Mr. Wrong Number

I reread the end of the column out loud.

Because the magical thing about having boys is that you somehow manage to adore them in spite of the whiplash-inducing swings they take between beloved and belligerent. One minute they’re charming you, waxing poetic about how your hair looks like actual princess hair, and the next, they’re wrinkling their noses and informing you that your breath smells like feet. One second they’re snuggling, and the next they’re leading you to the bathroom to show you how big their poop is.

I suppose that explains the phenomenon of men pulling a “Dutch oven” on their partners. The adorable little boys have grown into men, and they’ve managed to find spouses who, like their mothers, love them enough to not murder them for their precociousness.

I do not believe my partner would be so lucky.

I saved the article and attached it to the email, nervous but also excited. I’d woken that morning to discover a message from Glenda, asking me to write a quick sample draft of a parenting column. Apparently the job was narrowed down to me and one other candidate, and she was hoping I might nail my audition piece and make the thing a tiebreaker.

Talk about pressure.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, hitting send and looking around my office bedroom like I didn’t even know where I was. The minute I’d seen the email on my phone that morning, I climbed out of bed and went straight to work at the desk. It was now 12:25 p.m., and I felt like I’d just woken up.

I opened the door and all was quiet, so I wandered into the living room, doing a few sock spins across the wood floor.

Man, those boys had such an incredible apartment.

I had no idea how Jack could afford it, even with a roommate. Colin, on the other hand . . . the apartment actually screamed his name, with his fancy job and annoyingly suave looks. When I’d seen Crazy, Stupid, Love on rerun in high school, I’d been convinced that Colin was Jacob Palmer’s separated-at-birth twin or something. Same attitude, same impeccable style, same cockiness.

My stomach growled and I went over to the kitchen. I still hadn’t made it to the grocery store, so I was going to have to replace whatever I ate. It only took a few peeks in the cupboards to remember there was nothing good for me to steal. Everything in the pantry was either canned vegetables super healthy (clearly Colin’s) or pickles and bologna, both of which were already expired (obviously my brother’s).

I was about to give up and run down to the gas station for a pack of Top Ramen when I opened the freezer. Bingo. Not only was there a pound of ground beef, but I knew I’d seen some canned tomatoes in the pantry that would go with it perfectly.

I started opening and closing cupboards, desperately searching because I only needed a few staples to make a killer batch of my grandma’s spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. If I could find the right ingredients, or something remotely close, I could do a nice thing and have dinner waiting for my roommates when they got home. Also, I could scarf down meatballs throughout the course of the day so I wouldn’t die of starvation.

Win-win.

“Yes.” I found crackers and there was one egg in the fridge, so I was golden. Minced garlic, onion powder—yep, it’d work. I’d have to go to the store for pasta, but I needed to get a couple other things, anyway. I didn’t have much money, but I also couldn’t keep going to the mall before every job interview to use the “try-me” makeup, either.

The Estée Lauder lady was going to call the cops if I didn’t buy my own mascara soon.

I found a baking sheet and started rolling out the meatballs, but as I starting shaping them between my palms, thoughts started creeping in. Unwelcome, responsible thoughts that made me realize that if Glenda called and offered me the job, I had to say no.

I had to.

Because as badly as I wanted it and as desperately as I needed it, I couldn’t start that job knowing I’d have to lie to her every single day. I’d been lying like a criminal since I’d pulled into town, God only knows why, but that wasn’t usually my thing and it needed to stop.

Also, Omaha was one of those small-town-in-a-city places where everyone knew everyone else’s cousin, so there was no way I’d be able to write that column without someone latching on to the fact that a single, childless mess of a human was covering parenting.

No, it wouldn’t take long at all for the truth to get back to Glenda.

I shoved the meatballs into the oven while I worked on the sauce, forcing myself to focus on food instead of negativity. I opened the cans and started pouring everything into the shiny silver pot that had clearly cost a fortune; I mean, it had a French name I couldn’t pronounce, so it had to be top dollar, right?

I used a whisk to cut through the tomato paste before turning the gourmet burner (thank God it was electric because I’d recently come to fear the open flame) up to high and looking through the cupboards for a colander. There was one in a deep drawer, a perfectly spotless silver colander that either had never been used or had been cleaned by a robot. I held it up and I could literally see my reflection in it.

