-soft bed every day, so I was more well-rested than I’d been in a really long time. I knew it was a little scrubby of me to use his bed without asking, but that air mattress was killing my back and I was incredibly careful to sleep above the covers.

What he didn’t know and all that, right?

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of the pocket of the skirt I’d worn to the DECA convention my sophomore year.

Mr. Wrong Number: I have time to kill and I’m bored. Give me something to ponder.

I glanced up and moved over to the right, stopping beside a closed storefront so I could text without walking into traffic or getting trampled by my fellow on-foot commuters. I texted: I’m busy. You think I can just come up with these gems on the fly?

Mr. Wrong Number: That is exactly what I think.

That made me smile because it was bizarre the way I kind of felt like he got me, even though we were total strangers.

I pushed up my sunglasses before typing: Okay. Do you think an intelligent person who has never done a CERTAIN THING is capable of giving good advice about a CERTAIN THING if they’re studious and do the research?

Mr. Wrong Number: First of all, this one’s boring. Second, you’re asking for a friend, right?

Me: Right.

Mr. Wrong Number: Okay. Well. I think it depends. If you’re talking about surgery—please God no. But if you’re talking about something a little abstract, like dating advice, then yes, I think it’s possible for the right person to pull it off.

Parenting was kind of abstract, right?

Me: Thank you. Okay, I’ll give you what you really want now.

Mr. Wrong Number: Oh, baby.

Me: Eww.

Mr. Wrong Number: Waiting.

Me: How many 5th grade boys could you beat in a fight at one time? And no weapons allowed.

Mr. Wrong Number: What if my hands are registered weapons?

Me: Spare me the machismo.

Mr. Wrong Number: Hmm. I’d say . . . twelve.

Me: You have GOT to be kidding.

Mr. Wrong Number: You think more?

Me: Your answer makes me think you’ve never been around little boys. I’d say no more than six, because you only have two hands. That’s three kids per hand.

Mr. Wrong Number: But you’re forgetting about the legs.

Me: The legs can hold them off, but not win. The win will be in the hands.

Mr. Wrong Number: You clearly skip leg day.

Me: Listen, I have to go. I’m literally standing on the sidewalk and texting like I’m a teenager.

Mr. Wrong Number: Holy shit—did I ever ask? You’re not a teenager, are you???

Me: Relax, I’m 25. You’re . . . not a baby either, right?

Mr. Wrong Number: 29 so you’re safe.

Me: Although really, it’s not like we’re sexting or anything. It technically wouldn’t even matter if we weren’t of age.

Mr. Wrong Number: . . . sending dick pic . . .

Me: I will block you so fast. Unless you’ve got some sort of . . . special gift. Then I will block you, but slowly.

Mr. Wrong Number: I’ll be good.

Me: Thank God. Because I would actually hate to have to block you. Weird, right?

Mr. Wrong Number: Same. And totally weird.

Me: Okay, well, later, Mr. Wrong Number.

Mr. Wrong Number: Goodbye, Miss Misdial. And btw, I would totally get the slow block.

•   •   •

“YOU HAVE TO hold on or you’ll fall off.”

“Okay.” Kyle wrapped his arms around my neck, squeezed, and yelled, “Go, donkey!”

I started crawling across the hardwood floor of the apartment while he rode me like I was an actual donkey. Brady, on the other hand, was staring mindlessly at the TV while my oldest brother, Will, knelt before him, struggling to put on his little shoes.

“Why do you let him do that?” Jack asked from his spot on the couch, a grimace on his face as he watched me. “He’s too big.”

I crawled faster as Kyle giggled. “Because of this. Auntie Liv is his favorite and I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that never changes.”

“Once he’s old enough to know what cool is, Uncle Jack will pull in the lead.”

“You have never watched the boys.” Will picked up Brady and threw him over his shoulder while giving Jack a look. “Not even once. Liv, on the other hand, babysat for us even when she didn’t live here.”

Jack rolled his eyes and said to Will, “Like you would’ve ever babysat a couple of toddlers when you were single.”

I collapsed onto the floor, bucking Kyle off and making him giggle hysterically.

Will shot him a grin of commiseration. “True. I don’t even love it now, and they’re my own kids.”

I sat up, sticking out a hand to deflect Kyle’s reboarding attempt. “You guys are crazy; I’d borrow the boys for months at a time if I could.”

