The day didn’t get much better.
I barricaded myself in the office and applied for ten jobs I was completely underqualified for. There were a few openings for technical writers, which I was qualified for but not excited about, and a slew of other copywriter jobs that I almost fit the profile for (but not quite).
In the process I managed to jam up the printer (that I’d used without permission) and spill toner powder on the white rug (spoiler: Cleaning it with water was a terrible idea and the rug was toast), so I was off to a great start.
After that, I drove over to my parents’ house to grab some of the clothes I left behind when I went to college. While I depressingly dug through clothes that hadn’t been trendy in a decade, my mother showed me the virtual scrapbook she was keeping of links to stories about the fire. You know, just so I could remember it years from now.
Then she fed me lasagna while my father lectured me on adult behavior and the importance of renter’s insurance.
I left their house with heartburn, leftovers, and a chip on my shoulder that was a hell of a lot bigger than the Kennedy Marching Band T-shirt that I was going to have to get reacquainted with until I got a job and earned new clothes.
I wondered how far the closest plasma donation facility was.
When I got back to Jack’s building, I just didn’t feel like going up yet. The day had been so filled with one horrendous thing after another that I wasn’t quite ready to deal with Colin. Or my brother, for that matter.
Definitely not their irritation when I told them about the white rug.
So I went up to the roof instead.
I’d noticed the sign in the elevator about the rooftop patio, and it did not disappoint. It had a ridiculous view of the city below, framed with overflowing pots of bright petunias and fancy chaise longue chairs.
I sat down, tucked my legs under me, and took in a deep breath of summer air.
Ahhhh. It felt like the first time I’d breathed since Eli had shown up at the coffee shop and told me how much he didn’t love me.
Had that really been two days ago?
My phone buzzed, and when I looked down, I saw a text from the same unfamiliar number from the night before.
What are you wearing?
Wrong number dude was at it again? What a loser. I texted: Haha. Did that actually work for you last night, btw?
A couple laughed around the fire pit that was glowing on the other side of the rooftop, and I wondered what the possum population was like in this part of town.
Mr. Wrong Number: After the cold shower your mental image dumped on me, I didn’t even try. I went home and went to bed.
Me: Oh, poor baby. So sorry I ruined the world’s cheesiest attempt at action.
Mr. Wrong Number: You don’t know I wanted action. I might’ve been taking a survey on female attire.
Me: Sure you were.
Mr. Wrong Number: On that note, I’m taking a survey on female attire. Can you describe your current outfit?
I glanced down at my gym shorts and texted: Valentino gown, Ferragamo pumps, and the kickiest little feathered hat you’ve ever seen. Might’ve belonged to the Queen.
Mr. Wrong Number: So you’re in pajamas.
Me: Basically.
Mr. Wrong Number: Antisocial by choice or bad luck?
Me: Choice. But my luck is, in fact, the baddest.
Mr. Wrong Number: Can’t be that bad.
Me: Oh, you have no idea.
Mr. Wrong Number: Three examples, please.
I smiled. It felt wildly freeing to talk to someone who didn’t know me.
Me: In college, I was clipping my toenails and ended up having to wear an eye patch for a month.
Mr. Wrong Number: Disgusting, but impressive. #2?
Me: I once got stuck in a tipped-over porta-potty.
Mr. Wrong Number: Good Lord.
Me: Music festival, strong winds. The thing blew over, door side down. I still have nightmares.
Mr. Wrong Number: I want to move on to #3, but I have to know how long you were trapped.
Me: Twenty minutes but it felt like days. My drunk friends lifted it enough for me to squeeze through the door crack.
Mr. Wrong Number: I’m assuming you were . . .
Me: Absolutely covered in waste.
Mr. Wrong Number: I just threw up a little in my mouth.
Me: As you should. And just to add a cherry to the top of your entertainment sundae, the story ends in me being doused with gallons of high-powered water that were dispensed by a fire hose.
Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. You definitely can’t top #2.
Me: Oh, you ignorant little fool. #2 is but a warm-up.
Mr. Wrong Number: Well give me #3, then.
I thought about it for a minute. I mean, there were hundreds of embarrassing bad luck moments I could’ve shared with him. The time I dropped a bowling ball on my toe on my first date, the time I fell into an empty pool and broke my elbow; such was my life. But since I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me, I shared the rawest one.
Me: Not only did I introduce my boyfriend—now ex—to my stunningly beautiful coworker, but I encouraged him to collaborate with her on a project that required them to spend countless hours alone together in her apartment.
Mr. Wrong Number: Oof.
Me: Right? Probably doesn’t qualify as bad luck when it’s pure stupidity.
Mr. Wrong Number: I don’t know you, so you could be a raging psycho. BUT. If you’re not, I think it makes you unbelievably cool, the fact that you’d trust them both that much.
I hadn’t actually told anyone in the world what’d happened with Eli yet, so it felt good, having someone say that.
Me: You say that, but would you ever be that stupid?
Mr. Wrong Number: No comment.
I snorted. See?
