Page 17 of Right Number, Wrong Man
“Hear, hear!” I say, raising my mug at the screen.
Andrea reaches out of the camera frame before toasting back at me with a matching mug, but her Hey Kitty wears an angel costume. The cups were a set and I gave it to her for our annual friendship anniversary celebration last winter.
“Hell yeah!” she says and takes a gulp of coffee.
“Do you have any other options except the dahlias?” I ask.
“One second…” She looks around and pouts, putting her mug on the counter. “Damn, I think I left them in the car earlier. Be right back!”
Andrea dashes away, leaving me to marvel at her kitchen, decorated with light wood and white paint wash. From this angle, I can see twolive, laugh, lovesigns. I smile. Her place always looks like she recently robbed a craft store and it’s not my style, but I adore her commitment to the aesthetic.
Steve, her fiancé, walks by to grab a cup of coffee from the machine on the counter. With his nose buried in a book about modern architecture, it takes a moment until he notices me on Andrea’s laptop screen.
Hands full, he gives an awkward wave with his elbow,the odd movement accentuating his lanky build. “Hi, Hailey!”
I raise my mug. “Hey Steve!”
“How are you?”
“Eh, just fine.” I shrug. “Excited about the wedding?”
He grins, mustache wriggling. “Oh, it’s only going to be the best day of my life, right? I’ll see you there.”
“I can’t wait!”
As Steve walks out of the frame, a notification appears on my screen. My stomach flips.
It’s Sara Jean, Mike and Colt’s mom. She’s sending another invitation to a monthly family dinner that I’ll ignore—like I’ve ignored her other calls and texts since Mike’s funeral.
I love Sara Jean and Earl like my own parents, but I practically sent their youngest son to an early grave by kicking him out in the middle of the night.Theydon’t know that, butIdo.
I’m the reason for their pain and loss.
Since the wake, I can’t look into their eyes without guilt crushing my chest. Add in my own lack of sadness about my husband’s passing and I can’t breathe around them.
Andrea returns with a bundle of various pink flowers, giving me an excuse to forget about the text for now.
“What about these?” she asks, showing them off one after the other.
I’m not a nature lover—more the plastic succulent type—but they’re all pretty.
“Much better. Add something green and you’re set,” I say.
She nods and puts the flowers out of sight. Elbows braced on the kitchen counter, red curls drape over her shoulders as she frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I’m not ready to spill the story how I accidentally sent naughty videos to a stranger who then threatened me with the cops.
Her nose crinkles. “You really think I can’t tell when someone pissed in your breakfast cereal?”
“I don’t even eat cereal.”
“Your eyes are red and puffy. You cried.”
“No, I didn’t!” I lie. I did cry, but they were angry tears.
“Is it because of Mike?” she presses.
