I have to go to work.
Wrong Number:Tonight then. After your shift. I want to see what those hands look like when they're not saving lives.
Twelve hours later, I'm hiding in Supply Closet B (the good one, with the lock that actually works) like a coward. Today's trauma lineup included: GSW to the chest (saved him), motorcycle vs guardrail (didn't save her, she was gone before they even got her off the pavement), and my personal favorite—a gentleman who "fell" onto a Buzz Lightyear action figure that somehow ended up in his rectum, to infinity and beyond.
My phone has been burning a hole in my scrub pocket all day. Fourteen messages from Wrong Number.
I open them like I'm defusing a bomb.
Photos. His hands doing mundane things that have no business being this attractive. Holding a coffee mug. Working on motorcycle parts. Wrapped in boxing tape, knuckles slightly swollen.
The last one—Christ. His hand against a shower wall, water running down scarred skin, and I'm having thoughts that would get me fired if anyone could read my mind.
Wrong Number:Thinking about your hands.
My pelvic floor clenches involuntarily. Great. Now I need to add "pelvic floor dysfunction from sexting" to my list of problems.
I'm at work.
Wrong Number:I know. Love that you're sexting me between saving lives.
This isn't sexting.
Wrong Number:Isn't it?
It absolutely is. I'm sexting a stranger whose name I don't know while hiding in a supply closet that smells like disinfectant and broken dreams. This is a new low. Or high? The jury's out.
Wrong Number:I want to hear you come. Tonight. Call me.
The door rattles and I hear Nancy's voice. "Incoming trauma, ETA 3 minutes."
"Coming!" I shout, then immediately regret my word choice.
That's not happening.
Wrong Number:We'll see, angel.
1 AM. Home. Staring at my phone like it contains nuclear launch codes.
I've showered twice—once to get the hospital off, once because I'm stalling. José sits on my nightstand, purple silicone gleaming under the lamp I'm pretending I need on for "reading."
Three glasses of wine haven't made this decision any clearer. They have, however, made me brave enough to take another photo.
My hand wrapped around José's base, chipped purple nail polish visible because when do I have time for self-care? The angle hides most of him but implies everything.
I stare at the photo for five minutes. Delete it. Take another. Delete that. Take the original again.
This is insane,says Rational Lena.When has sanity ever made us happy?asks Chaos Lena.We're going to end up on Dateline,Rational Lena warns.At least we'll be memorable,Chaos Lena counters.
I hit send before Rational Lena can form a rebuttal.
Your turn to imagine.
The response is immediate.
Wrong Number:Jesus fucking Christ.
Wrong Number:Call me.
