Mr. Wrong Number(10)

“I wish I could have it.” Kyle did the pouty thing that he was so good at, looking sad but in a cute, puppy-eye way, and murmured, “That would be dope.”

Colin’s eyes shot to my face. “Did your aunt Olivia teach you that word?”

“No,” I said, the exact second Kyle said, “Auntie Liv said it means good.”

Colin laughed and my phone buzzed. It was Dana, letting me know she was parked in the loading zone. I looked at the boys and said, “Your mom’s here. We have to race to get all of your stuff back in the diaper bag before she beats us and wins the game. One, two, three, GO!”

Kyle took off running toward the office, and Brady laughed and cluelessly followed. I started picking up toys while Colin went into the kitchen and pulled a Tupperware container out of the freezer. “Those are Will’s kids?”

“Yep. Kyle and Brady.” I started jamming things in the bag, 100 percent certain it was never going to zip. “Sorry, by the way. I didn’t know you came home for lunch or I would’ve asked before I brought them here.”

Totally a lie, but polite, at least.

“No worries. I’m not staying, I just forgot my lunch and thought the walk home would clear my head.”

I looked at his perfect image and wondered what he had on his mind. “Did it work?”

“Um.” His jaw clenched and he grabbed his keys from the counter. “Not so much.”

My cheeks got even hotter, and my impulse was to scream, I’m sorry, okay?! but I controlled myself and said, “Well, I hope your day gets better.”

His eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t.”

Finally, I felt like smiling at Colin, and I said, “I might, Beck. You just never know.”

Five minutes later, as if they were all a passing storm, I was home alone in the apartment and it was quiet. I was getting a later start than I should’ve on the applications, but it was going to be okay. Regardless of how on-brand it was for me to blow off responsibilities for whatever sounded fun, this was different.

I was still standing firmly on New Olivia ground.



* * *



? ? ?

THE REST OF the week really tested that theory.

I landed five—five—job interviews, which thrilled me. I felt like I was going to have a job before Eli even realized that I’d left the city. I was going to be gainfully employed before my mother even had a chance to interrogate me for hours on end about my progress.

Hell, I’d probably have multiple offers to choose from, right?

Wrong.

Because at each of the interviews, I came down with verbal diarrhea.

At the first one, I accidentally mentioned the fire. When I was asked why I’d moved, my mouth had betrayed me and dispensed the truth instead of the generalities I’d carefully practiced.

Mr. Holtings, my interviewer, looked at me over his readers and said, “Fire?”

And for some reason, trying to explain it made me giggle. I started describing what had happened, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling while I said it.

“There was a, um, a fire, and my apartment building burned down.” A stifled snort.

And sadly, with each sentence I spewed, I could hear the ridiculousness of the words and how nuts my laughing made me sound. Which, of course, struck me as more and more hilarious and I lost all control.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was being careful.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “But that possum came out of nowhere and knocked over the bucket.”

I had to pause to wipe at my tears of laugher.

I was definitely not getting the job.

At the next interview, I accidentally mentioned the Tribune and then tried to backtrack and say I hadn’t worked there.

“Wait.” The very nice woman narrowed her eyes and said, “You worked at the Chicago Tribune? How come you didn’t put that on your résumé?”

“Oh, I, um, I didn’t really work there.” I smiled and my brain short-circuited and I actually said the words “I was just kidding.”

Side note: If you ever land an internship at a major newspaper, never engage in a conversation with your coworker about their vibrator, even if said coworker was the one to bring it up and you were just being polite. As it turns out, if someone in the lunchroom overhears and goes to HR, they will fire you both, regardless of who owns Purple Thunder.

But I digress.

Regardless, I was killing myself with my ability to speak. If I could just get a job, I knew I’d make any employer happy. Because I was a good writer. I could proficiently communicate almost anything on paper.

But I had to somehow get through face-to-face meetings first.

At the next interview, I tripped over a chair and reflexively grunted out a semi-loud fuck me as it happened. But the two interviews that followed actually went fairly well. I didn’t get a callback, and I didn’t become buddies with the interviewers, but the fact that I didn’t destroy my own chances was a good sign, right?

The only good thing to occur during that series of unfortunate events was the daily communication I exchanged with the stranger. He’d sent a funny butt-dial text the night after my erroneous Starbucks message, and since then we’d been texting every night. Nothing important, just pointless, idiotic conversations about nothing.

The night before was no exception.