Mr. Wrong Number(2)

“LIVVIE, IT’S MOM. I thought you were coming over today.”

I opened my eyes—well, only one would open—and looked at the phone my mother was shouting at me from. Eight thirty? She’d expected me to show up at their house at dawn? God, the woman was like some kind of sadistic, dog-torturing serial killer or something.

Why had I answered again?

“I was. I mean, I am. My alarm was just about to go off.”

“Well, I thought you were job hunting today.”

Adele started blaring through the apartment again—what the hell—and I yelled, “Alexa, turn off music.”

My mother said, “Who are you talking to?”

“No one.” The music still blared. “Alexa, turn off Adele!”

“Do you have friends over?”

“Oh, my God. No.” My second eye finally opened and I sat up, my entire forehead clenched in a massive ache as the music came to an abrupt halt. “I was talking to Jack’s stereo.”

She sighed one of her why-is-my-daughter-such-a-nut sighs. “So are you not job hunting, then?”

Someone please kill me. I said through wicked cotton mouth, “I am. The internet makes it okay to start at noon, I swear, Ma.”

“I don’t even know what you’re saying. Are you coming over or not?”

I took a deep breath through my nose and remembered my wardrobe problems. Until I could wash my bottoms, I was hosed. So I said, “Not. Until later. The job is my number one priority, so I’ll swing by after I get some apps put in.”

And also after I found a pair of pants.

“Is your brother there?”

“I have no idea.”

“How can you not know if he’s there?”

“Because I’m still in bed, and the door is closed.”

“Why would you sleep with the door closed? That spare room will get really stuffy if you don’t open it up.”

“Oh. My. God.” I sighed and rubbed my temple. “I will get out of bed in a minute, and if I see your other-gendered offspring, I will tell him to call you. Okay?”

“Oh, I don’t need him to call me. I was just wondering if he’s there.”

“I have to go.”

“Did you deposit that money yet?”

I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes. Leave it to my mother. The only thing worse, at the age of twenty-five, than having to ask your parents for money because you rolled into town on fumes and literally didn’t have a dime to your name, was having a mom who wanted to talk about it. I said, “Yes, I did it online last night.”

As if I had any choice but to deposit that mortifying parental contribution as fast as humanly possible. Because after the smoke cleared (literally) and it became apparent that my building was no longer standing, I’d had to spend what little money I had on survival items like an oil change, new tires, and a whole lot of gas to get me home to Omaha.

Thank God I still had one final paycheck coming next week.

My mother said, “You did it on the computer?”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”

“Evie’s husband said you should never do that. You might as well just give your money to the hackers.”

My head was throbbing. “Who is Evie?”

“My bridge partner, the one who lives in Gretna. Do you never listen to me?”

“Mom,” I said, contemplating pulling the old cutting out, I’m in a tunnel cell phone trick. “I don’t memorize your bridge partners’ names.”

“Well, I only have one, dear, it’s not that hard.” My mother sounded deeply offended. “You need to stop with the computer banking—just go see the teller in person.”

I sighed. “Should I have driven back to Chicago to deposit it in person, Ma?”

“There’s no need to get snippy. I’m just trying to help.”

I sighed again and clambered to my feet from the low, low air mattress that’d bottomed out every time I’d rolled over in the night. “I know and I’m sorry. It’s just been a rough couple of days.”

“I know, hon. Just come over later, okay?”

“Okay.” I walked over to the door and threw it open. “I love you. Bye.”

I tossed the phone on top of the desk and squinted as the living room’s natural light assaulted my eyeballs. God, the hangover. I had that equilibrium tilt going on, the one that let your body know you were still too boozed up to drive, and I stumbled in the direction of the Keurig, desperate for coffee.

“Well, good morning, sunshine.”

I froze at the sound and instantly felt like I was going to throw up.

Because Colin Beck, Jack’s best friend, was watching me toddle toward the kitchen. As if the universe hadn’t already beaten the living shit out of me, there he was, standing beside the fancy breakfast bar with his arms crossed, witnessing my walk of shame with an eyebrow raised in amusement. He was wearing his I’m-better-than-you smirk and dickish good looks while I traversed the apartment in underpants and a too-small shirt like some sort of Winnie-the-Pooh variety of dipshit.

I blinked. Had he gotten more attractive?

What a prick.

The last time I’d seen him was my freshman year of college, when I’d gotten kicked out of the dorms and had to spend the final month of the semester living at home with my parents. Jack brought him over for spaghetti on a Sunday, and Colin had found the story of my stray-dog rescue turned mauling of multiple dorm tenants turned subsequent fire-sprinkler deployment turned massive dorm-wide flooding dismissal to be the funniest thing he’d ever heard.