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Bree held up her margarita. “Now that’s a ringing endorsement! I’ll drink to that! Another round!”

“Cheers! Let’s do it!” Sarah shouted as we all clinked our glasses together.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell them about texting with Mason as one of my good things. Bree and Sarah would have found it funny, but for some unknown reason, I wanted to keep that part of the day to myself.

SEVERAL HOURS AND WAY too many margaritas later, Sarah, Bree and I stumbled and loudly laughed our way home. I lay in my bed having an internal conversation with myself about texting Mason.

Drunk Anna thought it was a great idea.

More responsible Anna thought it was a bad idea.

I stared at my phone as I tried to decide what to do. I checked the time. It was really, really late.

So fucking what? Drunk Anna won and I began to tap out a quick message. “Mason, are you there?”

I waited a few minutes and there was no response. Of course there was no response. Who in their right mind would be up that late? I mean, other than three roommates who’d been out drinking. My phone suddenly vibrated. “Yes. Are you?” That message was immediately followed by a second message. “Wait. I regret sending that. Obviously you’re there if you’re texting me. Disregard my previous message.”

I laughed so hard I snorted. It dawned on me I had no idea where Mason was. He could be in a completely different time zone. I decided to go ahead and ask. “What time is it where you are?”

“10:13 p.m. What about you?”

“1:13 a.m.”

“Are you on the East Coast?”

“Are you on the West Coast?” I don’t know why I responded with a question instead of actually answering the one he asked, but there was something about the mystery of everything that felt exciting.

“I asked first.”

“I haven’t even told you my name. Why would I tell you where I live?”

There was a pause and I wondered if I’d finally scared him away. After what felt like an eternity, a response popped up. “Fair enough. How about some other basic questions?”

I bit my bottom lip as I contemplated how to respond. “OK. But I reserve the right not to answer,” I finally typed out.

“Party pooper, but I’ll accept your terms. First question—have you been honest about everything in our conversations so far?”

My eyebrows shot up. Geez, Mason wasn’t fucking around. “Starting off with a loaded question.”

“Just establishing a baseline.”

I still hadn’t decided if Mason was a serial killer or a decent guy who’d had a weird thing happen to him by getting my number instead of Susan’s. Part of me was hesitant to provide him any information about myself, but another part was inexplicably drawn to the unknown person at the other end of the phone. I’d hesitated to respond long enough; it was about to make things weird. Instead of thinking about it any longer, I quickly sent the first thing that came to mind.

“I said I liked hot coffee, but I’ve also been known to enjoy it iced as well.”

“That it, Not Susan?”

I couldn’t help the smile that took over my face. “Tricky. I see what you did there.”

“It was worth a try.”

“My turn. How old are you?” Based on our conversations, I suspected he was around the same age as me, but then again, I could’ve been completely wrong.

“Seventy-six.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re a seventy-six-year-old trying to get numbers from ladies at bars? Impressive. You also text really well for a seventy-six-year-old.”

“I’ve got skillz.”

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