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?
Jack: At the Old Market. Why?
Yes! Alone time.
Me: Just curious. Have fun.
I went down to my car, grabbed the trash bag full of high school clothes, and headed upstairs. I’d been so emotionally shredded the night before that I hadn’t had a chance to get comfortable and explore the place. I hummed as I rode the elevator, feeling a little more like a functional, thriving adult than a cheated-on loser for the first time since Eli thanked me for introducing him to his soul mate.
When I got inside, I dropped my keys on the table by the door and dragged my garbage bag into the office. I dumped everything out onto the floor in the corner, digging through the pile until I found what I was looking for: the soft green plaid flannel pants I’d slept in every night in high school and my paint-stained CAT hoodie.
It didn’t matter that it was June. The apartment was freezing, so the outfit was like wearing a blanket. I burrowed into its softness, slid my feet into a pair of mismatched socks, and threw my hair up in a ponytail. Two quick flicks in my phone’s Bluetooth settings, and I was headed for the kitchen.
“Alexa, play Hit It Mix.”
“Sex Talk” started and I cranked the volume, bouncing a little across that swanky apartment. I’d made the playlist as a joke for Eli, filling it with nasty songs I knew he’d find offensive, but apparently I was tougher to offend because I fell in love with the potpourri of upbeat, über-sexual songs instead.