Mr. Wrong Number(31)

We hit the buffet hard, filling our plates until they were heaping. He visited the crepe bar, the omelet bar, and the chef-carved roast beef bar, whereas I just dished up a grip of bacon, two donuts, and a mountain of country potatoes. When we finally got seated, I glanced at my phone—which I’d left on the table next to my water—and there was a message from Mr. Wrong Number.


Mr. Wrong Number: What are you doing?

Me: Can’t talk; on a brunch date.

Mr. Wrong Number: On a scale of 1-10?

Me: Too early to tell. At a buffet, so our mouths are too full to actually converse.



“Ahem.”

I glanced up and Paul was looking at me. He had on a backward ball cap again, this time with his Oakleys parked on top, and I wondered if he was balding. Not that I cared, but two times in a row made me wonder if he was hiding something. I tried for my best contrite look and said, “Sorry.”

I set down the phone and picked up my fork. “So, um, Paul. Tell me all your stuff. Where’d you grow up, what do you do, have you ever murdered, are you in a cult, that sort of thing.”

He took a bite of a croissant and said while chewing, “Grew up here, work in sales, like I’d really tell you, and only the cult of Husker football.”

I nodded and scooped up a pile of potatoes. “So you’re basically my brother.”

My phone buzzed again. I could see who it was, and it was killing me not to pick it up.

“If he’s awesome, then yes.” Paul dipped his crepe into some ketchup—what the hell?—and said, “Your turn.”

“Grew up here, writer for the Times, I’ve only murdered people who deserved it, and no cult action to date.”

We drifted into small talk, and Paul seemed like a good guy. He started talking about his job, and I couldn’t stop myself from checking my phone really quickly while smiling and nodding.


Mr. Wrong Number: You alive?

Mr. Wrong Number: Did your brunch date murder you?



I glanced up, and Paul had barely noticed my mental absence. “—so it’s kind of a temporary thing.”

I nodded. “Yeah, totally get that. Um, I’m going to run to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

I stuck my phone in the pocket of my dress and scurried to the bathroom. The minute the door shut behind me, my phone was in my hand.


Me: Still alive. He gave me the YOU DARE TO TEXT look so I put my phone away.

Mr. Wrong Number: He’s not your dad. Text if you want to text.

Me: How do you know he’s not my dad?

Mr. Wrong Number: Ew. How is the date going?

Me: Meh. Like, he’s attractive and hasn’t pissed me off, but he reminds me of my brother so . . .

Mr. Wrong Number: Oof.

Me: Oof indeed.

Mr. Wrong Number: I have a great idea.



I rolled my eyes but giggled. Proceed.


Mr. Wrong Number: Go back to the date, but keep texting me. See how many texts it takes for him to say something. I’m betting on ten.

Me: I don’t like confrontation.

Mr. Wrong Number: Chicken.

Me: I’m not a chicken. I’ll do it, but only because I want to.

Mr. Wrong Number: Atta girl.



When I sat back down, I was full-on grinning. Paul smiled back but looked at me like he was waiting for the punch line, for which I had none, of course. We fell back into small talk, and he was entertaining like a comedian when it came to pop culture. I was cackling as he talked about The Bachelor, and it was going so well that I actually decided to ditch the texting challenge.

Until . . .

“—so I mean yeah, the dude was a creep, but the hashtag Me Too stuff has gotten way out of hand. Like, a guy with money can’t even be alone with a woman anymore.”

I slowly gnawed on a chewy piece of bacon. “What do you mean?”

“These women—not all women, you know—but a lot of women will just make shit up to bring a guy down.”

My hands immediately went to my phone, because the date was done.


Me: Game starts now.

Mr. Wrong Number: Excellent. Give me one of your golden questions.

Me: If you had to choose between showering and brushing your teeth—and you could only choose one—which would you pick?

Mr. Wrong Number: Forever?

Me: Yup.



I glanced up and Paul was eating and looking at the table next to us.


Mr. Wrong Number: I guess I’d go with showering . . . ?

Me: You do realize that no one will ever kiss you again if you stop brushing your teeth.

Mr. Wrong Number: Well I don’t think I’ll be getting a lot of action with B.O., either.



“Do you want to go get more food?” Paul’s eyebrows were up and he was staring at me as if waiting for me to participate.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” I set my napkin on my plate. “But you go ahead.”

He looked perplexed, but went back to the buffet.


Me: I think if I had to choose between tongue-kissing someone who hadn’t brushed their teeth or knocking boots with someone who smelled a little rank, I’d pick the latter.

Mr. Wrong Number: The hell you say.

Me: I know but listen. It’s gross, but if it’s only straight-up sex without foreplay, maybe in a non-facing position, it would be better than licking someone’s furry teeth.