A little.
Do I give a shit? Nope.
I turn my phone so she now has a clear view.
“Oh! How is that possible?” she asks, surprise and confusion flitting across her face.
I look down at my phone, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. “Maybe you didn’t have service? But the calls rangall the way through to your voicemail.” I remember that part very distinctly, my stomach sinking with every ring.
“Try again,” she demands, like she’s mad for me. Her face is a mask of concentration.
I do what she asks and hit the call button under her name. It starts ringing, and I lean over to see her screen. Nothing happens. It doesn’t light up with an incoming call, no noise,nada.
What in the hell?
It reaches her voicemail, which is just a genericyou have reachedand then the number.
“That’s not my voicemail, Rowan,” she says as she comes closer.
I look down at the phone;Daredevilvery clearly listed as the contact name, and it even has the picture I took of her at the hockey game we went to together. Her head turned towards me, wavy curls flowing down her back as she smiled brightly at the camera.
“But this is your number.” My eyebrows pull together. I’m even more confused than I was before.
“But that’s not my voicemail.” She clicks away on her phone for a second before her very distinct, very pretty voice comes over the speaker.Hi, this is Millie. I can’t get to the phone right now, but drop me a message and I’ll get back to you. Or not.
I chuckle at the last part. It’s sweet and direct with just enough sass. It fits Millie to a T.
“Then what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. Can I take a look?”
“By all means.” I shove the phone in her direction, more than willing for her to try to figure it out because I know I haven’t touched her contact info. There’s no way it’s wrong.
“This isn’t my number.”
“What?!” I ask with a little too much outrage because—how is that possible?
She turns the phone around and holds it up to my face. “That’s not my number.”
“Then who the hell’s is it? And how did it get in there?” I’m completely stumped.
She shrugs one shoulder, “Did someone have your phone?”
“That fucker.” I lean my head back and groan. Beau asked to use my phone after practice a couple of nights ago. Said his was dead and he needed to call his dad really quick. I didn’t think anything of it.
“What? Who was it?” Millie leans in to try to see my screen.
“Beau,” I practically growl. I’m going to kill him.
If my guess is correct, he just put his number up under Millie’s contact info, so I’ve probably been texting and calling his ass this whole time. To test my theory, I pull up what’s supposed to be Millie’s text thread.
Me: Beau you fucker.
It doesn’t take him more than a few seconds to respond.
Millie: Hahaha, took you long enough.
I’m vibrating with the need to punch him square in the face, which I plan on doing as soon as I see his stupid face.
