I’m about to contradict her when the phone on her desk rings and startles both of us out of the little bubble that had started formingaround us. The same kind of bubble that I’d felt that night seven years ago.
I feel my phone buzz with a text message, so I shake off the remnants of Joe and Minnie and go into my office. Sitting behind my desk, I see a message from Serena.
Serena: What are you doing tonight?
I tap out a response and hit send.
Me: I should finish up here about seven and then I’m headed home.
Her reply comes swiftly.
Serena: You’re disgusting.
I rear my head back in surprise. What the hell is she talking about? My gaze shifts back up to the text I’d sent, and my eyes widen. Because that isnotwhat I typed.
Me: I should finish up here about seven and then I’m headed to the titty bar.
I quickly tap out a response.
Me: Not sure what happened. I didn’t mean to say titty bar. I thought I typed home. Weird.
But as soon as I hit send, the words on my screen change.
Me: Not sure what happened. I didn’t mean to say titty bar. I thought I typed to the titty bar. Weird.
Serena: Are youon drugs?
Me: No! I got a new phone and it’s being weird. I am going to my apartment after work.
Tapping send, I’m relieved when the message stays as it is.
Serena: Okaaaay. I’ll come over and bring takeout, but I’m not going topless, you freak.
Me: Thank god.
Sighing, I set my phone aside and for the next hour, I tackle some emails I’ve been avoiding. My cell pings with a text message, and I slide it over to check it, seeing it’s from Auburn Bouvier. Auburn is the CEO of the Bouvier fashion empire in New York, though they have a large store in Houston where I order all my suits. Custom-made to fit my tall frame, of course. The quality of their clothing is second to none.
Auburn: I hear we’re playing together in Florida for the pro-am.
Me: Hell yes. I’m thrilled to get to play with Chandler.
Auburn: And me of course.
Me: Of course.
I push my phone aside and answer another email on my laptop when I hear my text notification again. It’s another message from Bouvier.
Auburn: Hey, no judgment here, bro, but I have a question. Who wears the polka dot panties. You or Margarita?
What the fuck is he talking about? I move my gaze upward to the last message I sent, but instead of saying “Of course,” my screen says something different.Verydifferent.
Me: I like to dance the lambada with my blow up doll, Margarita, while wearing pink polka dot panties.
I press my thumb and middle finger into my eye sockets and rub, but when I look at my phone again, the ridiculous words are still there.
Carefully, I type another message.
Me: Sorry about that. My new phone seems to be glitching.