I could also see the sauce behind me bubbling over in the reflection.

Shit.

It took a quick run-slide combo to get the pot off the burner as red sauce bubbled out and all over the stovetop. I fumbled through the drawers and found a big metal spoon and started stirring, which made the colander slip out from where I’d tucked it under my arm and fall onto the floor.

And of course it was dented on one side. I rolled my eyes and moved it with my foot. That was why I’d always used a cheap plastic colander; you couldn’t hurt those. But one tiny bounce for the shiny strainer left it looking like it’d been tossed from a moving car.

I ran into the bedroom while the meatballs finished baking, and changed into the black jeggings I’d worn almost every day my senior year and a Pink hooded T-shirt. I hadn’t remembered visiting Victoria’s Secret very often in my youth, but I also seemed to have shirts from the lingerie store in every color.

I slid my feet into my old gray Chucks and ran back into the kitchen. I stirred the sauce and took out the meatballs, which smelled so wonderful, before dumping them into the pot. The sauce was good to bubble all day, so I just needed to run to the store and be back in time to clean everything up before the boys got home.

Of course, in light of my recent history, I double-checked five times that the stove was entirely clear of flammable items before I grabbed my purse and keys. It wasn’t even one yet, and they didn’t get home until after five o’clock.

I had plenty of time.

•   •   •

“OHMIGOD—LIVVIE?”

I turned around in the checkout line and there was Sara Mills, one of my friends from high school. She was still just as pretty, but now she had an Afro that elevated her to runway model gorgeous. “Ohmigod, Sara? How are you?”

Sara was one of those three-people-removed-from-the-best-friend kind of friends, where you hung out a lot in high school but always within the confines of the group. We’d shared a lot of good times but completely lost touch after graduation.

She smiled. “I’m good. Living out in West Omaha. I married Trae Billings and we’ve got a baby—she’s six months old.”

“No way!” I reached over to hug her and knocked over a box of end-cap cookies with my purse. “Congratulations!”

She laughed and hugged me back. “Same old Liv.”

I nodded and picked up the box from the floor. “Unfortunately.”

She bit down on her bottom lip and said, “Yeah, I heard about the fire.”

“You did?” I adjusted my purse strap and said, “For the love of God, it was only a few days ago. That was fast.”

She made a face. “Well, you kind of went viral.”

“That senior superlative actually came true, didn’t it?”

Yes, I was voted Most Likely to End Up in a Viral Video.

She laughed and I realized that I really missed having friends. In Chicago I had Eli and I had coworkers, but I hadn’t had any true “girlfriends” since college. Which was probably why I squealed when she said, “Do you have time to grab a coffee next door? I’d love to catch up.”

“Totally.”

We chatted while the clerk rang up her groceries—responsible adult things like milk, bread, and vegetables—and then he rang up mine: a case of Top Ramen, a bag of Gardetto’s, off-brand tampons, spaghetti, and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke.

My phone buzzed, and I was disappointed to see it was my mom and not my anonymous pal. Your dad needs help with some yard work if you want to make some extra money.

I glanced up, horrified and embarrassed even though no one in the checkout lane could see the text. Was she serious with that—yard work? As in, I could mow the lawn and trim the bushes for an extra thirty-spot from Daddy? Clearly, in my parents’ eyes, I had reverted to a fourteen-year-old.

And I knew it shouldn’t bother me, but it did.

Because—shit—were they right? I wondered this as I paid for my groceries with the cash my parents had given me, which was both terribly ironic and incredibly pathetic.

I need to get a damned job.

I followed Sara next door and we grabbed a table outside. While ankle-deep in grocery bags, with the late-afternoon sun beating down on our faces, she and I laughed until we were crying as I told her about my Chicago implosion and the resultant fire.

“You found out he was cheating the day you got laid off? And your apartment burned down that night? Holy shit!” She was laughing, but it was nice. I could tell she was horrified by my consistent bad luck, as opposed to being entertained by it. “We should be at a bar, for God’s sake, not a coffee shop.”

