Unknown Number:Sent. Let me buy you a drink. Have a good time. You aren’t driving, are you? If so, let me know. I know that’s weird since you don’t know me, but I wouldn’t feel right talking to someone who’s been drinking and not offering them a ride.
That’s really sweet.
Me:That’s so nice of you to offer. I promise, we’re good. We set up a ride to pick us up around 2.
Unknown Number:2 in the morning? I could never. I can’t hang like that anymore. I’m too old.
If I had a drink, I would have choked on it. I knew it. The guy I’m talking to is old enough to be my great grandpa.
Me:Oh, please. How old are you? Please, don’t say 80.
Unknown Number:HAHA, no. Some days it feels that way, but I’m 43. I’m not some old creep, promise.
Me:Well, that’s a relief. I would have felt bad for keeping grandpa up so late.
I head to the VIP couch, needing a break from the chaos of the dance floor. My head is spinning and I might need to leave earlier than intended. I’ve had so many glasses of champagne, I’ve lost count. Dr. Warrick might die when he pays the bill because it was not cheap bubbly; it was the best champagne money could buy.
I squeeze my eyes closed, the room spinning too much for me to have a coherent thought. I don’t know if I can make it down the steps to go outside.
“Oh my god, I’m exhausted, and I’ve had too much to drink.” Vic drops onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a groan.
“Same and my feet are killing me,” Amber says.
“Maybe we should go?” I suggest. “I can reschedule the ride. They can get us now. The room is spinning for me and if it keeps spinning, I might throw up.”
They nod in agreement and it takes all I have to focus on the app to reschedule the ride. While we wait for the car to arrive, I chug some water to hopefully get a clearer head. I would liketo rememberhowI got home when I wake up tomorrow with a giant headache.
I don’t have the energy to look at my phone anymore. Mr. Wrong Number will have to wait.
The girls and I are a giggling mess by the time we enter the car. The driver smiles, repeating my address back to me to make sure it’s correct.
When we get to my place, the girls hit the spare bedroom and disappear for the night. No one is interested in staying up any later than this.
I’m stumbling in my high heels, catching myself on the wall. The water I chugged, in fact, did not help, and I’m seeing three of everything. I kick my heels off in the dark and something shatters.
I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I toss my purse on my bed, continuing to use the wall to guide me to the bathroom. The one thing I always do, no matter what, is wash my face.
Face clean, I strip off my clothes and fall into bed, staring up the ceiling fan, the blades multiplying. I take a few deep breaths and groan, hating that I forgot the headache medicine in the bathroom. There’s no way I’ll be able to get up again.
Oh, Mr. Wrong Number!
I reach for my phone, slapping a new spot on my bed five times before I feel my purse, dump the contents out, and snag my phone to see a message from him.
I decide to save the contact as Mr. Wrong Number.
Mr. Wrong Number:Ouch, your grandpa? That hurts. I’m not that old.
Mr. Wrong Number:Hope you’re okay.
Mr. Wrong Number:Now I do feel like a creep. Did you make it home? Are you still dancing? You have me a little worried. Do I need to come to Club 88 to check on you?
I’m not sure why I find him so endearing. I don’t know him, but for a guy who got a text from a wrong number, he sure is good at caring about someone he doesn’t know.
Me:I made it home alive. The room might be spinning. I hope I’m in the right house. That would be awkward.
Mr. Wrong Number:FINALLY. I was getting worried. You can’t scare an old man like that. I could have had a heart attack.
