Mr. Wrong Number:You definitely made my day so much better. It was worth going through all the negative since it meant ending on a positive talking to you.
This is it. This is the perfect opportunity to move this—whatever this is—forward somehow.
I start to type, asking what his name is, when he sends another message that has me stop.
Mr. Wrong Number:We probably shouldn’t do that again.
I sigh and toss my phone to the side, annoyed with his back-and-forth. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to be in this situationship if it will be like this. If he’s going to feel bad every time we sext, then I want nothing to do with it. I’m not trying to be a man’s regret.
A burst of anger wells in my chest and I snag my phone, my fingers flying in rage-filled bursts over the screen.
Me:Then I think it’s best we go our separate ways. I’ll delete the thread and all the videos of you. I won’t show anyone what we showed one another. It was nice talking to you. Sorry for how this all started. Have a great life, Mr. Wrong Number. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Thanks for the orgasms! –xoxo.
I don’t delete the thread, because I’m not ready to.
I set my phone to the side and stare up at the ceiling, convincing myself that this is the reason I need to go on dates. Talking to a man I don’t know, showing him parts of myself that I shouldn’t, isn’t a good way to meet someone to spend the rest of my life with. It’s time to move on, put the fun behind me, and really try the dating scene.
I refuse to be anyone’s regret.
Even if the regret of ending whatever we had eats away at my reason.
9
ELIAS
It’s beentwo weeks since I’ve talked to Miss Wrong Number, and this sounds ridiculous, but I think I’m a bit heartbroken.
I knew sending her that last message was wrong, but I got nervous. I was afraid of what would happen if our relationship kept growing like that. Every sexting experience became more bold, hotter, and the connection between us became stronger. I haven’t had a relationship since my ex-wife, and that wasn’t even that great of a relationship.
I have a lot to re-evaluate about myself if I want to talk to my mystery woman again. I want to learn her name. I want to know everything there is to know about her. I want to know the basics, like her favorite color, and also the things that no one else knows about. Does she pinch her brows together when she reads? Does she cry during movies? Does she find beauty in the ugly terrifying things? Does she still make a wish on her birthday? And if she does, what does she wish for?
I want to know everything.
And I ruined it with one message.
I can be real fucking idiot for a guy who is a literal brain surgeon.
“About time,” Winston says, patting the barstool next to him. “I got you a beer.”
I plop down, tension aching in the back of my neck. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Before I say another word, I wrap my hand around the slick glass drenched in condensation and chug the beer until there’s a little bit less then half left.
The bartender happens to be in front of me and lifts a pierced eyebrow at me. “That kind of day, huh?”
“More like two weeks,” I mumble.
“Damn. Sorry to hear that. I’ll keep them coming, then.”
“Thanks.” My gaze drops to his name tag. “Mike.”
“No problem. If you need anything let me know. The kitchen is open until midnight.” He tosses the bar towel over his shoulder and walks over to a couple who just sat down to take their drink order.
Winston says, “You need to tell me what’s going on. We haven’t really talked ’cause of our schedules. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
More like weeks. Not that I’d ever tell him that. He’d find a way to bench me so I couldn’t do surgeries. Surgery is the only thing that has given me any peace of mind.
Mike brings me another beer, the gold liquid topped with the perfect amount of foam. The cold of the glass seeps into my palm. I’m tempted to drain the second glass. I don’t. I take it easy, so Winston doesn’t drag me out of here.
“It’s been a rough few weeks is all.” I try to keep it simple as I explain, hoping that reason is enough.