Somehow that transitioned into my current living arrangements, and she freaked out when I told her who Jack’s roommate was.

“Girl. Are you telling me that you’re living with Colin Beck?”

I nodded.

“Colin Beck. Holy hell. Is he still hot?”

“Hotter, actually.”

“What a prick.”

“Right?”

“I always thought he looked like Ryan Gos—”

“Still does.”

She grinned and settled back in her chair. “So your luck just might be changing.”

“Oh, God, no.” I took a sip of my latte and let the foam float around in my mouth before swallowing. “He’s still an asshole. He looks at me like he knows he’s better than me.”

“Really? Is that how he is?” She pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “I just always thought he seemed intense. Like he had a lot going on in his head. Didn’t he get a perfect ACT?”

“Did everyone know he was smart except me?”

“Looks like.” She pushed back her chair and stood as my phone buzzed on the table. “I’m running to the restroom. Be right back.”

I waited to check my messages until she went inside.

Mr. Wrong Number: I’ve been in a meeting with a woman for 35 minutes, and she has no idea that there is pear on her chin.

Me: How do you know it’s pear?

Mr. Wrong Number: Because it looks like those slippery canned pears.

Me: It could be something gross. Maybe she puked up her lunch just before your meeting and that’s a chunk.

Mr. Wrong Number: Ignoring that. What do I do, though? Do I say something?

I coughed out a laugh and typed: You can NOT say anything. It’s too late now.

Mr. Wrong Number: But it’s driving me insane. I can’t concentrate on anything but the pear.

Me: You mean the chunk.

Mr. Wrong Number: You’re killing me, Misdial.

“Who is making you smile like that?”

My cheeks got hot and I grinned at Sara, who sat back down and looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, my God, finally someone I can tell.”

I told her all about Mr. Wrong Number: how it happened, our pact of anonymity, and the frequency of our chats.

“This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” She gave me an openmouthed smile. “I wonder what he looks like.”

“Right? Like, I have no interest in ever knowing who he is, but it’s a fascinating thing to ponder.”

“Ponder my ass. You mean fantasize about.”

I shrugged. “Potato, po-tah-toe.”

“You be careful, though, Miss Unlucky. Combine your bad mojo with the dark corners of the internet, and all of a sudden you’ve got a creepy stalker breaking into your house to steal your panties.”

My phone rang and I recognized the number; it was Glenda. “Oh, my God—I have to take this. It’s about a job I interviewed for—”

“Say no more.” She stood and said, “I have to get home anyway. Call me and we’ll do lunch soon, okay?”

I waved while she grabbed her stuff, and then answered with a nervous “Hello?”

“Olivia, it’s Glenda. How are you?”

Man, just hearing her voice made my stomach hurt. “Great, how are you?”

“I’m good. This is kind of a weird call, because I’ve been in meetings for hours and everything about the job you interviewed for has changed.”

That couldn’t be good. “Okay . . . ?”

I heard a door close. “They want the position to be anonymous, and for the column to be written as the 402 Mom. We’ll use a cartoon avatar of, you know, a trendy and adorable mom; they’re working on the logo mock-up as we speak. But everyone loves the idea of this branded unknown. They want to promote the hell out of this thing, our super cool 402 Mom; so are you okay with the area code pseudonym thing? I’m offering you the job, by the way—did I say that yet?”

“What?” Anonymous? “Wow. No, Glen—”

“Oh, good Lord, I’m a real mess, aren’t I?” She laughed at herself and then just sort of launched a slew of information at me. She wanted to run my sample column as the launch piece, and the job would now be writing half the time for the 402 Mom, and half the time providing assorted content—entertainment, lifestyle, local—under my actual name like the rest of the paper’s bloggers.

Which would be chef’s-kiss perfect, because I’d have a byline for my parents to see as proof of legitimate employment.

“Wow.” My head was spinning. I was being offered the job, and that job was going to be anonymous? So no one who knew me would know non-mom Liv was the mom bomb? I was glad I had on sunglasses because no matter how fast and hard I blinked, the tears wouldn’t go away. It was just such a perfect position and it sucked so hard that I had to turn it down.