Mr. Wrong Number: How about I give you one of my stupid moments to even this out?
Me: I thought you said it wasn’t stupid.
Mr. Wrong Number: Hush.
Me: Please continue.
Mr. Wrong Number: In college, I proposed to my girlfriend without a ring.
Me: That’s not stupid.
Mr. Wrong Number: She said no because—and I quote—“if you knew me at all, you’d know I want a ring.”
Me: Oof.
Mr. Wrong Number: Right?
Me: I can’t imagine having my life together enough IN COLLEGE to propose marriage. I was still getting floor-licking drunk every weekend right up until graduation.
Mr. Wrong Number: Maybe I should’ve tried that, instead.
Me: I’m guessing you’re over it?
Mr. Wrong Number: Why are you guessing that?
Me: Because you’re sending “what are you wearing” texts to randos.
Mr. Wrong Number: I AM over it, but you were a misdial, not a rando. I was sending that text to someone I knew, remember?
Me: Oh, yes—of course.
I stretched my legs out in front of me and looked up at the stars. It was a gorgeous night, and I was actually having fun.
Talking to a wrong number.
God, I was pathetic.
Me: Listen, Wrong Number, you seem like a damned delight, but I don’t have any interest in an internet friend. I’ve seen Catfish and 90 Day Fiancé, and that is not my jam.
Mr. Wrong Number: Nor mine.
Me: So . . . have a great night, then.
Mr. Wrong Number: So that’s it? It’s either zero or Catfish?
Me: Afraid so.
Mr. Wrong Number: And this isn’t the internet, for the record.
Me: True, but still the same.
Mr. Wrong Number: You don’t find this kind of . . . entertaining?
Me: I do, actually.
Mr. Wrong Number: So . . . ?
Me: So . . . sticking with my original answer. These things always get weird.
Mr. Wrong Number: You’re probably right. Especially with your bad luck.
Me: Yup.
Mr. Wrong Number: Well, good night, then, Miss Misdial.
Me: Good night to you, Mr. Wrong Number.
I put my phone away and it almost felt like I was waking up from something, like I’d just come outside after a month in a dark basement. I felt more relaxed than I’d been in a really long time as I stretched in the moonlight and stacked my hands behind my head.
It was strange to think, but I kind of felt like it was because I’d unloaded on Wrong Number. I felt lighter. Light enough to go back to the apartment, in fact.
Because really, who cared if Jack and Colin thought I was a loser? Why had I let that bother me in the first place? I loved my brother, but the reality was that theirs was just an apartment for me to sleep in for the next month.
A really nice apartment that I was going to enjoy, dammit. Like an Airbnb without the required payment.
I texted Jack: Are you guys home?
Jack: At the Old Market. Why?
Yes! Alone time.
Me: Just curious. Have fun.
I went down to my car, grabbed the trash bag full of high school clothes, and headed upstairs. I’d been so emotionally shredded the night before that I hadn’t had a chance to get comfortable and explore the place. I hummed as I rode the elevator, feeling a little more like a functional, thriving adult than a cheated-on loser for the first time since Eli thanked me for introducing him to his soul mate.
When I got inside, I dropped my keys on the table by the door and dragged my garbage bag into the office. I dumped everything out onto the floor in the corner, digging through the pile until I found what I was looking for: the soft green plaid flannel pants I’d slept in every night in high school and my paint-stained CAT hoodie.
It didn’t matter that it was June. The apartment was freezing, so the outfit was like wearing a blanket. I burrowed into its softness, slid my feet into a pair of mismatched socks, and threw my hair up in a ponytail. Two quick flicks in my phone’s Bluetooth settings, and I was headed for the kitchen.
“Alexa, play Hit It Mix.”
“Sex Talk” started and I cranked the volume, bouncing a little across that swanky apartment. I’d made the playlist as a joke for Eli, filling it with nasty songs I knew he’d find offensive, but apparently I was tougher to offend because I fell in love with the potpourri of upbeat, über-sexual songs instead.
And now that he was the biggest bastard in the world, the playlist was my theme music.
I did a few pirouettes on the sleek kitchen floor, getting maximum spin in my socks, before wandering over to the windows that overlooked the city. I was obsessed with that part of the apartment. I could stand there—in front of those huge floor-to-ceiling windows—and watch the world for hours.
“Want a beer?”
“God.” I turned around, my hand on my heart, and Colin was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, one side of his mouth slid up in a smirk. He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of jeans, his hair still perfect in its Ivy League style. “I didn’t know anyone else was home.”
He pointed toward the speaker above him in the ceiling. “I kind of assumed.”
“I thought you were with my brother.” I felt my cheeks get hot as Megan Thee Stallion started singing exactly how her man liked it. Super loudly.
I nearly screamed, “Alexa, turn off music!”
Colin’s eyes were smiling and he crossed his arms. “So, beer . . . ?”
Unaccustomed to his congeniality, I asked, “Are you offering, or just taking a poll?”
“Offering.” He made a face like he knew he deserved that and said, “We’ve got a beer fridge in the laundry room.”