“Not while you’re staying here.” Jack pointed at me with his Lone Star bottle. “This is a special exception because Colin’s out of town. Just a one-off.”

Will and I exchanged a look, because I’d already agreed to watch the boys for Will and Dana’s upcoming date night.

“Speaking of Colin,” I said, watching as Kyle got herded toward the door by Will, “what does he do for a living? When I saw him last week he looked . . . I don’t know, important. Businessy. I thought he was, like, a salesman.”

“You’re so clueless,” Will laughed, and I flipped him off.

He gestured at his kids, feigning outrage. “The children, Livvie.”

“Well, knock off your crap so I don’t teach them my bad habits.” I rolled my eyes and climbed to my feet. “So what does Colin actually do, then?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jack said, “I think his title is something like senior financial analyst.”

I tried to picture it. “For real?”

“For real.” He started peeling the label off his beer as he said, “It gives him an unfair advantage in fantasy football that pisses me off.”

I walked over to the door to give the boys kisses before they left, but I looked over my shoulder at Jack and said, “I can’t believe he works in finance.”

I kind of assumed he’d be good at his job, whatever it was, but I’d imagined Colin working in real estate or something equally slick, like a sports car salesman.

“You’re surprised?” Jack stood and set down his beer. “He has a master’s in math and got a perfect score on his ACT.”

“Shut up.” I mean, Colin didn’t come across as stupid, but he also didn’t bring to mind equations and studiousness, either. His bone structure was too good for that kind of solidity. “I had no idea.”

“That’s because you always assumed the worst about him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, come on. He always gave you shit, and you couldn’t take it so you decided he was Satan.”

“You have to admit, he has the slick overconfidence of Lucifer.”

“Nah.” Will put the diaper bag over his shoulder and said, “That’s just rich-boy overconfidence. The arrogance that comes from growing up wealthy.”

“Probably.” My mother had always treated him like he was an actual prince when he came around because according to her, everyone in his family was a fancy lawyer. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles; they all worked at Beck & Beck, the city’s oldest and most prestigious law firm.

“That’s bullshit.” Jack brought Kyle’s stuffed Paw Patrol dog over to where we were in the entryway. “His family is loaded, but Colin and his sister aren’t snooty like the rest of them.”

“Wait, Colin has a sister?”

How had I not known that? I remembered Jack telling me a whole dramatic story when we were in high school about Colin’s dad having an affair with his paralegal and then getting pissed at Colin’s mother for being upset about it. Jack had said the guy was so entitled that he lost his shit whenever someone dared to not agree with him.

I’d been fascinated by that story, because it sounded way more like my mother’s beloved General Hospital than anything I knew to be real life. Jack used to say Colin’s dad was a jerk who constantly rode Colin’s ass, but I didn’t recall anything about a sister. I’d pictured him all alone in the drama. “He’s got ‘Entitled Only Child’ written all over him.”

“See? Assuming the worst.”

“Whatever. Come here, Kyle.” I knelt, burrowed my face into the nape of his neck, and blew, which made him erupt into giggles. He hugged me tightly and wouldn’t let go, so it led to me carrying him down to Will’s car because I wasn’t ready to let him go yet, either.

Suddenly I was glad to no longer live five hundred miles away.

After they drove off, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I ignored it as I went inside and rode the elevator up, because I wasn’t allowing myself to engage with Mr. Wrong Number until I was finished with my projects. I still needed to shower (not really a project but definitely necessary), send thank-you emails for the interviews I’d botched, and create a list of ten more positions to apply for tomorrow.

After that, I’d allow myself to play with my anonymous friend.

Who, apparently, would require the slow block.

Lawd. I really need to stop thinking about him.

•   •   •

I’D RACED THROUGH my chores and was finally done with my assignments, so I was going to have a little fun and converse with Mr. Wrong Number for a bit. I dropped down to the raft-bed, feeling pathetically excited as I grabbed my phone and opened my messages.

And—yes—there was one from him, sent thirty minutes ago.

Mr. Wrong Number: Come out and play.

Butterflies flitted through my stomach as I lay back on the bed and smiled down at the phone. What do you want to play?

Mr. Wrong Number: Such a loaded question from the lady.

I knew the dude was a troll, but I still felt flirty.

Me: How about twenty questions?

Mr. Wrong Number: I thought we wanted to stay anonymous.

