Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Guy Next Door

“He nodded, though?”

I nod back.

My aunt gestures at me with her glass, the sparkly bangles on her arms clicking together. “That's practically a proposal from Harris Trent.”

I laugh, and the sound surprises me, because I haven't done much of that lately.

“Gram already told him you were coming,” Jean adds. “She toldeverybody. I heard about it at the pharmacy from a woman I have never met.”

I roll my eyes; my grandmother is a force of nature. “So much for a quiet arrival.”

We stay out there until the sun sets and the mountains turn purple at the edges. My aunt walks us through the plans:the display stands she wants built, and the fact that the festival committee has put her next to a man who sells novelty birdhouses and constantly whistles.

When my aunt is in the bathroom, Jean looks over at me.

“Megan, are you going to be okay up here on your own?”

“I need some time alone. And I'm not sad about Nathan.” That part's true. “I'm embarrassed I wasted all that time. Every time he canceled, I had a reason ready before he even gave me one. That's what I can't stand. Not him. Me, doing all that work for nothing.”

“You know what you need?” My aunt says, appearing in the door.

“If you say a rebound?…”

She shakes her head. “I was going to say a fun summer. One where you don’t have to explain anything.”

They leave when it gets properly dark, headlights swinging out across the trees. I stay on the swing with what's left of the bottle. There’s something sensuous about the night here: the wind in the big pine trees and the humid night air caressing my bare skin.

Which is when I make my mistake.

Nathan's last message sits inside my head like an unwelcome toad, mocking me.

Do you miss me? Let's talk soon.

I’ve written him a farewell message multiple times and not sent it. His number is deleted, but of course I remember it. In my wine-addled state, now feels like the perfect time. I type in his number, then a message.

Since you asked what I miss: not your excuses. Just the one thing you were ever good at, which was your mouth on me. Even if I had to give you directions, you knew how to make me come.

I read it back and almost automatically hit send.

The gray bubble goes blue, and my stomach drops through the porch boards when I look at the number I’ve sent the text to.

Oh no.

No.

Did I type in Nathan’s number wrong? I’ve sent a random stranger a suggestive text about my ex-boyfriend's oral technique.

I type fast.

I am so sorry. Wrong number. Please delete that and also me.

The little dots appear as someone types.

Wrong number?

Yes. So sorry.

Shame. Whoever he is, he sounds like he screwed up.