Mr. Wrong Number(8)

“I’ve got pepper spray in my sports bra; I’ll be fine.”

“Because bad guys definitely give you time to dig around in your Under Armour.”

“Whatever, Jack. I dare someone to mess with me.” Today was the first day of the New and Improved Olivia, the one who would exercise regularly, eat well, use a planner, and land a job. As soon as I had money, I was even going to implement a skin-care routine like a bona fide adult.

“Mom told me to look out, by the way.” Jack leaned back a little and grinned. “She said you’ve been ‘snippy’ since you got back and want to fight about everything.”

“I don’t have time to discuss all of the ways our mother is off base.” She was like a middle-class, real-life version of Emily Gilmore.

“Is she right about Eli?”

Well, that certainly made me stop in my tracks. I acted unaffected when I said, “I don’t know—what’d she say about him?”

Meanwhile, the sound of his name still made my heart hurt. I thought he was the one.

“Just that she thinks he dumped you or cheated.” He scraped together the scrambled eggs on his plate with the underside of his fork and added, “She said those are the only reasons you’d be burning his love letters.”

Yeah, my mom nailed it. Eli had done both. I didn’t want them to know the details, though. For the two years I’d lived in Chicago—one of which I’d lived with Eli—my family had acted like I’d finally outgrown my disastrous ways. I had an apartment in the Windy City, a boyfriend who liked craft beer and running, and a job as a technical writer for a Fortune 500 company.

It seemed that Livvie had finally become an adult.

What they hadn’t known was that the job was a boring entry-level position that barely paid the bills, the apartment building that I torched was owned by Eli’s uncle, so we were charged minimal rent, and Eli and I rarely saw each other during the week because he traveled for work.

It wasn’t until he got promoted and no longer went out of town that he realized (a) he didn’t love me anymore and didn’t know if he ever had, and (b) he loved my work colleague more than life itself.

“Actually, I dumped him because his love letters were positively ghastly. The guy rhymed ‘love’ with ‘glove’—can you believe that shit?” I put in my headphones and shook my head. “Don’t tell Mom that, though, because she liked him. I’m out of here.”

I left the apartment and stretched for a solid five seconds on the elevator ride down. I’d enrolled in a barre class back in Chicago that I actually went to a few times a month, so I was reasonably in shape and it would surely be fine.

Only . . . it wasn’t.

I ran two blocks—two—before I had to stop and put my hands on top of my head. I was gasping and seeing little stars, panting like I’d just finished a marathon, when I noticed it was a Starbucks that I was panting in front of.

Yes.

I pushed back my hair and pushed in the door, almost tasting my deliciously creamy frapp as the rich smell of coffee came at me. I knew it wasn’t exactly in the New Olivia plan, but a cup of coffee wasn’t going to push me off the rails.

The place was buzzing with the early risers, those business-class, hyper-driven individuals who were already dressed in suits and ready to succeed. They were historically not my kin, but perhaps they would be in the near future. I walked over to the line and waited behind two corporately dressed men, trying to soak up a little of their success mojo while they discussed someone named Teddy.

But it wasn’t until I got to the front and placed my order that I remembered—oh, my God. I had less than a hundred bucks to my name. I was sub-hundo for a few more days, which meant I had no business getting coffee.

Or calling myself an adult, but that was another thing entirely.

“Oh, my God—I forgot my wallet.” It wasn’t a lie. I did not, in fact, have my wallet, but I usually paid with the app so it technically should’ve been a nonissue. My face was hot as I patted myself down like a moron and said to the smiley barista, “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize that I hadn’t reloaded the—”

“I got it.” She winked and said, “What’s the name for the cup?”

“Um, Olivia.” I felt a little emotional as I said, “Ohmigodthankyousomuch.”

I moved over to wait for my drink and felt even more excited about this life redo, because I was actually having good luck for once. That had to be a cosmic sign, right? I grabbed my drink when they yelled my name, then I unwrapped the straw and took a huge sip of my cosmically gifted beverage.

So, so good.

My phone buzzed, and when I pulled it out of the waistband of my shorts, I saw a message from my anonymous friend who I thought I’d unfriended the night before.


Mr. Wrong Number: I thought we were done, Misdial.



I was confused until I saw the message above his.

Apparently I’d butt texted him a series of letters and symbols.


Me: Sorry, that was a butt dial.

Mr. Wrong Number: Sure it was.



I giggled and looked up. The guy barista with the ponytail raised an eyebrow, but no one else seemed to be looking my way. I texted: Swear to God.


Mr. Wrong Number: Well, good. Because we are NOT going to banter, right?