Page 16 of Mr. Wrong Number

We small-talked about our kids—please kill me—for a few more minutes before the interview ended. She shook my hand and said she’d be in touch, and I honestly wanted to cry as I rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Because I wanted that job.

I wasn’t a mom and knew nothing about being a mom, but I wanted that job so bad. And not just because I desperately needed employment. Iwantedto work with Glenda. Iwantedto write tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic-yet-sweet parenting articles. My creative side was tingling because I knew I could totally kick ass at that job.

If only I had kids.

I walked back to the apartment slowly, teetering in the cheap black pumps I’d worn to homecoming my junior year. I tried talking myself into a little positivity as I headed home; there were still exciting things happening in my life, right?

I was living downtown, which was my absolute favorite thing, so that was cool. In a great apartment, no less, even if itwaswith my brother and I had to sleep on a bed that was made of a raft.

Things reallycouldbe a lot worse.

Hell, I could be living with my parents.

And I was still getting up early and running every day; for me, that was huge. Even though I panted like a dog and had to stop to walk every three blocks or so, I was a week into my new life and still trying to make it stick.

It helped that Colin was gone. He’d been away in Boston on business, and if he were home, I probably would’ve blown off running because no way could I ever have him as a runningbuddy.But with him out of the picture, I’d been able to jog without stress.

I’d also been sneaking into his room and napping on top of his fancy pillow-soft bed every day, so I was more well-rested than I’d been in a really long time. I knew it was a little scrubby of me to use his bed without asking, but that air mattress was killing my back and I was incredibly careful to sleep above the covers.

What he didn’t know and all that, right?

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of the pocket of the skirt I’d worn to the DECA convention my sophomore year.

Mr. Wrong Number:I have time to kill and I’m bored. Give me something to ponder.

I glanced up and moved over to the right, stopping beside a closed storefront so I could text without walking into traffic or getting trampled by my fellow on-foot commuters. I texted:I’m busy. You think I can just come up with these gems on the fly?

Mr. Wrong Number:That is exactly what I think.

That made me smile because it was bizarre the way I kind of felt like hegotme, even though we were total strangers.

I pushed up my sunglasses before typing:Okay. Do you think an intelligent person who has never done a CERTAIN THING is capable of giving good advice about a CERTAIN THING if they’re studious and do the research?

Mr. Wrong Number:First of all, this one’s boring. Second, you’re asking for a friend, right?

Me:Right.

Mr. Wrong Number:Okay. Well. I think it depends. If you’re talking about surgery—please God no. But if you’re talking about something a little abstract, like dating advice, then yes, I think it’s possible for the right person to pull it off.

Parenting was kind of abstract, right?

Me:Thank you. Okay, I’ll give you what you really want now.

Mr. Wrong Number:Oh, baby.

Me:Eww.

Mr. Wrong Number:Waiting.

Me:How many 5th grade boys could you beat in a fight at one time? And no weapons allowed.

Mr. Wrong Number:What if my hands are registered weapons?

Me:Spare me the machismo.

Mr. Wrong Number:Hmm. I’d say... twelve.

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