Mr. Wrong Number

Colin fell asleep around three; I could hear in his breathing that he was out.

My back was against his chest and his arms were wrapped around me, and I was kind of in shock over just how incredible the night had been.

I mean, Colin being good at sex was no surprise; I’d somehow known he would be. But he’d been sweet and funny and a tiny bit romantic, too, which was one hell of a surprise. The way he’d held my face while he was kissing me, the hot look in his blue eyes—my stomach got light when I thought of it, and he was still in my bed, for God’s sake.

The night was a mistake—of course it was—but it wasn’t a mistake I’d regret. It’d been too good. If Colin were any other guy in the world, I’d be freaking out at that very minute and daydreaming about him becoming my boyfriend.

Thank God I knew better.

Even though he’d surprised me with his sweetness, it was still just sex. Just the two of us responding to the chemistry, and now it could never happen again. In real life, we never would’ve connected in a relationship sort of way, so this had just been us getting in a few more good rolls before the sun came up.

I smiled and burrowed my head deeper into the linen pillowcase that smelled like Colin’s laundry detergent. Who would’ve thought the greatest sex of my life would be with Colin Beck?

I closed my eyes and let the quiet sound of his breathing lull me to sleep.

•   •   •

MY PHONE.

I sat up in bed, waking up as my phone chirped from where it was charging on the floor. I was confused for half a second before I looked down and saw that I was sprawled out across a very sleepy-looking Colin.

Who was smirking at me.

Shit. One look at his face and the events of the night before came rushing back.

Holy balls.

It’d been an incredible night, but Colin had made me feel too much. I felt my cheeks get hot as he grinned and I said, “Hey, you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Good morning.”

The phone was loud, and I had to crawl over him to grab it. Part of me was glad for the distraction, because I needed to get my thoughts together and be cool about Colin. I glanced at the display—it was Glenda.

“Oh.” I stole the sheet, wrapped it around my body, and moved to sit at the foot of the bed in case Colin wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hello?”

I watched Colin climb out of bed and grab his pants from the floor, stepping into them, and it almost felt too intimate for me to witness.

“Olivia, it’s Glenda. Listen, I’m just going to get right to it.”

Her voice sounded weird—pissed—and my stomach dropped. Something was very wrong. I scrambled off the bed, grasping the top of the sheet before running down the stairs to take the call. I didn’t want Colin to hear. “Oka—”

“Beth with human resources is also on the line, just in case we require assistance, okay?”

Oh, my God. “Um, okay.”

“It’s been brought to our attention that you don’t have any children. Is this true?”

My ears started buzzing and I felt queasy. “Um, technically yes, but if you’ll let me ex—”

“So you completely fabricated two children in order to get this job, is that correct?”

“No!” My heartbeat was going bonkers as I tried to think of a way to explain. “I mean, kind of yes. God. It started as a tiny misunderstanding, and then I didn’t know how—”

“We cannot have a parenting columnist who isn’t a parent.” Glenda sounded so cold that my throat hurt. “But bigger than that, one of our core values at the Times is integrity, Olivia. Dishonesty is absolutely unacceptable and will not be tolerated.”

I blinked fast and felt both cold and hot. And also like a terrible human being. I tried not to cry. “I’m so sorry. Do you think we could get together and—”

“We have no choice but to terminate your employment.” It was clear Glenda didn’t care to hear my side of it, and I didn’t blame her. “Beth is going to take over the call and give you information on COBRA and your NDA. Take care.”

Just like that Glenda was gone, and the nice HR lady started going over my nondisclosure agreement. I listened as she explained the legal recourse of telling secrets, and it made me think of my own secrets.

How the hell had they found out?

I hadn’t told anyone other than Colin that I was the 402 Mom, but he wouldn’t tell, right? I mean, who the hell would he tell? He was too busy—and too self-absorbed—to tattle to the newspaper about my dishonesty.

I could still hear his words on the balcony. You really think in a town like Omaha it’s not going to come out?

As if on cue Colin appeared, skipping down the loft steps, looking like expensive sin. He could’ve been in a brochure for a country club that very second, in his bare feet and tailored pants, throwing out his good haircut and bone structure like tangible pheromones.

But as I laid eyes on all of that sophistication, it hit me—he was the one who told. He had to be. I was positive he hadn’t called the paper and ratted me out or anything like that, but I was equally positive he’d probably laughingly recounted to my brother or some of his rich-boy buddies the story of his idiotic friend who was pulling off an idiotic ruse.

He’d probably seen the billboard and told the story.

Dammit, I’d known everything was too good to be true. The job had been too good to be true, and so had my “friendship” with Colin. What the hell had I been thinking, trusting the guy who told me in sixth grade that my makeup looked like something a drunk old lady would paint on her face?

I turned away from him and listened to the details of how to continue my insurance before the HR girl officially terminated both me and the phone call. The second I hung up, Colin stepped into my line of sight and said, “Who was that? What’s wrong?”

I just shook my head and blinked fast, but tears fell as I managed, “It’s . . . God. It’s just . . . of course.”

He took a step toward me and I held out my hand. “Listen, Colin. Can you just go?”

His eyebrows were crinkled like he was worried. Yeah, right. His eyes traveled all over my face as he said, “Yeah, but maybe I can help.”

I croaked, “You can’t.”

“But maybe there’s a—”

“You’ve already helped enough, okay?” I wiped at my eyes but my voice was throaty when I crossed my arms and said, “Thanks for sexing me up, Col, but you need to leave.”

“Col?” He leaned back a little, like I’d taken a swipe at him, and said, “What just happened?”

“What just happened?” I sniffled and another stupid tear fell, but I didn’t feel sad anymore. I was on-fire pissed, and I narrowed my eyes at that jackass. “I trusted Colin Beck, that’s what happened. I just got fired, that’s what happened.”