“Um.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “Yeah. Thanks.”
He walked over to the door next to the bathroom, and when he went inside, I adjusted my hoodie so my bralessness was less apparent. I assumed he’d bring out a beer, but instead he yelled, “You should probably pick your poison. Your brother likes a lot of weird shit.”
“Oh.” I walked over to the tiny laundry room, where he was leaning down into the fridge and presenting me with—wow—just the finest ass. I mean, his posterior looked as if he was forever doing squats and lunges; perhaps that was his sole method of mobility. Maybe Colin lunged everywhere he went.
He glanced over his shoulder. “See anything you like?”
Good God. I cleared my throat, pointed, and managed, “Is that a Vanilla Bean Blonde over by the Mich Ultra?”
“Yep.” He straightened, gave me the blonde, and grabbed a Boulevard for himself. I exited the laundry room with him following behind me, and I wandered toward the kitchen, where I knew the bottle opener lived. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Sure.” He went around to the other side of the breakfast bar, opened a drawer, and pulled out the opener. Colin held it out to me and said, “By the way, I owe you an apology.”
That captured my attention. I grabbed the opener and asked, “For what?”
His eyes were serious when he said, “For what I said about the fire this morning. I was an asshole about it, and it’s really none of my business.”
I popped the top and lifted the bottle toward my mouth. “And . . . ?”
A flash of irritation crossed his face before he said, “What does ‘and’ mean? You don’t accept my apology?”
“I just don’t get it.” I noticed his hands were nice—Stop it, Liv—as he opened his beer. I watched his throat move around a swallow, and I said, “You’re actually apologizing to me?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Well, yeah, but you’ve always been a jerk to me and you’ve never apologized.” I finally took a sip of my beer then, looking at his slightly confused expression over the bottle.
He sounded outraged as he said, “I’ve apologized.”
“Nope.”
“Well, if I haven’t, it’s because it’s always been in good fun.” His eyes moved over my face, like he was trying to reconcile the whole of our lives together. “We’ve always messed with each other. That’s kind of our thing, right?”
Did he actually think that? That his Liv-is-a-moron attitude was just our friendly wordplay? For some reason that irritated me, the fact that he didn’t even know that I didn’t like him; I mean, shouldn’t he know?
I decided to let it go, though, because we were roommates for the next month. It would run a lot smoother if I played nice. And for me, nice meant avoidance. Steering clear of Colin was the only way to ensure a peaceful, rent-free month.
“Sure.” I got off the stool and pushed it in. “Thanks again for the beer. I’ve got a million things to do tomorrow, so I should probably start settling in, even though I’m totally wide-awake. It’s weird how when you decimate your life, you get wicked insomnia.”
He smirked and his eyes were actually smiling. “I bet.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll start sleeping like a baby soon, once the smell of soot finally leaves my body.”
He actually coughed out a little laugh. “One can only hope.”
I started to walk away when he said, “Hey, can I quickly use the printer before you go to bed? I just need to print a three-page doc—”
“No!” I turned around and cursed myself for sounding so panicked. “I mean, can you maybe just use it tomorrow? I’m really, really tired.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “You just said that you have insomnia.”
I bit my bottom lip and said, “I just have a lot of stuff in the office, all over the place, and I—”
“What happened?” He sounded like a detective who knew I was guilty as he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
I reached up and pulled my ponytail tighter. “Nothing happened. Um, I just don’t want—”
“Spill it, Marshall.”
I sighed. “Fine. Your printer broke when I used it this morning. I didn’t do anything wrong, it just broke. I’m sure I can fix it.”
“Can I see?”
I so didn’t want him seeing the heaping mountain of old garbage clothes, but it was his apartment. “Sure.”
I followed him into the office, and as soon as we walked in, I saw him looking at the trash bag and massive clothing pile. It was embarrassing, but at least the mess was covering the stain on the rug. I said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“I went to my parents’ house, and my mom sent me home with a bag full of clothes. She didn’t have any luggage, so I had to put them in a Hefty bag.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“Bullshit.”
He just winked, and my stomach dropped to my ankles.
He leaned down and looked inside the printer, where the cartridge door was ajar. “What the hell happened to it?”
“I had to pry off the door with a flathead screwdriver. Don’t worry, I googled it first.”
He squinted into the printer. “Oh, well, if you googled it.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
He looked over at me like I was insane, and pointed at the broken door. “Seriously with that?”
I just shrugged.
He started digging inside the machine, and he pulled out two crumpled-up pieces of paper. After a few minutes, he had the printer up and running and the machine back together. He straightened and said, “Boom.”
I rolled my eyes, which made him smile. Those wild eyes twinkled as his deep voice purred out, “Need anything else fixed, Liv?”
I knew he wasn’t flirting—I knew it beyond a reasonable doubt—but it still shook me. It made my voice sound kind of breathy when I said, “I think I’m good.”
His eyes stayed with mine for a split second, like we were both wordlessly acknowledging the spark of flirtation, before he said, “Well, good night.”
I swallowed and dropped down onto the air mattress. “Well, good night.”