“And did I mention it’s a remote position? We’ll set you up with a phone, a laptop, a printer, and all that so you won’t have to commute to the office every day.”

“That sounds incredible, Glenda. But the thing is . . .”

I stopped. Everything stopped. I looked at the downtown all around me, with people bustling and horns honking and the smell of old garbage intermingling with the smell of fried food, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

Instead I heard myself say, “That sounds incredible. Thank you so much, Glenda.”

“Welcome aboard, Olivia. I’ll have HR email over our new-hire packet with benefit info, online orientation, job duties, and so on, and we’ll set up a Zoom meeting your first day to get everything rolling. Sound good?”

I grinned and wanted to jump up and down, even as I was 100 percent certain that this was a terrible mistake. “Sounds great.”

I hung up the phone and squealed, loud enough for everyone in the outside seating area to stop talking and stare at me. I shrugged and said to the blond influencer at the next table, “I got the job—sorry.”

I walked back to the apartment with loaded arms and it didn’t even faze me; that’s how happy I was. I mean, who cared that the Diet Coke was making my biceps burn when I had a dream job that I was going to be starting in mere days?

There was a marketing department working on my promos that very minute, for the love of God.

My luck was looking pretty damned good all of a sudden.

I made a quick stop at the liquor store for a bottle of shiraz before humming all the way home, and I didn’t even drop anything when I struggled to punch in the code for the security gate. I wished that dick Eli knew I was landing on my feet. The last time I’d seen him I cried—and then punched him in the stomach—before running out the door like a bawling child.

Not exactly a strong exit.

Part of me really wanted to text him, but I couldn’t risk him killing my buzz.

I was still humming as I opened the front door. But the second I closed it behind me Jack appeared, glaring at me with his hands on his hips. “What the hell did you do to the kitchen?”

“What?” I glanced over at the spotless kitchen—my sauce smelled amazing, by the way—and said, “It looks perfect. Why are we whispering?”

He just raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for me to get it.

And then I did.

The kitchen hadn’t been spotless when I left. The kitchen had been a disaster when I left. I said, “Did you clean it up?”

He just shook his head and pointed toward Colin’s room. “He did, and he was already pissed at me for springing a monthlong roomie on him last minute. I told him you wouldn’t trash the place when he agreed to let you stay. Why couldn’t you just pick up after yourself?”

I stepped out of my Chucks and whisper-yelled, “Why is he home already?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you best friends?”

“We’re grown-ass men, moron. We don’t tell each other our schedules.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I rolled my eyes. “So, what—did he bitch to you about the mess like he’s the house mother here? It is half your apartment, you wuss. Get a backbone.”

“First of all, it’s his condo and I pay him rent, which he gives me a big-ass break on, so as always, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, well, that makes—”

“Second of all, he didn’t have to bitch to me because we got home and witnessed your war zone at the same time, numb nuts. I called you a dipshit and took a shower, and by the time I got out it looked like this.”

“Geez, Jack, how long was your shower?”

“Shh.” He looked over his shoulder, then looked back at me with his face contorted like I was full-out screaming. “And don’t do that. Don’t turn this on me when you’re the one who keeps screwing up and it’s only been a week.”

“I know, I know.” I went around him and set my grocery bags on the counter. “You’re right and I’m sorry.”

His face screwed up again. “What?”

“Listen, I can fix this.” I felt a little bad for putting Jack in a bad position with Colin, especially now that I knew he was doing my brother a major favor by letting him live there for a cheaper rent. “Tell Colin that dinner will be ready at seven, there’s good wine, and I have news that will make him happy enough to forgive my little kitchen transgression.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Did you make Grandma’s meatballs just to butter us up?”

“Yep.”

“You tricky little shit, that might actually work.” He breathed in deeply and said, “I’ll tell him. But just quit being a screwup, okay?”

“Okay.” That actually stung a little. “But keep your asses in your rooms until seven.”

•   •   •

AT EXACTLY SEVEN o’clock, as I was standing in front of the island, trying my damnedest to open a bottle of wine, Colin came out of his room. He’d clearly dressed for dinner, wearing a button-down shirt and a really nice pair of pants, and I felt like a moron in the black-and-white polka-dot sundress that I’d worn to the “beach party” dance my junior year.

