Mr. Wrong Number(4)
Because it wasn’t my fault.
Yes, I’d been burning Eli’s poems. I’d been perilously close to wine drunk as I chain-smoked on the balcony and torched the letters from that cheating bastard, but I’d burned them in a metal pail. I had a huge cup of water beside the pail, just in case. I wasn’t an idiot. I’d been fully prepared for my Cheating Elijah exorcism.
But I hadn’t been prepared for the possum.
I’d been quietly gazing into my tiny bonfire, contemplating the fact that being alone might not be so terrible, when that ugly little guy had run across the gutter and jumped onto my deck. My gasp had alerted him to my presence, scaring him. Scaring him enough for him to scatter and bump the table that the pail was sitting on top of, knocking the pail onto the deck.
The deck that was covered in an adorable straw mat.
“Listen,” I said, trying to sound unfazed, “I’d love to stand around and discuss what a mess you think I am, but I have things to do. Can you please turn around?”
“Why?”
I sighed and wanted to disappear. “Because the more awake I become, the less happy I am to be talking to you sans pants.”
His eyes crinkled around the edges. “I didn’t think you ever got embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.” If it were anyone else in the world, I would laughingly admit that I got embarrassed super easily and all the time, which was what usually was to blame for my trips, spills, and general awkwardness. But because it was Colin, I said, “I’m just not sure you’re worthy of an eyeful of this ass.”
I walked past him and left the kitchen with my head held high, even as my face burned and I prayed my butt looked good in those ridiculous underpants. It wasn’t until I slammed the door of my makeshift room that I allowed myself to whisper-scream nearly every obscenity I knew.
2
Olivia
The day didn’t get much better.
I barricaded myself in the office and applied for ten jobs I was completely underqualified for. There were a few openings for technical writers, which I was qualified for but not excited about, and a slew of other copywriter jobs that I almost fit the profile for (but not quite).
In the process I managed to jam up the printer (that I’d used without permission) and spill toner powder on the white rug (spoiler: Cleaning it with water was a terrible idea and the rug was toast), so I was off to a great start.
After that, I drove over to my parents’ house to grab some of the clothes I left behind when I went to college. While I depressingly dug through clothes that hadn’t been trendy in a decade, my mother showed me the virtual scrapbook she was keeping of links to stories about the fire. You know, just so I could remember it years from now.
Then she fed me lasagna while my father lectured me on adult behavior and the importance of renter’s insurance.
I left their house with heartburn, leftovers, and a chip on my shoulder that was a hell of a lot bigger than the Kennedy Marching Band T-shirt that I was going to have to get reacquainted with until I got a job and earned new clothes.
I wondered how far the closest plasma donation facility was.
When I got back to Jack’s building, I just didn’t feel like going up yet. The day had been so filled with one horrendous thing after another that I wasn’t quite ready to deal with Colin. Or my brother, for that matter.
Definitely not their irritation when I told them about the white rug.
So I went up to the roof instead.
I’d noticed the sign in the elevator about the rooftop patio, and it did not disappoint. It had a ridiculous view of the city below, framed with overflowing pots of bright petunias and fancy chaise longue chairs.
I sat down, tucked my legs under me, and took in a deep breath of summer air.
Ahhhh. It felt like the first time I’d breathed since Eli had shown up at the coffee shop and told me how much he didn’t love me.
Had that really been two days ago?
My phone buzzed, and when I looked down, I saw a text from the same unfamiliar number from the night before.
What are you wearing?
Wrong number dude was at it again? What a loser. I texted: Haha. Did that actually work for you last night, btw?
A couple laughed around the fire pit that was glowing on the other side of the rooftop, and I wondered what the possum population was like in this part of town.
Mr. Wrong Number: After the cold shower your mental image dumped on me, I didn’t even try. I went home and went to bed.
Me: Oh, poor baby. So sorry I ruined the world’s cheesiest attempt at action.
Mr. Wrong Number: You don’t know I wanted action. I might’ve been taking a survey on female attire.
Me: Sure you were.
Mr. Wrong Number: On that note, I’m taking a survey on female attire. Can you describe your current outfit?
I glanced down at my gym shorts and texted: Valentino gown, Ferragamo pumps, and the kickiest little feathered hat you’ve ever seen. Might’ve belonged to the Queen.
Mr. Wrong Number: So you’re in pajamas.
Me: Basically.
Mr. Wrong Number: Antisocial by choice or bad luck?
Me: Choice. But my luck is, in fact, the baddest.
Mr. Wrong Number: Can’t be that bad.
Me: Oh, you have no idea.