“What?” He looked confused. “You got fired?”

“Yeah, as it turns out, they don’t like it when their parenting columnists aren’t parents.”

“Oh, shit. They found out?” His eyebrows went up. “Wait. You don’t think that I—”

“Of course I think that, Colin. You’re the only one who knew.”

He looked speechless for a second—sucks getting caught, bro—and then he said, “Livvie, why would I—”

“Because you’re you, Colin!” I dropped my arms to my sides and wanted to scream. “You’re an arrogant asshole who has always mocked me for your own entertainment. I’m sure you thought it was hilarious that I was lying about my job, so you probably shared the story with your douchey country club friends over golf and caviar or something.”

He looked stunned by that. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“For sure it is. Just wait till you tell them about last night, right? Your dad will probably call you a chip off the ol’ block and buy the whole place a round.” I jerked the sheet around my body and said, “I’m going to shower. Please be gone by the time I get out.”

•   •   •

I SLOWLY OPENED the bathroom door and listened.

Nothing.

All was quiet, which meant that Colin had left, thank God. I’d held it all in while I showered, just in case he was still there and wanted to talk, but now that I had visual confirmation of his absence, I lost it.

I broke down into full-out ugly crying as my quiet apartment forced me to face all of the terrible facts. I’d lost my job, trusted a jerk, slept with said jerk, and now I had furniture that I couldn’t afford on the way and a fab new apartment that was way out of my price range.

Which was zero, by the way.

I pretty much bawled for the next hour, overwhelmed by everything I’d just lost.

Then I got pissed.

Because almost as bad as the ruination of my burgeoning career was the thought of Colin in one of his fancy suits, tipping back martinis with women who looked like Harper and saying, “I know the girl who writes that. She’s the one who burned down her apartment—remember her? Yeah, she’s a total screwup who doesn’t even have kids.”

Insert a fancy lounge full of rich professionals laughing.

Shit.

I stripped the bed of Colin’s sheets and jammed them into a trash bag. At first I was going to leave them on his doorstep, but knowing my amazing luck, Jack would find them and I’d be totally hosed, so I decided not to. Ultimately I took the bag down to the dumpster and threw away a perfectly lovely set of expensive linen sheets.

By late afternoon I was out of emotion. I got in that sterile, detached mood that always hit after saying, Screw everything. I applied for a few content jobs and sent an email to one of the online companies that’d offered me freelance work before I’d been hired by the Times. They were all crappy, creativity-free positions, but they’d at least pay the bills.

I walked down to the market on the corner and purchased a dinner of hot dogs, a box of Frosted Flakes, and Diet Coke, and once I got home, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was such a quiet apartment with no TV, and I was getting sick of mindlessly messing with my phone. I had a bed and two barstools—that was it.

Empty, like me at the moment.

I kept thinking Colin would text an apology, but of course not. He probably didn’t even care.

Jackass.

I forced myself not to think about the night before—no good could come of that—and after lying on my bare mattress for an hour with no sleepiness to be found, I sent a text to Mr. Wrong Number.

Me: I know we don’t know each other, but we DID have an actual friendship and you could’ve at least said goodbye. Right now everything in my life is in the trash and I’m kind of alone, and I could really use an anonymous friend. Sucks that you suck so badly.

I plugged my phone into the charger and shut off the light.

Screw him, too.

Boys sucked.

But then my phone buzzed. I looked down at it in the darkness.

Mr. Wrong Number: I can’t tell you why I disappeared, but it was nothing you did and I’m so sorry for leaving you alone. I know you’re mad, but if you need to talk, I’m here.

I wanted to stay mad but the truth of the matter was that I needed to talk. I desperately needed to talk to someone who didn’t know me or my situation. I turned the light back on.

Me: What would you say if I told you that I slept with my brother’s best friend, got fired from my job for lying, then found out that my brother’s best friend was the one responsible for airing the secret that got me fired?

Colin

I stared down at the phone in my hand and didn’t know what to do. Hell.

Because I was torn between feeling really bad for Liv, and being really pissed at her. It sucked that she got fired from a job she loved, especially when she was so good at it. I knew her well enough to know she was hurt and also stressing the hell out over paying rent on the new apartment.

Which was why I’d sent that apology text from Mr. Wrong Number.

But.

How could she think I’d tell? That was ludicrous in and of itself—like, who the fuck would I tell?—but her quick accusation had shown exactly what she thought of me. After living together for a month, I’d thought we’d become friends in our way.

And then the sex.

So I was shocked speechless when she basically said I was exactly like my father. Shit, I wouldn’t have even guessed she’d known or remembered my dad, but apparently she did and assumed I was his country club mini-me. My worst goddamned nightmare.

You’ve been a busy girl, I responded.

Olivia: In the worst possible way.

I wasn’t going to ask any questions. I just needed to make her feel okay and then I’d return to ghosting. I texted: That sucks.

Texting bubbles and then—

The sex was unreal. Like, porn stars would probably be jealous of how good we were.

Dammit. I agreed wholeheartedly, but it was wrong for me to see that when it wasn’t intended for my eyes. I responded with: Wow.

Olivia: Right? I mean, it was going nowhere and we’d already agreed that it’d never happen again, but sleeping with him was like the MOST fun. That is, until I woke up to the worst morning of my life.

I couldn’t stop myself. I texted: How do you know he’s the one who told?

Olivia: No one else knew.

Me: You sure?

Olivia: Absolutely. And he’s totally the dickhead type to ruin me for fun.

I sent one more text before turning off the lamp and going to bed, frustrated that I couldn’t do anything to help the absurd situation.

Me: Well at least the sex was good.