Page 3 of The Other Guy

JACK

Unknown: Tonight was great.

Me: It was.

I finally respond to the girl who texted Toolbag last night while I was trying to fall asleep and roll my eyes at how predictable my evenings have become.

The longer I let this go on, the more disgusting I feel about it. Sure, my intentions are good. I don’t want these women to feel like shit just because they slept with a guy who doesn’t care about them. But to not immediately let them know that they have the wrong number is a total dick move.

Yet, I can’t stop myself.

Call it boredom or being a douche or just a guy, whatever it is, I try not think too much into it. Because when I do, I realize that it really is a dick move to not immediately tell them.

Unknown: About time you replied.

I almost rub my hands together in excitement. The first woman to call me out has me sitting up a little straighter and looking forward to spending my Friday night hopefully chatting it up with Unknown 16.

Me: I know. I’m such a dick.

I grin at my phone because if I were talking about Toolbag, I’d say I am a dick. The three little bubbles pop up letting me know she’s about to reply and I set down my phone, go to the kitchen and fill up my glass with water and ice, and open the fridge to see what I have to make for dinner. Grilled chicken boneless skinless breast. My usual. I don’t know why I expected to find a big ribeye there marinating and ready to be grilled with some golden potatoes. Or maybe some leftover spaghetti or a creamy chowder of some kind.

Groaning in annoyance, I grab the container, start heating it up along with some frozen broccoli that I’ll dress with a little bit of lemon juice, lemon pepper, and a tiny bit of salt. Even my meals are boring. I once wanted to be a chef like my dad, James. Even went to culinary school. Then the gym that I once boxed in with my mom came up for sale and something told me I needed to buy it, leaving behind my dream of becoming a chef. After all, boxing is what gave my mom her confidence back after my sperm donor, Vince, became a complete dick and put his hands on her in a way that wasn’t remotely okay for a husband to do. Mom and I left him, came to Liberty, Michigan, and never looked back.

Mom met James a few years later and even though I was almost eighteen, he still adopted me. I wanted nothing to associate me with Vince and when James asked Mom and I if he could adopt me, neither of us hesitated.

I don’t have any regrets for changing up my career path, but I do miss cooking for the joy of it. That’s how I am, though. I never do anything halfway. When I became a gym owner, I shifted my focus and admittedly became obsessed with training and setting an example for my members. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that eating healthy doesn’t have to be boring. The meal itself isn’t boring, it’s the repetition of it that is.

Tomorrow I’m going to the grocery store and spicing things up because this is getting ridiculous.

I gather my plate and bring it into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table my dad built out of pallets, and snatch my phone back up.

Scrolling through some of the other texts, I ignore the pictures because I’m not in the mood to torture myself.

The first one is still one of my favorites.

Unknown 1: I think you broke my vagina last night.

I stared at my phone for at least thirty minutes wondering if I read the text right. I finally replied, letting her know she’d sent the text to the wrong person and she replied with how mortified she was. I laughed it off, telling her it wasn’t a problem, and didn’t think much of it. Until…

Unknown 2: Had a great time. I didn’t know I could orgasm on the bottom.

After this one I just left it unread, not knowing even how to respond. But when the next came through, I absolutely knew something was up. I couldn’t help but laugh, and thought maybe a friend was just messing with me.

Unknown 3: I’m curious about something. Are you always such a generous lover?

Unknown 4: I have a funny feeling this isn’t your real number. If I’m wrong and it is your number, I had a great time. If it isn’t, well, I’m glad I was drunk off my ass so I don’t remember much about you.

This was the text I received when it finally clicked with me that some guy was giving my number to people. I had asked my friends and family if they had a hand in it, and none of them admitted to it.

Unknown 10: Thanks for giving me your number. Last night was really amazing. We had a real connection, you know? I’m sure you felt it, too. I can’t wait to see you again.

That was a tough one. I didn’t pretend to be Toolbag for a second. Just let her know that she had the wrong number and never heard from her again. I hated that she was hurt and couldn’t let it continue. Not that I let others continue for long, but I knew in my gut that she deserved to know immediately.

My phone reminds me that I was actively texting someone and I’m pulled back into my current conversation.

Unknown: Well, I wasn’t going to say but… yeah. You kind of are.

Her response makes me grin.

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