He looked hot and sophisticated as hell, and I was wearing the same thing I’d sported when I was first-based by Alex Brown in the front seat of his dad’s Camaro. I’d paired the dress with a black hair scarf and red lipstick, but I still felt like I was wearing the Ghost of Fashions Past.

Colin walked over, his eyes laughing, and he cleared his throat. “Need some help, Liv?”

“What kind of stupid corkscrew is this?” My entire face and neck were hot as I held up the sleek device that looked a little pornographic to me. “It’s like rich people want to make things difficult so the rest of us feel dumb.”

“Which rich people are you referring to?” He took the wine bottle from my hands, and two motions later it was open.

I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him, walking over to the stove. “The people who make idiotic corkscrews like that. And the pretentious boobs who buy them.”

That made him laugh and he followed me into the kitchen. “Did you just call me a pretentious boob?”

I gave him a duh look over my shoulder. “Look around you, oh pretentious one. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the chicks dig it. This is a nice-ass bachelor pad; I’d lose my shit if I came home with you and got to hop around on your pillow-soft million-dollar bed. But I just can’t imagine spending so much money on stuff.”

Shit, shit, shit. Yes, I’d really just mentioned hopping around on his bed.

His face didn’t change, thank God, and he stuck his hands in his pockets and said, “You don’t know how much I’ve spent. Maybe I got it all for free.”

I ignored that and said, “Your colander is sterling silver.”

“So I like nice things—sue me.” He tilted his head, and his eyes dropped to my back as he mused, “If I can afford quality, why would I buy garbage?”

“A plastic colander isn’t necessarily garbage. Who says silver is better?”

“Is that why you dented it?” He walked over to the cupboard on my right and took out three wineglasses. “Because it’s too pretentious for you?”

My head rolled back on my shoulders of its own accord and I stirred the sauce with a big spoon. “Of course you noticed the dent.”

But when I looked over at him, his eyes were on my back again. What the hell—did I have back-fat jiggle action going on or something? They stayed there as he said, “Of course I noticed, because I fucking have eyes, Liv. The dented colander was on the floor of the entryway when I got home.”

“I’ll buy you a new plastic one, which I guarantee will last longer than this thing.” I turned to face him, strangely desperate to hide my back as I said, “But forget the colander, because I have amazing news that will actually make you happier than everyone else in the world. I mean, other than me.”

His eyes were now focused on my face as he waited for the news, and I got stuck in a pause. He must’ve sensed my Colin-is-so-hot-I’m-rendered-mute condition, because one side of his mouth went up and he asked, quietly, “First tell me what your tattoo says.”

Oh. The tattoo. It was silly, but I was unbelievably relieved there wasn’t some unsightly and disgusting blob on my back that’d attracted his attention. The tattoo was a quote from Pride and Prejudice that stretched down my spine in loose cursive, so Colin would never get close enough to read the whole thing.

“What are you, a cop?” I said it just as quietly, and I wondered if it was my dinner pregaming that made the air suddenly crackle. I said around a smile, “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Don’t make me—”

“Wine me, bro.” Jack ran across the living room floor in socks and slid into the kitchen, stopping right between us and releasing all of the air’s electricity. He was holding out his hand, waiting for a glass, and I had to laugh because he was such a moron.

Still smirking at me, Colin poured him a glass and put it in Jack’s extended hand as my brother said, “What is this amazing news, Livvie? You’ve been found not guilty on all counts of arson?”

“Nope. They still think I burned down the building on purpose.”

Jack’s eyes darted over like he thought I was serious, which made me shake my head and mutter, “You’re such a gullible idiot.”

I’d actually gotten an email from the fire marshal that morning with great news on the investigation. As it turned out, my apartment had been the only occupied unit in the building because renovations were underway; mine had been next in line. Apparently the construction company had left some hazardous materials in the stairwell that hadn’t been stored properly, which was why the whole building went up into a fast blaze instead of my love letters being pretty much the sole cause of the fire.

Bottom line: I no longer had to worry about being liable for the entire building burning down, thank the sweet heavens.

