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.
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.