Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
CHAPTER 1
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Lola
I don’t mean to leave a voicemail. I mean to scream into the void, dramatically unfollow, and maybe eat my body weight in wine-soaked cheese. Instead, I press the call button and pace the floor, waiting for Chad to pick up.
Because I’m tired of pretending to be the cool girl. Because I caught him liking his ex’s bikini pics again—the ones she captioned “just healing” with a thirst trap and a Maya Angelo quote. Because I wasted seven months of my life dating a walking haircut with zero emotional depth and the vocabulary of a slightly evolved gym towel.
Also, because I’m one glass into a bottle of merlot and two bites into a wheel of brie.
The coward doesn’t pick up, sending me straight to voicemail instead.
“Hey, Chad,” I sneer, pacing my apartment like a woman possessed. “Just wanted to let you know you’re a flaming dumpster fire. I hope every protein shake you drink explodes in your car. I hope your phone autocorrects ‘yes’ to ‘yeehaw’ for the rest of your life.”
Darby chokes on her wine.
I ignore her. I’m in the zone now.
“I hope your electric toothbrush dies mid-scrub, your socks never match, and every pair of khakis you own shrinks enough to make you question your masculinity.”
I swipe a hand through my hair, growing more feral by the second.
“And that Spotify playlist I made for you? I hope you play it on repeat—just before you realize I renamed itSongs to Shove Up Your Entitled Ass.”
Darby snorts. I keep going.
“Tiffany from Accounting isn’t ‘just friendly.’ She’s a knockoff HomeGoods candle in a push-up bra, and you’re too dumb to realize she’s planning your future weddinganddivorce in real-time. And I hope—truly—that the next time she ‘accidentally’ brushes your arm with her boobs, she drops a hot burrito in your lap.”
I stop in front of the fridge. Grab the bottle. Pour. Sip. Consider.
“I hope you burn in the flames of your Axe body spray.” I take a deep breath before I get too carried away, even for me. “Anyway, this has been a PSA from your emotionally availableex-girlfriend. Go journal about it or cry in your beer. I no longer give a crap.”
I punch the disconnect button, chest heaving, feeling slightly victorious.
Darby, red-faced and barely breathing, holds up her wine in toast. “Geez, Lola.”
“Too much?” I ask, only slightly bothered.
“Therapeutic. Also terrifying. But mostly solid material.” She clinks her glass with mine and takes a glug.
I plop down beside her on the sofa, drop my phone on the table, and exhale. “That felt good.”
“Hot burrito to the balls.” Darby snickers. “Ouch.”
“He deserves so much worse.”
She shrugs. “Not arguing.”
“We’re supposed to be celebrating you,” I say, feeling a little bad about stealing the spotlight. Again. “Tell me all about the internship opportunity. I want to know everything.”
“Not much to tell,” she hedges, probably not wanting to jinx it. But she eyes me over the rim of her wine glass like thereissomething to tell, but she’s holding out. “It’s a long shot that I’ll get it anyway.”
My phone buzzes. I glance at it, grinning, expecting a stunned text or maybe a dramatic reply from Chad begging me to reconsider.
“Just look already,” Darby insists.
I arch a brow. She’s definitely not telling me something.
