Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Grump
I lean back in my chair, one hand braced behind my head, listening to a complete stranger go scorched earth on someone I assume to be a boyfriend or soon-to-be ex.
Her voice is pissed but not shrill. She’s sarcastic, furious, and honestly kind of... funny. Descriptive. Personal. Sharp, like she’s been holding back for too long and finally lets it all loose.
She’s on a full-blown tear—burning this guy’s khakis, calling out some woman, and threatening a Spotify playlist that sounds... intriguing. I reach for my laptop and pull up Spotify and search for the playlist, “Songs to Shove Up Your Entitled Ass.”
I chuckle. It does not disappoint. I glance at the screen again as the message abruptly ends.
It clearly wasn’t meant for me. I’m currently not in a relationship, nor looking for one, and haven’t a clue who Tiffany is. The voicemail cuts off with her not giving a crap. She either ran out of time or steam. Probably both. This guy sounds like a real winner.
I don’t know her. But damn if I’m not thinking about the tone her voice took when she termed her tirade a PSA. Emotionally available ex-girlfriend was definitely meant to prove a point. Not even mad. Just... done. Something about it hits a nerve. I should delete the message and move on.
But I don’t. Instead, I open a new text.
That was intense.– Logan
I hesitate before hitting send because this isn’t something I normally do. I don’t engage in banter with strangers. I don’t insert myself willingly into someone else’s drama. And I definitely don’t encourage emotionally volatile women with a gift for poetic justice.
But her rant sticks with me. Not just the fire. It was honesty fueled with humor. And hurt. She handled it like she’d been disappointed enough times to know how to spin it.
I scroll the playlist.
“Ouch.” Pairing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” with “I Hope” by Gabby Barret is a little unhinged, but it works. That’s hoping karma does its job if I ever heard it.
Your ex is an idiot. Also, I give the playlist a solid 8/10.– Logan
I send the text and head to the kitchen to reheat pizza, not expecting a follow-up call, but not exactly opposed to it either. I have questions, like what burrito wronged her in this lifetime.
It’s a fair question. And I wouldn’t mind a break in the silence for a change.
CHAPTER 3
***
Lola
I stare at the text, wondering if it’s a prank. Or if the person on the other end is baiting me
Your ex is an idiot. Also, I give the playlist a solid 8/10.– unknown number
I reread it. Three times. Then I read it out loud to Darby, who nearly chokes on her third glass of wine.
“You got rated,” she wheezes. “He rated your rage playlist.”
“Eight out of ten?” I mutter. Someone’s spreading their case of the grumpies. “I mean—what was missing? It has Alanis, rage-core poetry for women. And Rodrigo’s “Good 4 U.” That’s straight-up savage.” I glance at Darby, still pondering. “And why do you think it’s a he and not a she?”
“A woman would have cheered you on.” Darby taps her temple, clearly impressed with her Sherlock Holmes assumption. “Maybe he’s more into sad boy music, like Bon Iver.”
I glance back at the text, ignoring her wine-fueled wisdom. Eight of ten. It’s short. Unapologetic. And kind of funny?
Also—whoisthis guy? What kind of person listens to a stranger's breakup voicemail and responds with a music critique? Definitely a grumpy pants. I should ignore him. Block. Move on.
Instead, I start typing.
Bold of you to rate a stranger’s playlist. Do you moonlight as a breakup DJ or just deep dive playlists for sport?– Lola
I hit send. Instantly regret it and immediately pick up my glass and start pacing.
A reply comes back ten seconds later.
