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 . . . ?”