Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
But I pick up the phone, curious if Chad will grovel or feed me another line of bull. But the text is from an unknown number.
That was intense.–unknown number.
I blink. Why is some rando texting me? I check the call log and feel the blood drain from my face.
“Oh no.”
“What?” Darby cranes to see the phone screen.
“I—I don’t think I dialed Chad.”
“Sounded like it to me.” She sets her glass on the coffee table.
I hold the screen up. “Wrong number.”
Darby stares, wide-eyed. “You leftthatmessage on a random stranger’s voicemail?”
“I—crap—My unhinged TED Talk landed on an unsuspecting person’s phone.” I toss my phone onto the table like a hot potato. “They probably think I’m a lunatic. Mad. Insane. Ready for the loony bin.”
“You’re a menace to society,” Darby deadpans before collapsing in laughter. She doesn’t pretend to come to my rescue with words of comfort. “Odds are some cheating sap deserved it anyway. Someone’s girlfriend will thank you later.”
I grab a throw pillow and toss it at her. My phone buzzes again. I scramble to pick it up.
Also, strong opinions about khakis. Bold choice.– unknown number
I stare at the phone, mortified. “They listened to the whole message.”
“You’re going viral,” Darby gasps. “This is how TikToks start.”
“No, no, no—this is how restraining orders start. What do I do? Do I apologize? Delete my number? Join the Peace Corps?”
“No.” Darby grins. “You donothing. You wait.”
“For what?”
“For karma. Or the whole thing to be forgotten about. Either way, I’m opening more wine.” She hauls her butt off the sofa. “They don’t know who you are. Ghost them. Easy peasy.”
I stare at the screen, mortified, curious, slightly impressed—and deeply,deeplydreading what happens next.
CHAPTER 2
***
Logan
The call comes in just after nine. I’m halfway through a report for Monday, ignoring the leftover pizza I meant to reheat an hour ago.
Unknown number. I ignore numbers I don’t recognize. Most often, they’re spam or robo calls. People I know text or call the office number. I let the call go.
The phone lights up and buzzes again several minutes later. Voicemail. Four minutes and change. Nobody leaves a four-minute voicemail on purpose unless it’s a relative having a crisis or a telemarketer who got stuck in their own pitch loop.
Curiosity makes me tap the play button.
The message begins mid-sentence. No greeting. Just fire and brimstone that sounds a lot like drama queen material.
“...you’re a flaming dumpster fire. I hope every protein shake you drink explodes in your car.”
I pause, confused. Then let the message play out because it’s well... entertaining.
