Page 4 of One Little Mistake

I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. Her boyfriend texted the address? What, does he live here too, and I somehow missed it?

I snatch the phone from her hands.

‘Harbor Street 7, apt. 217. Meet Nick at 2:30 p.m. He’ll give you the keys.’

“That was five months ago,” I say, stunned, noticing the timestamp. “You’ve been living here this whole time?”

“Uh-huh,” she nods, biting her full lips.

I scroll up, then down, scanning the messages. Mostly long texts from Erin, a few short replies from her so-called boyfriend.

“Well, that explains everything,” I say.

“What explains what?”

“You got played.”

“What?”

“He gave you a fake address because he never planned on sticking around.”

I nod toward her very pregnant belly. “Happens all the time. Bet you anything the name he gave you isn’t even real.”

“No. Max wouldn’t do that. I saw his driver’s license,” she says firmly.

“He texted you three times in total. And how long’s it been?”

I check the messages again, scrolling up the thread.

She snatches the phone from my hand and hugs it to her chest.

“There has to be an explanation.”

Her eyes dart around the room. She exhales shakily, then winces slightly, like she’s in pain.

“Such as?”

“He… he said he was busy. That the signal was bad.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But what about the wrong address?”

“It was a mistake,” she whispers, almost inaudibly, and starts nervously pacing, her hand constantly rubbing her stomach.

“I’ll call him now. Try to get through. We’ll sort it out. Maybe the realtor messed things up—he was buying a new place right before he left.”

“No way. Unless Vivienne and her husband decided to cash in on me—but a meteor’s more likely to hit Earth. You’ve been dumped. Deal with it, however harsh it sounds. You can stay till morning, fine. But after that, pack your things and go deal with your fiancé yourself. I didn’t come back home to play detective. And now I’ll have to redo the whole damn home office.”

I kick the wall with the toe of my sneaker and clench my fists in anger. So much for coming home.

“I don’t believe you,” Erin insists. Stubborn as a brick wall. “I talked to his sister. She’s been in this apartment before I moved in.”

“Don’t tell me you talked to Elena,” I say, holding my breath—and her face says it all. “Fantastic. Just fantastic.”

We fall silent, glaring at each other, both convinced we’re right.

I pretend there’s no stranger in my house, try to act normal: open the fridge—stuffed to the top—grab some sausages and juice, and still ignoring Erin, I enjoy my dinner. One good thing about this whole mess.

“By the way, the shirt’s mine too,” I say casually, scanning the kitchen to see if anything else has changed.

---