“Follow me.”
I walked behind the hostess as she led us to a table, trying not to grit my teeth as I felt Paul do the whole guiding-me-by-my-lower-back thing. Like I didn’t know how to get there without his assistance. When my alarm had gone off, I’d seriously considered canceling, but then I remembered we were going to Upstream, and my stomach talked my brain out of it.
Once we sat down, the waitress appeared, and before I had a chance to even think about the menu, Paul said, “Can we get a couple coffees? And we’re both having the buffet.”
He wasn’t wrong, but he’d ordered for me without asking first.
Which made him absolutely wrong, right?
“Should we go get some food?” Paul smiled and gestured to the brunch buffet on the other side of the restaurant. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.” I stood and told myself to relax. Just because he probably wasn’t Mr. Right didn’t mean he couldn’t be fun to hang out with. “Let’s do it.”
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.
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.”
“Fine.” She let loose with an eye roll and said, “Tall, handsome, and not a sexist pig; how about that?”
She took a step to go inside, but then she jerked to a stop and her mouth fell wide open as she stared off into the distance. I followed her gaze, or tried to, but there was an entire city in front of her so it was impossible to pinpoint.
“Oh, my God!” She squealed, and I swear she had tears in her eyes as she smiled the biggest, happiest smile and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Oh, my God—it’s just so beautiful.”
“What?”
“See that billboard?” She held out her phone and started taking pictures, but the only billboard I could see was for the Times and had a cartoon on it.
“Where?”
“Over there.” She pointed toward that billboard, but then her face changed. She blinked and said, “Um, it’s a new promo for the Times. Cool, huh?”
“I guess . . . ?” I looked over at it and it just looked like an ad. “I mean, what am I missing here?”
Her mouth turned up into a proud smile and she said, “It’s our new parenting columnist. She’s totally anonymous, but her columns are funny and sarcastic, not the usual boring parental stuff. The first one runs tomorrow and I can’t wait to read it.”
“Holy shit.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms, looking back and forth between her and the billboard. Of course. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“What?” Her eyes got really wide and she was quiet for a second before she said, “No. Of course it’s not—I don’t have kids. I’m just excited—”
“Admit it, Livvie. You have the worst poker face.” She’d always been a terrible liar, and clearly nothing had changed. “You’re the 402 Mom, aren’t you?”
She gnawed on the corner of her bottom lip, obviously trying to decide whether or not to come clean.
“Spill it, Marshall.”
“Fine.” Her face went from nervous indecision to that wide smile of excitement. “It’s me! But you cannot tell a soul.”
She plopped down on the patio chair next to me and made a little squealing noise while wringing her hands. “My boss assumed since I used to write content for a parent-ish gossip site that I had kids. I didn’t correct her in the interview, but then my sample column was apparently good enough and I got the job.”
Sounded like a recipe for disaster to me. “No shit?”
“No shit.” She beamed and said, “I’m serious, though—mum is the big old word. Like, no one can know.”
“I get it.” I cleared my throat. “But are you sure you want to go this route? People always find out the truth. I’m sure if you confess now—”
“I can’t do that—are you kidding me?” She looked at me like I was out of my mind. “It’s too late. They will one hundred percent can my ass if anyone finds out.”
“You really think in a town like Omaha it’s not going to come out eventually?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and the corners of her mouth turned down, making her look worried. “We both know my luck, so sure—it’ll probably blow up in my face at some point. But until that happens, I might as well ride out this dream job, don’t you think?”
I didn’t like seeing her look insecure. Brash, unadulterated boldness was usually her game. I said, “You are a phenomenal writer, Liv. I’m sure if you told the truth, they’d find a way to keep you on.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears and gave me a tiny smile. “How on earth would you know that? The only thing you’ve read of mine was the note I left on the counter the other day about my run-in with your grouchy next-door neighbor.”
“Your mom used to send links to all your ‘Who wore the baby bump better?’ stories to Jack and me.” It wasn’t my thing, reading celebrity gossip, but I’d always been impressed by the way she’d been able to be tongue-in-cheek funny about famous people.
She looked shocked, but then she laughed and said, “Oh, my God—my mother has your email address?”
“When Nancy asks, you answer.”
“Don’t I know it.” She rolled her eyes. “And we shall see about the writing.”
I pointed to my MacBook. “I have no idea how you do it. I’ve been out here for an hour trying to write a letter decent enough to land a huge client but everything I write is trash.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and the wind blew long wisps of hair across her cheek. “I thought you were a numbers guy.”
“That’s the problem.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling her but I said, “I am.”
“Lemme see.” She pulled my computer onto her lap, and I was torn between being offended by her total lack of respect for my privacy and charmed by how fucking comfortable she was. “I’m sure it’s not trash.”
I watched her read it, wondering what universe it was that Jack’s little sister was helping me with my homework. Her dark lashes dipped down as her eyes scanned the screen, and after another minute she said, “Email this to me.”
“What?”
She pushed my laptop at me and said, “Can you email that to me? It’s a great start but you don’t have any voice in there—no you. It sounds like a robot wrote it instead of someone who really wants their business. I’ll change it to what I would write—with track changes turned on—and then you can either accept them or decline them.”
“What’s happening here?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m being helpful . . . ?”
“But why?” Livvie was never nice to me. “We don’t do that.”
Her pink lips were curled up into a tiny smile as she dusted off the fabric of her skirt and said, “You caught me on a good day.”
“By the way,” I said, needing to get back to familiar territory, “is that dress just a bunch of bandannas tied together?”
“No, it’s not, jackass.” Her eyes narrowed but I could tell she wasn’t mad. She stood and said, “Maybe you should stop thinking about my dress and focus on whatever cabana wear you’re sporting today. Does your grandpa know you raided his storage unit?”
“Come on, Livvie.” I stood and stepped closer to her, crowding her on purpose because I knew it bugged the shit out of her. “Don’t lash out irrationally just because you burned up all your good clothes. We both know that I look sexy as hell in my luxurious vacation wear.”
I did a little spin, and was rewarded with a lip twitch that told me she wanted to laugh when she said, “We both know you only like it because it makes you look shredded, attention hound.”
“Don’t be snarky.” I tousled her hair and laughed at her, because she talked about my body like it disgusted her. I wasn’t the arrogant asshole she thought I was—that I let her believe I was—but I also was pretty sure the sight of my chest didn’t gross anyone out, either. “Just drink it all in, Marshall.”
THREE HOURS LATER, I got an email from Liv.
Colin—
You never emailed your letter, but I remembered the gist of it. Sadly, the control freak in me couldn’t let it go, so I drafted a version. Use it if you want, delete if you don’t.
Liv
What the hell? I hadn’t bothered her with it because (a) I didn’t want her to feel obligated, and (b) I wasn’t sure a business proposal was something she had any experience with, but she’d done it anyway. I clicked on the attachment, unsure of what to expect and worried I was going to have to lie and tell her I’d use it.
But once I started reading . . . holy shit. She nailed it.
She’d taken my sterile words and made them sound personal yet professional. She managed to exude warmth while totally wielding the subtle power of persuasion.
She had to have spent a couple hours working on it because it was perfect.
I stacked my hands on top of my head and blew out a huge breath of relief. It was ready to go now.
Because of Olivia.
I responded to her email:
Liv—
This is incredible and you’re my hero. I owe you BIG TIME! Thank you x 100.
Colin
