Page 34 of Mr. Wrong Number

Miss Misdial:On second thought, we both know I cannot be trusted with the care and handling of pepper spray. I shall move along to another coffee shop, where men who mutter “get up—let’s make love tonight” are not afoot. I bid you adieu, Mr. Wrong Number. Oh, and you too, Mother of Wrong Number, should you be canoodling with his phone while he remains comatose. Ciao.

I got up and walked over to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment, and stared down at the city. I needed to get my head right. If I couldn’t get my brain to dump Misdial in a heartbeat, perhaps I could get Harper to help my brain.

I scrolled to her contact information and sent her a text.

Me:Remember that time we said it might be fun to go to dinner?

I didn’t expect her to respond quickly, but my phone buzzed almost immediately.

Harper:You’re seriously asking me out six months later? I’m pretty sure that was New Year’s Eve, Colin.

Me:Maybe it took me this long to get the nerve to ask.

Harper:Or maybe it took you this long to remember my name.

It was almost funny how spot-on she was. I’d meant to text her the night I’d accidentally texted Misdial—fuck, Olivia—and I actually hadn’t been able to remember if Harper was her first or last name. We’d met at Billy’s Bar on New Year’s Eve, and she was a knockout but registered as really high maintenance, which was why it’d taken so long for me to consider reaching out.

Desperate times and all that. I texted:Let me take you to M’s tonight, HARPER O’RILEY (see?), and I guarantee you’ll have a good time.

The phone buzzed.

Miss Misdial:Update. Sexual Healing followed me for three blocks, and when I whipped around and confronted him with my pepper spray, he told me I wasn’t that pretty and I should blow myself with my pepper spray.

Holy hell.

Miss Misdial:So now I’m obsessed with his meaning; what could he have possibly meant by that? A. He thinks I have a penis and should fellate myself while somehow utilizing the pepper spray in the self-inflicted oral sex act. B. He forgot the word “up” and wants me to explode. C. He got the word “blow” confused with “bang” and is suggesting I insert a canister of pepper spray into my vagina.

I started laughing; I couldn’t help it. Seriously, how could I not? She was beyond ridiculous. It took everything in my power not to addD. He was using the word “blow” in place of the word “spray,” and simply wanted you to blind yourself.

But just as I was considering it, Harper responded.

Harper:I’ll meet you at M’s. My uncle is the bartender, so I’ll call and get us a table. Seven o’clock work?

Wow. Maybe not so high maintenance at all.

Me:Seven is perfect. See you then.

Olivia

In spite of my shaking hands, I finished an article about the upcoming opening of a new bistro in the Capitol District and I started drafting another 402 column. I hated how shaken up that creep had made me.Hatedit. I considered myself a relatively strong person, but as soon as I’d noticed him following me, I’d been terrified.

Thank God for pepper spray.

Men would never understand the utter bullshit unfairnessof the fact that they’re just built stronger. Small men, tall men, lazy men, soft men; the reality was that most of them—if they wanted to—could overpower me. They’d never know what it was like to not be able to walk alone without being on watch, and knowing that always pissed me off.

Pricks, the lot of them.

I’d been counting on Mr. Wrong Number to read my story, jump in, and make me feel better, but he was still AWOL. Which was starting to make me more stressed than I cared to admit. Because the issue was twofold; first, why was he AWOL—had I done something? And second, why did the thought of him ghosting totally devastate me? I didn’t even know him, for the love of God, so how could his silence cause me such indigestion?

But the writing today—oh, how amazing the writing felt.

I experienced what could only be called a buzz whenever I was creating a new piece. Whether it was an article on diapers (done that) or a words-of-my-heart short story, I was alive and thrumming and filled with an indescribable electric verve as I worked to put it all together. I assumed when I was creating that my brain pumped out the same juices as a runner’s high, and it made me a word junkie who pressed the feeder bar with the voracious appetite of a freshly trained lab rat.

I spent the entire day lost in that blissful escape, not stopping except to eat a bagel at lunchtime and to get very necessary coffee refills. I quit just in time to squeak into my late-day appointment at the plasma donation center, so I was able to walk home $400 richer, which made me feel better about everything. Will and Dana would be dropping off the boys at seven so they couldhave their anniversary dinner, so as long as both my roommates had Saturday night plans, I could have some auntie-nephew bonding time with those kid haters being none the wiser.

But because of my luck, Colin was home. He walked out of his room the moment I came in, and gave me a nice smile—a genuinely kind smile—and said, “Marshall. How was the writing today?”

I didn’t really know how to respond to his question, and then there was also the issue of his looks. He was clearly getting ready to go out, and he looked crazy hot. Sexy. Like a billionaire playboy who was about to wine and dine a supermodel.

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