Me: We do. Maybe . . . twenty questions about things we like.

Mr. Wrong Number: Sexually?

“Wow.” I looked at the phone and wasn’t sure how to respond.

Me: That seems like it’s crossing a line, doesn’t it?

Mr. Wrong Number: It does, but it sounds fun, too.

Me: Okay, well, let’s keep it clinical.

Mr. Wrong Number: What does that even mean?

Me: I don’t know. Like, discussing sex without being intimate.

Mr. Wrong Number: So we’re like an old married couple?

Me: No, we’re like scientists discussing data.

Mr. Wrong Number: Permission to request an example.

Me: Granted.

I stared into space, smiling and trying to think of something. I typed, Sample question: What is your favorite position? Sample answer: Missionary.

Mr. Wrong Number: Please tell me the sample answer isn’t your actual boring-ass answer.

Me: I cannot answer until the game officially begins.

Mr. Wrong Number: Let’s go.

Me: Wait. If you’re a really freaky dude, like into stuff that requires chat rooms to meet others like you or if you have a special sex room, I would like to respectfully bow out of this game. No judgment, but we’re just on different levels.

Mr. Wrong Number: What if it’s just a tiny sex closet?

Me: Tiny Sex Closet. Band name—called it.

Mr. Wrong Number: Question One—What’s your favorite position?

Me: I like being on top.

Mr. Wrong Number: Question Two—Traditional on top, or reverse cowgirl?

That made me literally laugh out loud, and I rolled onto my stomach.

Me: Okay, what is with that? First of all, who names sexual positions? Is it high schoolers? It has to be because the names are so idiotic. Unless a Stetson is a requirement for the position. Then it is perfectly appropriate. Secondly, if any female says reverse cowgirl is her favorite, she’s lying. The angle is all wrong and who wants to use knobby knees for leverage?

Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. Tell me how you really feel.

Me: Okay, your turn. Question One: What’s your favorite position?

Mr. Wrong Number: I like the missionary/from-behind combo.

Me: I didn’t know we could do a combo. And I thought you said missionary was boring.

Mr. Wrong Number: No, I said it’s boring for you. I’m really good at it, though.

I rolled my eyes and set down the phone. What was wrong with me? Why was I feeling so giddy, talking to a stranger? I’d seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish; I knew the facts.

But still, I was smitten with my anonymous friend.

The only thing that made my affinity for this weird texting connection okay was that I wanted this guy to be anonymous forever. I didn’t ever want to meet him or get to know him in real life; that would ruin whatever made this so great.

So I was fine to play a little.

I opened the door and went into the kitchen for some water. I needed to cool down a bit or I’d end up sending boob pics to a stranger like some sort of irresponsible college girl. I walked over to the fridge, and just as I was opening it, Colin came out of his room.

Oh, sweet Lord.

He was shirtless and shredded, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs that showed off the corded muscles in his thighs, and I felt the heat rush up my chest and burn my cheeks as I quickly trained my eyes on his face.

Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

“Hey.” I struggled to make my suddenly dry mouth form words. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Well, I am.” He walked over, completely confident in his underwear. He looked a little less sarcastic than usual, somehow a little softer as he gave me a half grin. “Looks like it’s a thirsty night for everyone.”

Wow. Thirsty.

And so much naked.

I cleared my throat and grabbed two bottles of water. “Definitely.”

I extended one to him and he took it, his voice a little scratchy when he said, “Thanks.”

I think I managed to say blerg-g’night or something equally eloquent.

When I got back to my phone, I read Wrong Number’s message and felt a little giggly.

Mr. Wrong Number: Last question for the night. Long and slow, or fast and furious?

I imagined there was a sexy eloquence I should invoke, but I couldn’t stop myself from my knee-jerk answer.

Me: Fast and furious. Every time.

Mr. Wrong Number: You’re not into hot oil, Enya-on-a-loop, tantric kind of bedding?

Wow. I bit down on my lip, wondered yet again what the hell I was doing with this whole exchanging-sex-talk-with-a-stranger thing, and then I responded.

Me: I’ll take back-scratching, shoulder-biting, frantic-sex-against-a-wall for five hundred, Alex.

Mr. Wrong Number: I knew you were smart, Misdial. Sweet dreams, okay?

I lay back on the mattress and wondered when it’d gotten so hot.

Me: Like I’m sleeping now, jackass. G’night.