Mr. Wrong Number(12)

Because I wanted that job.

I wasn’t a mom and knew nothing about being a mom, but I wanted that job so bad. And not just because I desperately needed employment. I wanted to work with Glenda. I wanted to write tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic-yet-sweet parenting articles. My creative side was tingling because I knew I could totally kick ass at that job.

If only I had kids.

I walked back to the apartment slowly, teetering in the cheap black pumps I’d worn to homecoming my junior year. I tried talking myself into a little positivity as I headed home; there were still exciting things happening in my life, right?

I was living downtown, which was my absolute favorite thing, so that was cool. In a great apartment, no less, even if it was with my brother and I had to sleep on a bed that was made of a raft.

Things really could be a lot worse.

Hell, I could be living with my parents.

And I was still getting up early and running every day; for me, that was huge. Even though I panted like a dog and had to stop to walk every three blocks or so, I was a week into my new life and still trying to make it stick.

It helped that Colin was gone. He’d been away in Boston on business, and if he were home, I probably would’ve blown off running because no way could I ever have him as a running buddy. But with him out of the picture, I’d been able to jog without stress.

I’d also been sneaking into his room and napping on top of his fancy pillow-soft bed every day, so I was more well-rested than I’d been in a really long time. I knew it was a little scrubby of me to use his bed without asking, but that air mattress was killing my back and I was incredibly careful to sleep above the covers.

What he didn’t know and all that, right?

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of the pocket of the skirt I’d worn to the DECA convention my sophomore year.


Mr. Wrong Number: I have time to kill and I’m bored. Give me something to ponder.



I glanced up and moved over to the right, stopping beside a closed storefront so I could text without walking into traffic or getting trampled by my fellow on-foot commuters. I texted: I’m busy. You think I can just come up with these gems on the fly?


Mr. Wrong Number: That is exactly what I think.



That made me smile because it was bizarre the way I kind of felt like he got me, even though we were total strangers.

I pushed up my sunglasses before typing: Okay. Do you think an intelligent person who has never done a CERTAIN THING is capable of giving good advice about a CERTAIN THING if they’re studious and do the research?


Mr. Wrong Number: First of all, this one’s boring. Second, you’re asking for a friend, right?

Me: Right.

Mr. Wrong Number: Okay. Well. I think it depends. If you’re talking about surgery—please God no. But if you’re talking about something a little abstract, like dating advice, then yes, I think it’s possible for the right person to pull it off.



Parenting was kind of abstract, right?


Me: Thank you. Okay, I’ll give you what you really want now.

Mr. Wrong Number: Oh, baby.

Me: Eww.

Mr. Wrong Number: Waiting.

Me: How many 5th grade boys could you beat in a fight at one time? And no weapons allowed.

Mr. Wrong Number: What if my hands are registered weapons?

Me: Spare me the machismo.

Mr. Wrong Number: Hmm. I’d say . . . twelve.

Me: You have GOT to be kidding.

Mr. Wrong Number: You think more?

Me: Your answer makes me think you’ve never been around little boys. I’d say no more than six, because you only have two hands. That’s three kids per hand.

Mr. Wrong Number: But you’re forgetting about the legs.

Me: The legs can hold them off, but not win. The win will be in the hands.

Mr. Wrong Number: You clearly skip leg day.

Me: Listen, I have to go. I’m literally standing on the sidewalk and texting like I’m a teenager.

Mr. Wrong Number: Holy shit—did I ever ask? You’re not a teenager, are you???

Me: Relax, I’m 25. You’re . . . not a baby either, right?

Mr. Wrong Number: 29 so you’re safe.

Me: Although really, it’s not like we’re sexting or anything. It technically wouldn’t even matter if we weren’t of age.

Mr. Wrong Number: . . . sending dick pic . . .

Me: I will block you so fast. Unless you’ve got some sort of . . . special gift. Then I will block you, but slowly.

Mr. Wrong Number: I’ll be good.

Me: Thank God. Because I would actually hate to have to block you. Weird, right?

Mr. Wrong Number: Same. And totally weird.

Me: Okay, well, later, Mr. Wrong Number.

Mr. Wrong Number: Goodbye, Miss Misdial. And btw, I would totally get the slow block.





* * *



? ? ?

“YOU HAVE TO hold on or you’ll fall off.”

“Okay.” Kyle wrapped his arms around my neck, squeezed, and yelled, “Go, donkey!”

I started crawling across the hardwood floor of the apartment while he rode me like I was an actual donkey. Brady, on the other hand, was staring mindlessly at the TV while my oldest brother, Will, knelt before him, struggling to put on his little shoes.

“Why do you let him do that?” Jack asked from his spot on the couch, a grimace on his face as he watched me. “He’s too big.”