Mr. Wrong Number(5)

Mr. Wrong Number: Three examples, please.



I smiled. It felt wildly freeing to talk to someone who didn’t know me.


Me: In college, I was clipping my toenails and ended up having to wear an eye patch for a month.

Mr. Wrong Number: Disgusting, but impressive. #2?

Me: I once got stuck in a tipped-over porta-potty.

Mr. Wrong Number: Good Lord.

Me: Music festival, strong winds. The thing blew over, door side down. I still have nightmares.

Mr. Wrong Number: I want to move on to #3, but I have to know how long you were trapped.

Me: Twenty minutes but it felt like days. My drunk friends lifted it enough for me to squeeze through the door crack.

Mr. Wrong Number: I’m assuming you were . . .

Me: Absolutely covered in waste.

Mr. Wrong Number: I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Me: As you should. And just to add a cherry to the top of your entertainment sundae, the story ends in me being doused with gallons of high-powered water that were dispensed by a fire hose.

Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. You definitely can’t top #2.

Me: Oh, you ignorant little fool. #2 is but a warm-up.

Mr. Wrong Number: Well give me #3, then.



I thought about it for a minute. I mean, there were hundreds of embarrassing bad luck moments I could’ve shared with him. The time I dropped a bowling ball on my toe on my first date, the time I fell into an empty pool and broke my elbow; such was my life. But since I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me, I shared the rawest one.


Me: Not only did I introduce my boyfriend—now ex—to my stunningly beautiful coworker, but I encouraged him to collaborate with her on a project that required them to spend countless hours alone together in her apartment.

Mr. Wrong Number: Oof.

Me: Right? Probably doesn’t qualify as bad luck when it’s pure stupidity.

Mr. Wrong Number: I don’t know you, so you could be a raging psycho. BUT. If you’re not, I think it makes you unbelievably cool, the fact that you’d trust them both that much.



I hadn’t actually told anyone in the world what’d happened with Eli yet, so it felt good, having someone say that.


Me: You say that, but would you ever be that stupid?

Mr. Wrong Number: No comment.



I snorted. See?


Mr. Wrong Number: How about I give you one of my stupid moments to even this out?

Me: I thought you said it wasn’t stupid.

Mr. Wrong Number: Hush.

Me: Please continue.

Mr. Wrong Number: In college, I proposed to my girlfriend without a ring.

Me: That’s not stupid.

Mr. Wrong Number: She said no because—and I quote—“if you knew me at all, you’d know I want a ring.”

Me: Oof.

Mr. Wrong Number: Right?

Me: I can’t imagine having my life together enough IN COLLEGE to propose marriage. I was still getting floor-licking drunk every weekend right up until graduation.

Mr. Wrong Number: Maybe I should’ve tried that, instead.

Me: I’m guessing you’re over it?

Mr. Wrong Number: Why are you guessing that?

Me: Because you’re sending “what are you wearing” texts to randos.

Mr. Wrong Number: I AM over it, but you were a misdial, not a rando. I was sending that text to someone I knew, remember?

Me: Oh, yes—of course.



I stretched my legs out in front of me and looked up at the stars. It was a gorgeous night, and I was actually having fun.

Talking to a wrong number.

God, I was pathetic.


Me: Listen, Wrong Number, you seem like a damned delight, but I don’t have any interest in an internet friend. I’ve seen Catfish and 90 Day Fiancé, and that is not my jam.

Mr. Wrong Number: Nor mine.

Me: So . . . have a great night, then.

Mr. Wrong Number: So that’s it? It’s either zero or Catfish?

Me: Afraid so.

Mr. Wrong Number: And this isn’t the internet, for the record.

Me: True, but still the same.

Mr. Wrong Number: You don’t find this kind of . . . entertaining?

Me: I do, actually.

Mr. Wrong Number: So . . . ?

Me: So . . . sticking with my original answer. These things always get weird.

Mr. Wrong Number: You’re probably right. Especially with your bad luck.

Me: Yup.

Mr. Wrong Number: Well, good night, then, Miss Misdial.

Me: Good night to you, Mr. Wrong Number.



I put my phone away and it almost felt like I was waking up from something, like I’d just come outside after a month in a dark basement. I felt more relaxed than I’d been in a really long time as I stretched in the moonlight and stacked my hands behind my head.

It was strange to think, but I kind of felt like it was because I’d unloaded on Wrong Number. I felt lighter. Light enough to go back to the apartment, in fact.

Because really, who cared if Jack and Colin thought I was a loser? Why had I let that bother me in the first place? I loved my brother, but the reality was that theirs was just an apartment for me to sleep in for the next month.

A really nice apartment that I was going to enjoy, dammit. Like an Airbnb without the required payment.

I texted Jack: Are you guys home?