Mr. Wrong Number (Mr. Wrong Number, #1)

by Lynn Painter

I was full-on ugly crying when my phone buzzed and halted the meltdown. A number I didn’t know texted: So tell me exactly what you’re wearing. A pervy wrong number? I wiped my nose and typed: Your mom’s wedding dress and her favorite thong.

I found a Cookie Monster pajama top, but discovered I didn’t actually own a single bottom; no pajama bottoms, no jeans, no shorts—the only pants I owned now were the stinky gym shorts currently covering my ass. Was not owning pants my rock bottom?

I had one pair of neon-yellow boy shorts that said Eat the Rich across the back, and their presence in my life kept me dangling from the balcony that hovered just above Bottom.

“Mine are killing me now—I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to those years. Because if I have to watch one more episode of Paw Patrol . . .” “Right?” She shook her head. “I mean, what kind of town leans on a teenage boy to solve all of their problems?” “An idiotic town whose mayor has a pet chicken. I mean, that fact alone should have sent up all the red flags.”

“It’s like rich people want to make things difficult so the rest of us feel dumb.” “Which rich people are you referring to?” He took the wine bottle from my hands, and two motions later it was open. I rolled my eyes and turned my back to him, walking over to the stove. “The people who make idiotic corkscrews like that. And the pretentious boobs who buy them.” That made him laugh and he followed me into the kitchen. “Did you just call me a pretentious boob?”

I looked up as I hit send, and Colin wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. No, he was staring down at the phone in his hand as if he’d never seen a phone before.

“Oh, my God, you are so adorable I want to pinch your fucking cheeks. Look at you, all insecure about the ex.”

“Can you maybe knock off the sarcasm for five minutes?” I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture so I said, “The most I can promise is three.”

You aren’t a hot mess at all, Livvie. You’re just this . . . this . . . human tornado who is so alive, so filled with the energy of the moment, that there occasionally is a little collateral damage.”