Page 23 of Mr. Wrong Number

“Girl. Are you telling me that you’re living with Colin Beck?”

I nodded.

“Colin Beck. Holy hell. Is he still hot?”

“Hotter, actually.”

“What a prick.”

“Right?”

“I always thought he looked like Ryan Gos—”

“Still does.”

She grinned and settled back in her chair. “So your luck just might be changing.”

“Oh, God, no.” I took a sip of my latte and let the foam float around in my mouth before swallowing. “He’s still an asshole. He looks at me like he knows he’s better than me.”

“Really? Is that how he is?” She pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “I just always thought he seemed intense. Like he had a lot going on in his head. Didn’t he get a perfect ACT?”

“Did everyone know he was smart except me?”

“Looks like.” She pushed back her chair and stood as my phone buzzed on the table. “I’m running to the restroom. Be right back.”

I waited to check my messages until she went inside.

Mr. Wrong Number:I’ve been in a meeting with a woman for 35 minutes, and she has no idea that there is pear on her chin.

Me:How do you know it’s pear?

Mr. Wrong Number:Because it looks like those slippery canned pears.

Me:It could be something gross. Maybe she puked up her lunch just before your meeting and that’s a chunk.

Mr. Wrong Number:Ignoring that. What do I do, though? Do I say something?

I coughed out a laugh and typed:You can NOT say anything. It’s too late now.

Mr. Wrong Number:But it’s driving me insane. I can’t concentrate on anything but the pear.

Me:You mean the chunk.

Mr. Wrong Number:You’re killing me, Misdial.

“Who is making you smile like that?”

My cheeks got hot and I grinned at Sara, who sat back down and looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, my God, finally someone I can tell.”

I told her all about Mr. Wrong Number: how it happened, our pact of anonymity, and the frequency of our chats.

“This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” She gave me an openmouthed smile. “I wonder what he looks like.”

“Right? Like, I have no interest in ever knowing who he is, but it’s a fascinating thing to ponder.”

“Ponder my ass. You mean fantasize about.”

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