Mr. Wrong Number(15)

Me: Fast and furious. Every time.

Mr. Wrong Number: You’re not into hot oil, Enya-on-a-loop, tantric kind of bedding?



Wow. I bit down on my lip, wondered yet again what the hell I was doing with this whole exchanging-sex-talk-with-a-stranger thing, and then I responded.


Me: I’ll take back-scratching, shoulder-biting, frantic-sex-against-a-wall for five hundred, Alex.

Mr. Wrong Number: I knew you were smart, Misdial. Sweet dreams, okay?



I lay back on the mattress and wondered when it’d gotten so hot.


Me: Like I’m sleeping now, jackass. G’night.





4





Olivia


I reread the end of the column out loud.

    Because the magical thing about having boys is that you somehow manage to adore them in spite of the whiplash-inducing swings they take between beloved and belligerent. One minute they’re charming you, waxing poetic about how your hair looks like actual princess hair, and the next, they’re wrinkling their noses and informing you that your breath smells like feet. One second they’re snuggling, and the next they’re leading you to the bathroom to show you how big their poop is.

I suppose that explains the phenomenon of men pulling a “Dutch oven” on their partners. The adorable little boys have grown into men, and they’ve managed to find spouses who, like their mothers, love them enough to not murder them for their precociousness.

I do not believe my partner would be so lucky.



I saved the article and attached it to the email, nervous but also excited. I’d woken that morning to discover a message from Glenda, asking me to write a quick sample draft of a parenting column. Apparently the job was narrowed down to me and one other candidate, and she was hoping I might nail my audition piece and make the thing a tiebreaker.

Talk about pressure.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, hitting send and looking around my office bedroom like I didn’t even know where I was. The minute I’d seen the email on my phone that morning, I climbed out of bed and went straight to work at the desk. It was now 12:25 p.m., and I felt like I’d just woken up.

I opened the door and all was quiet, so I wandered into the living room, doing a few sock spins across the wood floor.

Man, those boys had such an incredible apartment.

I had no idea how Jack could afford it, even with a roommate. Colin, on the other hand . . . the apartment actually screamed his name, with his fancy job and annoyingly suave looks. When I’d seen Crazy, Stupid, Love on rerun in high school, I’d been convinced that Colin was Jacob Palmer’s separated-at-birth twin or something. Same attitude, same impeccable style, same cockiness.

My stomach growled and I went over to the kitchen. I still hadn’t made it to the grocery store, so I was going to have to replace whatever I ate. It only took a few peeks in the cupboards to remember there was nothing good for me to steal. Everything in the pantry was either canned vegetables super healthy (clearly Colin’s) or pickles and bologna, both of which were already expired (obviously my brother’s).

I was about to give up and run down to the gas station for a pack of Top Ramen when I opened the freezer. Bingo. Not only was there a pound of ground beef, but I knew I’d seen some canned tomatoes in the pantry that would go with it perfectly.

I started opening and closing cupboards, desperately searching because I only needed a few staples to make a killer batch of my grandma’s spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. If I could find the right ingredients, or something remotely close, I could do a nice thing and have dinner waiting for my roommates when they got home. Also, I could scarf down meatballs throughout the course of the day so I wouldn’t die of starvation.

Win-win.

“Yes.” I found crackers and there was one egg in the fridge, so I was golden. Minced garlic, onion powder—yep, it’d work. I’d have to go to the store for pasta, but I needed to get a couple other things, anyway. I didn’t have much money, but I also couldn’t keep going to the mall before every job interview to use the “try-me” makeup, either.

The Estée Lauder lady was going to call the cops if I didn’t buy my own mascara soon.

I found a baking sheet and started rolling out the meatballs, but as I starting shaping them between my palms, thoughts started creeping in. Unwelcome, responsible thoughts that made me realize that if Glenda called and offered me the job, I had to say no.

I had to.

Because as badly as I wanted it and as desperately as I needed it, I couldn’t start that job knowing I’d have to lie to her every single day. I’d been lying like a criminal since I’d pulled into town, God only knows why, but that wasn’t usually my thing and it needed to stop.

Also, Omaha was one of those small-town-in-a-city places where everyone knew everyone else’s cousin, so there was no way I’d be able to write that column without someone latching on to the fact that a single, childless mess of a human was covering parenting.

No, it wouldn’t take long at all for the truth to get back to Glenda.

I shoved the meatballs into the oven while I worked on the sauce, forcing myself to focus on food instead of negativity. I opened the cans and started pouring everything into the shiny silver pot that had clearly cost a fortune; I mean, it had a French name I couldn’t pronounce, so it had to be top dollar, right?