Mr. Wrong Number(32)





Paul sat back down and sighed. I smiled and rolled my eyes as if the person texting me was just so annoying.


Mr. Wrong Number: I cannot believe I’m saying this, but you might be right.



“So what are you doing the rest of the day?” Paul wasn’t smiling as he scooped up a forkful of eggs, but he was attempting conversation. “Besides texting, that is.”

I stifled a laugh and wondered how many texts had been exchanged. Was Mr. Wrong Number close to being right? “I have to work most of the day, actually.”


Me: He just brought it up. How many are we at?



“That sucks.” Paul cleared his throat and gestured to my phone. “Are you in the middle of something important? Because we can do this another time if you are.”

Aw, hell. Even though I knew he wasn’t the guy for me, I realized he didn’t deserve this, either.


Me: I can’t do this. I can’t be an asshole. I’m just going to finish up the date.



“No.” I set my phone down and took a sip of my very cold coffee. “I apologize. I’m all yours now.”

“Is that right?” He slid into a grin. “Well, then, check, please.”

“Oh, my God.” I was pretty sure he thought he was funny, but I couldn’t even manage an awkward fake laugh. “Are you kidding with that?”

His smile slipped and he blinked fast as he said, “Yeah. Of course I was.”

“Oh. Good.” I cleared my throat and pasted on a polite, closed-mouth smile. “I thought so.”



* * *



? ? ?

AS IT TURNS out, the number of texts doesn’t matter when you and your date end up getting into a heated argument. One minute things were okay and we were talking about restaurants, and the next I was loudly explaining to him how every guy who eats at places like Hooters and Twin Peaks are pigs.

“I’m not talking about the girls who work there, Paul.” I knew I should let it go since the date was clearly the end for us, but this was a hot-button thing for me. Especially when he’d just said that the waitresses liked the attention. “If a girl wants to use her femininity to profit off the douchebags who are willing to pay to ogle her body, more power to her. But the men who specifically choose to go to a restaurant so they can get a quick peek at some young girl’s breasts while shoving food into their sexist faces are just pathetic.”

“Okay, I just told you I like the wings at Hooters, so what are you saying?”

I just gave him a look, because I didn’t want to say it.

“No, I want to know.” He was pissed now and done with pretending otherwise. “Do you think I’m pathetic?”

I looked at him, and it was clear that he thought I was going to say no. And since I’d already had one guy tell me to blow myself with pepper spray that week, I wasn’t going to poke the tiger by being honest. So I reached for my purse under the table and said, “Y’know, I should probably get going. Thank you so much for brun—”

“You’re not going to answer the question?”

I pushed back my chair and stood, ready to run. “It’s probably not a good idea.”

“Are you kidding me?” He shook his head and screwed up his face. “I don’t think you’re a very good feminist if you can’t even—”

“Oh, my God. Yes, okay?” I pushed my chair under the table and yanked my purse against my body. “I absolutely think you’re pathetic. Thank you for breakfast and goodbye.”

I walked out of the restaurant as quickly as I possibly could and didn’t slow until I had a solid three blocks behind me. I texted Mr. Wrong Number as I walked home: Date ended with me calling him pathetic and him calling me a bad feminist. #winning.





Colin


“Hey.”

I glanced up from my laptop as Olivia stepped out onto the balcony, squinting into the sun and wearing a weird little print dress that looked like a series of bandannas tied together. The red, white, and blue print made her dark hair shine and her skin glow. I had the luxury of wearing sunglasses, so it was a rare moment where I could size her up without getting caught.

“Hey yourself. How was the brunch date?”

I’d laughed my ass off when I’d read her last text. It was so on-brand for Olivia that it was almost cliché. And, for the record, it was the last text we would ever share because I was ghosting her now. I didn’t know why the hell I’d interrupted her date that morning, other than the fact that turnabout was fair play and she’d interrupted mine the night before, but we were phone buddies no more—starting now.

“It was good.” The sun brought out a few golden streaks in her hair as she stared at the city. “I ate too much.”

She was lying. Well, intentionally leaving out details at the very least. “And the guy?”

She shrugged and crossed her arms. “Nice but not really my type.”

I set the computer down on the table next to my patio chair. “What is your type?”

That made her grin a tiny little grin and shake her head. “Nope. Not sharing. If anyone were capable of ruining my Prince Charming dreams, it’d be Colin Beck.”

“Oh, come on, Liv.” Why in the hell did I want to hear it in her words so badly? “I promise not to comment.”

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