I turned back to the stove, shut off the burner, and grabbed the handles on the huge pot of boiling pasta.

Colin said, “Hold up, Liv.”

I gave him side-eye as he shouldered in and took the handles from me. “Let me guess, sexist, you don’t think I’m strong enough to drain a pot of noodles.”

Jack groaned and walked over to the beer fridge. “Here we go with the ballbusting.”

But Colin lifted the pot, carried it to the sink, and started pouring the water into the colander. “Wrong. You’re strong enough, but I’m afraid your Liv luck will kick in and you’ll do something like sneeze and throw a pot of scalding water at my face.”

“That’s fair, actually.” I followed him and grabbed the bottle of olive oil from the counter. “Do you think that after you drain the spaghetti, Mr. Saving the World from My Wrath, you can pour me some wine so I don’t spill it all over your fancy wood floors?”

“Consider it done.” He took the oil from my hand and started drizzling it on the pasta while watching me. “As soon as you tell me your news.”

“I could tell you now,” I said, turning away from him and walking toward the table, “but where’s the fun in that?”

I pulled a lighter from my pocket and lit the candles I’d placed at the center of the table. The whole tableau looked gorgeous, from the pretty white plates to the flickering pillars to the ivory cloth napkins, but it was the dusky lowlights of the city just outside those ginormous windows that made the scene stunning.

When I turned back around, they were both staring at me in shock. Specifically, they were staring at the lighter in my hand, two frozen dudes who appeared to be holding their collective breaths.

“Oh, my God, would you two relax? My one fire was more than enough.”

•   •   •

“TO ME, AND to my fantastical new job.”

“Holy balls, Liv, you’ve toasted yourself like ten times.” Jack leaned back in his chair and said, “Why don’t you save a little for when the job actually starts?”

I didn’t care what Jack thought, because Colin was giving me a smirk and I was tipsy-happy at that moment. I said, “First of all, my debut article is in the process of being edited, so technically I’ve already started. Second, I’ve got to take celebration where I can get it, bro.”

“Yeah, good point.” Jack raised his glass, as did Colin, and we clinked yet again.

I let the wine warm the back of my throat and I said, “Let me ask you something, Beck.”

“Oh, so we’re doing the last-name thing. Okay.”

I rolled my eyes and giggled. I was a giggler when I drank. “Were you shocked that I got a job so fast?”

“What?”

“You’re just so . . . um . . . I’m-perfect-at-everything-and-you’re-a-screwup Colin Beck that I’m guessing you were terrified I’d be living here for a year or longer.”

He swallowed—damn, he had a sexy throat—and said, “I never doubted that you’d be gone in a month.”

Jack snorted. “You didn’t? Man, you had way more confidence in her than I did.”

Colin’s mouth twitched and he stared into his glass. It seemed like he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “It had nothing to do with Olivia. We had a thirty-day agreement, and as such, the agreed-upon exit date was thirty days from her arrival.”

I could tell by his face that Colin wasn’t talking about me. This was business Colin, the guy who wore thousand-dollar suits and had no patience for breach of contract.

Jack started laughing. “You would’ve kicked her out?”

I said, “I would’ve shanked you both before I stayed longer than a month, so it doesn’t matter.”

They laughed, and I was glad I’d cooked them dinner. Colin had visibly loosened up when I told him I’d be moving out soon, and it was the first time I’d really hung out with Jack since moving back.

It’d been—dare I say it—a fun evening.

My phone buzzed and I glanced down at it.

Sara: So did you get the job?

“A good hostess never texts at the table,” my brother teased.

“Your phone vibrates so loudly.” Colin pointed and said, “You might as well turn the sound on, the way it buzzes. Is it broken?”

“That’s why mine is always on silent,” Jack said.

Colin said, “Same.”

“No, it’s not broken.” At least I didn’t think it was. I responded to Sara, and every time she sent a text back, Jack and Colin made fun of it. They soon lost interest and started talking about sports, so I tuned them out.

Gulping down the last bit of wine in my glass, I picked up my phone and texted: What’s up, Wrong Number?

As if knowing I’d just mentally disengaged, the timer on the smart TV kicked on for the Cubs game, so the boys drifted into the living room. I set my napkin on my plate as my phone buzzed.

