Mr. Wrong Number(16)
I used a whisk to cut through the tomato paste before turning the gourmet burner (thank God it was electric because I’d recently come to fear the open flame) up to high and looking through the cupboards for a colander. There was one in a deep drawer, a perfectly spotless silver colander that either had never been used or had been cleaned by a robot. I held it up and I could literally see my reflection in it.
I could also see the sauce behind me bubbling over in the reflection.
Shit.
It took a quick run-slide combo to get the pot off the burner as red sauce bubbled out and all over the stovetop. I fumbled through the drawers and found a big metal spoon and started stirring, which made the colander slip out from where I’d tucked it under my arm and fall onto the floor.
And of course it was dented on one side. I rolled my eyes and moved it with my foot. That was why I’d always used a cheap plastic colander; you couldn’t hurt those. But one tiny bounce for the shiny strainer left it looking like it’d been tossed from a moving car.
I ran into the bedroom while the meatballs finished baking, and changed into the black jeggings I’d worn almost every day my senior year and a Pink hooded T-shirt. I hadn’t remembered visiting Victoria’s Secret very often in my youth, but I also seemed to have shirts from the lingerie store in every color.
I slid my feet into my old gray Chucks and ran back into the kitchen. I stirred the sauce and took out the meatballs, which smelled so wonderful, before dumping them into the pot. The sauce was good to bubble all day, so I just needed to run to the store and be back in time to clean everything up before the boys got home.
Of course, in light of my recent history, I double-checked five times that the stove was entirely clear of flammable items before I grabbed my purse and keys. It wasn’t even one yet, and they didn’t get home until after five o’clock.
I had plenty of time.
* * *
? ? ?
“OHMIGOD—LIVVIE?”
I turned around in the checkout line and there was Sara Mills, one of my friends from high school. She was still just as pretty, but now she had an Afro that elevated her to runway model gorgeous. “Ohmigod, Sara? How are you?”
Sara was one of those three-people-removed-from-the-best-friend kind of friends, where you hung out a lot in high school but always within the confines of the group. We’d shared a lot of good times but completely lost touch after graduation.
She smiled. “I’m good. Living out in West Omaha. I married Trae Billings and we’ve got a baby—she’s six months old.”
“No way!” I reached over to hug her and knocked over a box of end-cap cookies with my purse. “Congratulations!”
She laughed and hugged me back. “Same old Liv.”
I nodded and picked up the box from the floor. “Unfortunately.”
She bit down on her bottom lip and said, “Yeah, I heard about the fire.”
“You did?” I adjusted my purse strap and said, “For the love of God, it was only a few days ago. That was fast.”
She made a face. “Well, you kind of went viral.”
“That senior superlative actually came true, didn’t it?”
Yes, I was voted Most Likely to End Up in a Viral Video.
She laughed and I realized that I really missed having friends. In Chicago I had Eli and I had coworkers, but I hadn’t had any true “girlfriends” since college. Which was probably why I squealed when she said, “Do you have time to grab a coffee next door? I’d love to catch up.”
“Totally.”
We chatted while the clerk rang up her groceries—responsible adult things like milk, bread, and vegetables—and then he rang up mine: a case of Top Ramen, a bag of Gardetto’s, off-brand tampons, spaghetti, and a twelve-pack of Diet Coke.
My phone buzzed, and I was disappointed to see it was my mom and not my anonymous pal. Your dad needs help with some yard work if you want to make some extra money.
I glanced up, horrified and embarrassed even though no one in the checkout lane could see the text. Was she serious with that—yard work? As in, I could mow the lawn and trim the bushes for an extra thirty-spot from Daddy? Clearly, in my parents’ eyes, I had reverted to a fourteen-year-old.
And I knew it shouldn’t bother me, but it did.
Because—shit—were they right? I wondered this as I paid for my groceries with the cash my parents had given me, which was both terribly ironic and incredibly pathetic.
I need to get a damned job.
I followed Sara next door and we grabbed a table outside. While ankle-deep in grocery bags, with the late-afternoon sun beating down on our faces, she and I laughed until we were crying as I told her about my Chicago implosion and the resultant fire.
“You found out he was cheating the day you got laid off? And your apartment burned down that night? Holy shit!” She was laughing, but it was nice. I could tell she was horrified by my consistent bad luck, as opposed to being entertained by it. “We should be at a bar, for God’s sake, not a coffee shop.”
Somehow that transitioned into my current living arrangements, and she freaked out when I told her who Jack’s roommate was.
“Girl. Are you telling me that you’re living with Colin Beck?”
I nodded.
“Colin Beck. Holy hell. Is he still hot?”