Not to judge those guys. They were great people, I was sure, but they just weren’t my kind of people.
I didn’t like basements. Ever since my brother had played a Halloween prank on me when I was nine, I’d avoided them at all costs.
I stared at my phone.
I couldn’t open it and read it. That was insane. I needed to delete the entire conversation and block his number.
How did I know it was an accident? Had he somehow gotten my number and deliberately sent me a photograph of his genitals?
Oh, my God.
What if he had?
Was he stalking me?
What was I thinking, having a full-blown conversation with him earlier?
Sure, he’d been nice. Charming. Lovely. Funny. But you know what? So were serial killers.
It’s how they lured you in.
My fire alarm beeped, sending my thought train crashing into the station. I glared at it, but it didn’t stop. Hauling a chair over beneath it, I climbed up and hit the button to make it be quiet.
It didn’t work.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Fucking.
Beep.
Oh, my God. It was the goddamn batteries. The guy who’d been here a few weeks ago checking them all said I’d need to replace them within weeks and I’d totally forgotten.
It was still beeping.
I had no choice. I had to take the batteries out. I’d replace them tomorrow after work—the stores would all be shut now, and there was no way I had any in the apartment.
I supposed I could ask my neighbor… But as a rule, I tried not to ask Arthur Jennings anything. A simple request for a battery would turn into a half-hour story about them.
Once, I’d asked if he had any milk since mine had gone sour after a weekend trip with the girls. He’d launched into three stories about various grocery trips, and by the time I’d finally gotten the mug full of milk back to my apartment, my coffee was cold, and I had to get to work.
That was the day I’d ordered a small coffee machine for the back room at the store. Now, I never had to be without my coffee.
The alarm was now silent, but it felt as though my phone was screaming at me. I knew the message was there, but…
Jesus, this was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. That was what happened when Aunt Bethel showed up unannounced—her ridiculousness rubbed off on me.
I took one last gulp of wine, and with a prayer up to whoever controlled this stuff in the sky, grabbed my phone and hoped I really wasn’t communicating with a serial killer.
DICK GUY: Can I ask you something?
ME: Can I ask you something first?
DICK GUY: Sure.
ME: Are you a serial killer luring me in with an ‘accidental’ dick pic so we’ll become friends and meet for a drink where you can later strangle me with a shoelace and dump me in a river?
DICK GUY: You caught me.
ME: All right, you’re not. No serial killer would ever admit it.
DICK GUY: Maybe I’m just saying it…
ME: What do you want, dear stranger with the nice penis?
DICK GUY: Ah, thank you, dear stranger with the self-proclaimed great boobs.
DICK GUY: Would you confront the girl who gave you the wrong number?
ME: Depends. Is there a reason you’re asking?
DICK GUY: She messaged me asking where it was.
I blinked at the screen. That girl was either as thick as two short planks or she had some serious lady balls.
Unless she was my number neighbor. You know, that thing where you have the exact same number as someone else, bar one digit?
There was a relatively easy way to figure that out…
I sent two text messages, one to each of my number neighbors. I sent the exact same message.
ME: Hi! You’re my number neighbor! I’m Reagan and I’m conducting an experiment. What’s your name and where are you from?
I had no idea if this would pay off, so I sent Dick Guy another text right after.
ME: There’s every chance she messed up her number and she could be my number neighbor. I texted mine to ask what their name is and where they’re from.
His response was swift.
DICK GUY: What the fuck is a number neighbor?
Oh, my God. Was this guy allergic to the Internet? I swear I couldn’t go a day without seeing a meme or some shit about it.
I sent him a quick text back explaining.
DICK GUY: That sounds like the quickest way to get yourself killed.
ME: Yet here I am doing it for you.
DICK GUY: I hope someone reads these messages and invites me to your funeral.
ME: I hope someone reads these messages and blames you for it.
ME: Also, my great-aunt read these earlier. She’s not a fan of privacy.
DICK GUY: Did you delete the dick pic?
ME: No. I had to go to work and forgot.
DICK GUY: I guess I hoped she liked it.
My phone dinged with a message from a number that was eerily close to mine. I clicked on the dropdown notification and to that conversation.
NN #1: Ch eryl? Is th t you ? Did you lose your h ou s e key a gain ?
Yep. It was safe to say that one of my number neighbors was not the intended recipient for Dick Guy’s picture.
ME: Bad news. One neighbor texted. She’s clearly old enough to be my grandma.
DICK GUY: How’d you know that?
ME: *screenshot*
DICK GUY: …You’re right. Any news from the other potential serial killer?
ME: Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.
DICK GUY: She’s playing me, isn’t she?
ME: More fool her. My great-aunt was very impressed by your photo.
DICK GUY: I wouldn’t usually respond to that, but I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had an ego hit this week.
ME: She zoomed in on your tattoos.
DICK GUY: She’s an artistic type. I like that.
ME: I didn’t even notice.
DICK GUY: You’re not. I like that, too.
ME: I’m a florist. You arrange two dozen roses without getting stabbed by a thorn and tell me I’m not a fucking artist.
DICK GUY: My apologies. Why was she zooming in?
ME: Excellent question. She didn’t answer. Too busy talking about Sam Jobs.
DICK GUY: Doesn’t she mean Steve Jobs?
ME: You’d think, but no. She’s a weird one.
ME: So… If you’re an artist, what are the chances of me getting to see those tats?
What? If you don’t ask, you don’t get.
DICK GUY: You wanna see my tats?
ME: I’ve already seen your cock. It’s not that much of a stretch.
DICK GUY: LOL. Hold on.
And hold on I did. For several minutes, actually. By the time my phone blinked again with his next message, I’d gotten up and refilled my glass.
Yes, I understood the insanity of what I was doing.
I also didn’t care.
I was never going to meet this guy.
Also, he was the best dating prospect I’d had in years and I didn’t even know his name. With Halley in a relationship with my brother and Ava torn between her on-off relationship with Butler and her feelings for her brother’s best friend, I was somewhat of an oddball.
I had no prospects.
Zero.
I was the most confident of the three of us, yet here I was.
Texting a guy who’d accidentally wrong-numbered me.
It could be worse.
I could be texting nobody.
I opened the message he’d sent me.
Holy. Mother. Of. God.