Mr. Wrong Number(25)

“Well, okay, then; hope you don’t get locked out.”

She let out a breath. “You seriously won’t leave it open for me?”

“No, I seriously won’t leave my house unlocked when no one is home.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Beck, can’t you—”

“Liv.” I held up a hand to get her to stop talking. “I doubt I’m going anywhere, so I’m sure you’ll be fine, okay? Just go.”

She took a bite of the apple, chewing and looking at me as if she expected me to say more. When I didn’t, she just said, “?’kay, bye,” turned around, and walked right out the door.

Shit.

I had to pull myself together; it wasn’t natural for Olivia to get the best of me. The only thing I’d ever had a handle on, when it came to her, was that I had the upper hand. She was a mess; I was in control. She did stupid things, and I mocked her for them. There was no room for this sudden Misdial entanglement to redraw the lines of our acquaintance and have her on top. No way.

Although now that I was thinking about it, she’d once told me that she liked being on top.

Thoughts like that were going to kill me.

I tried working in the office, but it was different now. Even though she’d cleaned up (by dragging all of her stuff into the closet and closing the door as far as it would go), the room no longer felt like my workspace. It felt like the room where Olivia slept. It smelled like her perfume, and God help me, a lacy black bra was hanging on the back of the doorknob.

Once I finally refocused and started actually being productive, my phone buzzed.


Miss Misdial: Okay, clearly you are dead or in a coma. I should probably respect that, especially if your mother is holding your phone and wondering wtf this is all about, but I’m selfish. I need a texting buddy, and I’m going to just continue texting into this void regardless of whether you ever respond.



“Holy hell.” I sat back in the chair and stared at the phone; so much for productivity.


Miss Misdial: I’m at a coffee shop, and Mr. Earbuds next to me keeps singing along to that old Marvin Gaye song “Sexual Healing.” It’s on repeat, apparently, because we’re on the fifth go-round, and I’m not sure how to proceed.



I wanted to respond, So heal him already, so badly.


Miss Misdial: I feel like you’d say something ridiculous right now, like “dude, why haven’t you healed him yet,” but that’s a negatory; he’s giving off strong I-will-scream-at-you vibes. I think I shall get out my pepper spray and fiddle with it while I work, just so he knows I’ve got it.



Holy shit, if Olivia played with her pepper spray, she’d blind herself in minutes.


Miss Misdial: On second thought, we both know I cannot be trusted with the care and handling of pepper spray. I shall move along to another coffee shop, where men who mutter “get up—let’s make love tonight” are not afoot. I bid you adieu, Mr. Wrong Number. Oh, and you too, Mother of Wrong Number, should you be canoodling with his phone while he remains comatose. Ciao.



I got up and walked over to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment, and stared down at the city. I needed to get my head right. If I couldn’t get my brain to dump Misdial in a heartbeat, perhaps I could get Harper to help my brain.

I scrolled to her contact information and sent her a text.


Me: Remember that time we said it might be fun to go to dinner?



I didn’t expect her to respond quickly, but my phone buzzed almost immediately.


Harper: You’re seriously asking me out six months later? I’m pretty sure that was New Year’s Eve, Colin.

Me: Maybe it took me this long to get the nerve to ask.

Harper: Or maybe it took you this long to remember my name.



It was almost funny how spot-on she was. I’d meant to text her the night I’d accidentally texted Misdial—fuck, Olivia—and I actually hadn’t been able to remember if Harper was her first or last name. We’d met at Billy’s Bar on New Year’s Eve, and she was a knockout but registered as really high maintenance, which was why it’d taken so long for me to consider reaching out.

Desperate times and all that. I texted: Let me take you to M’s tonight, HARPER O’RILEY (see?), and I guarantee you’ll have a good time.

The phone buzzed.


Miss Misdial: Update. Sexual Healing followed me for three blocks, and when I whipped around and confronted him with my pepper spray, he told me I wasn’t that pretty and I should blow myself with my pepper spray.



Holy hell.


Miss Misdial: So now I’m obsessed with his meaning; what could he have possibly meant by that? A. He thinks I have a penis and should fellate myself while somehow utilizing the pepper spray in the self-inflicted oral sex act. B. He forgot the word “up” and wants me to explode. C. He got the word “blow” confused with “bang” and is suggesting I insert a canister of pepper spray into my vagina.



I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. Seriously, how could I not? She was beyond ridiculous. It took everything in my power not to add D. He was using the word “blow” in place of the word “spray,” and simply wanted you to blind yourself.