Mr. Wrong Number: Just finished eating.

Me: Exciting night?

I glanced over at Jack and Colin, who were already sitting and staring at their phones in front of the TV.

Mr. Wrong Number: Not at all, which is why I’m happy you’re texting.

Me: I’m not exciting.

Mr. Wrong Number: I believe we ended last night with you telling me that you prefer a good up-against-the-wall bang. Call me crazy, but that’s hella exciting.

I snorted a giggle and glanced up. Jack and Colin were both looking at me, Colin with an eyebrow raised, and I couldn’t help it; I beamed and giggled again. I thought about trying to explain it away, but instead just waved a hand.

Me: Wow—right back at it, are we?

Mr. Wrong Number: I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent a fair amount of time today thinking about your response.

Me: And therein lies the joy of anonymity—I don’t have to be embarrassed.

Mr. Wrong Number: Hell, no, you don’t. Own that shit.

Me: Wouldn’t it be great if you could be straight-up honest about these things with an actual partner? I mean, some people say they are, or claim that it’s healthy to speak 100% truth, but that’s total bullshit. Because if you care about someone, you’re not going to look them in the face when they’re gently kissing you and say “can you knock it off and just bend me over the counter, babe?”

Mr. Wrong Number: Not a fan of kissing?

I thought about that before responding. I liked kissing, but I liked hot, wild, I-might-accidentally-draw-blood kissing. Gentle kisses made you love-drunk. They made you think and feel and get lulled into believing you were in love, that both of you were, when in reality it was just two mouths mating with each other.

I wasn’t interested in ever getting drunk on that shit again.

Me: Imagine if you could just order what you wanted like you were at a restaurant.

Mr. Wrong Number: Example, please.

Me: Good evening, Garçon. For starters, I would like the one orgasm oral—fast and intense, please. And for the entrée, I think I’d like to get flipped over and pounded from behind.

Mr. Wrong Number: Would you like dessert with that, sunshine?

I made another noise, apparently, because Jack was shaking his head when I looked up from my phone.

“Are we a middle schooler now, texting boys at the dinner table? What’s with all the giggles?”

I felt the red streak across my hot cheeks. “I have funny friends, that’s all. More entertaining than baseball.”

“Says you.”

I rolled my eyes and went back to the titillating conversation I was having with Mr. Wrong Number.

Me: Yes. I would like the chef’s special—the deep sleep on my side of the bed with absolutely no spooning. (Hands back menu, takes sip of water)

“Any wine left in that bottle, Liv?”

I looked over at Colin, feeling totally busted. “Um, what?”

He gave me a funny look. “Did you kill the shiraz?”

“Oh. No.” I wrapped my fingers around the bottle and held it up, peering through the dark green glass. “Looks like there are at least two glasses left.”

“Nice.” Colin stood and stretched his back while I set the phone next to my plate and went to the kitchen for a Dr Pepper. I didn’t give it a thought as I went in search of a sobering beverage, but as soon as I heard my phone buzz—it was really loud—my head whipped in that direction. Much to my horror, he was looking down at the table, staring at my phone as the screen lit up from an incoming text.

Shit, shit, shit. I was an adult, but I didn’t want that jackhammer to see my sexual dinner menu. I casually speed-walked to the table, grabbed my phone, and looked at him, but he was filling his glass while appearing to watch the Cubs game on the TV.

Whew, he hadn’t seen anything. I unlocked the screen.

Mr. Wrong Number: Well I promise, if we were together irl, I would happily serve up that order. Hell, it’s what I would fantasize about you ordering, tbh.

It wasn’t logical, but his response sent a shiver through me. My fingers slid over the touch screen.

Me: Well it’s a shame we can’t . . . share a meal. Eat together. Ugh, gross. No way to make it sound like I’m not being creepy. I’m just saying that it’s nice to share a common interest, alright?!

I hit send, then added: Did that sound horndog creepy?

I hit send on that, but then felt the need to add: You know what I mean, right?

I looked up as I hit send, and Colin wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. No, he was staring down at the phone in his hand as if he’d never seen a phone before.