She was still glued to her phone screen, but she said, “So why didn’t you come home last night, Mr. M?”
I froze at the unexpected question, feeling guilty as fuck. I hadn’t gone home because I’d been balls deep in a dancer. Then I remembered I was the adult, the parent, the employer. I knew moving to Manhattan was a big change for my daughters and they didn’t need to freak out over me being gone all night. I gave Lena a hard look.
“I went to the charity event, like I told all of you. Then I got home around two,” I straight-up lied. But I wasn’t backing down on this one.
“Hmm,” she said.
Was I being judged by a twenty-four-year-old? I reached down and grabbed the plate holding Willow’s abandoned pancake. I stabbed it with a fork and shoved half a pancake into my mouth. I didn’t want to say something I would regret.
This was why dating was impossible.
At least I’d had last night. I glanced at my phone again.
Nothing.
I slept late. Really late. But Brandon had kept me up until after three.
Reaching for my phone, which I usually kept on the windowsill behind my bed, I didn’t find it in its usual spot. It also occurred to me that I hadn’t gotten his number and he hadn’t asked for mine. I had a vague memory of him saying he’d left his number, so I stumbled out of bed.
He had cleaned up the mess we’d left out the night before. And he’d left a note with his number and money for the ridiculous amount of food and wine we’d ordered. God, he was actually perfect.
I was slightly embarrassed I had told him being with him was easy. It might have been too eager, too revealing. I wasn’t sure. But I obviously hadn’t scared him off because he’d left his contact information.
After showering, I spent the next few hours on the couch watching TV and eating leftover rice, marveling at how sore I was and how many orgasms I’d had. Finally, I decided it would be cool to text him.
I squinted at the numbers on the envelope Brandon had scribbled on. I had waited an appropriate amount of time to reach out. Post-lunch, pre-dinner. Time for both of us to eat, shower, do a few Saturday errands. I did not want to look overly eager. Clingy wasn’t a good look, but if I waited too long, he would think I was rude and/or not interested. I already felt guilty about being a lousy hostess. I hadn’t offered him coffee or a shower or anything. But to be fair, I had barely even realized he was leaving. I had been almost entirely asleep still.
Which was technically his fault for keeping me up so late.
Lounging on my couch, I typed the numbers into my phone. I wanted to see him again, without question. He was intense, considerate, and really damn good in bed.
You know what I don’t like? Mornings. But I had fun last night.
I had told Brandon the night we met that I liked everything. I did like sleeping in. But I had to admit I wasn’t a fan of getting out of bed before eight.
The bubble popped up. He was texting me back. I wondered what a single dad did on a Saturday with his kids. Movies? Was he walking a dog with them right now? It was an intriguing visual. I pictured him with a bulldog. That seemed to fit.
Same. Are you still in bed?
No.
Damn. I want a nude from you.
Huh. Okay. That didn’t seem like a Brandon request. At least not in those terms. But then again, how well did I know him?
Haha, forget it. What are you planning to do today?
Jacking off to the pic you send.
What? I sat up, unsure how to respond to that. Then I went for the comedic deflection. I sent him a picture of a bulldog.
That’s bullshit. Wait, does that mean you’re a guy? That dog has a dick.
It took me a second, then I realized what was happening. Oh, great. I was texting a stranger.
Seriously. Are you a dude? Because fuck off if you are.
I groaned and wished I had a pastry. Thank God I hadn’t seriously contemplated sending this jerk a nude. Not really. Only sort of. I would have if it had sounded more like Brandon. But it hadn’t seemed exactly him.
I didn’t even respond to the stranger’s last stupid comment. Instead I opened up a food service app and ordered a six-pack of donuts delivered to my apartment. Then I eyed the phone number written down on the envelope again. It was possible I had either entered the number wrong or that eight was really a six.
Except I did have the number right and when I tried it with a six instead of an eight I got a really lovely elderly woman in Seattle who thought I was her granddaughter. My donuts arrived while she was telling me about her embroidering altar cloths for church. I gave her an occasional “uh-huh,” and let her rattle on as I chewed on a glazed donut and made fresh coffee.
Eventually she wound down and I said I had to go and she told me she loved me. I had no choice. “I love you, too, Grandma.”
Hell, it could be her last day on earth. I couldn’t shatter her world and not have her granddaughter return the sentiment.
I called Isla, who lived irritatingly far away in Brooklyn with her boyfriend, Sean. Otherwise, I would have shown up on her doorstep. “Hey, I’m going to send you a picture of a phone number written down and then I want you to tell me what numbers you see,” I said when she answered. “I tried to text what I thought it was and it was the wrong number. Hang on.”
It took a second, but I quickly sent the note from Brandon to Isla, then put the phone back to my ear. “So what do you think?” I rooted around the kitchen countertop for a pen and another random scrap of paper. For some ridiculous reason I didn’t want to mar Brandon’s note with scribbles and attempts to decode his phone number.
“It seems your Valentine’s Day out on the town with Elijah was a success,” she said. “Since you got some dude’s number.”
“It was carriage rescue man,” I said. “I literally ran into him, splashing his drink all over myself. We had a lot of fun.”
“Naked fun? Or just hanging-out-at-the-bar fun?”
“Naked fun.” I sighed, hearing the dreamy quality to my voice, and not caring about that one single bit. “He left super early though and I wasn’t really awake or I would have had him put his number in my phone. Now I’m left trying to interpret his terrible handwriting. Maybe he’s a doctor.” I studied the phone number again. Frankly, half the numbers could be interpreted in at least two different ways.
“You don’t know what he does for a living?”
“Um, no. I didn’t get around to asking that. We just kind of jumped into bed. He did mention he has two daughters though. He’s divorced and has full custody.”
“Whoa. That’s complicated. Most parents don’t get full custody. The ex must be a nutbag or something. Are you sure you want to get involved in something like that?”
“I’m not trying to marry him,” I said, annoyed. I didn’t want her to kill my vibe. “I would just like to repeat the four orgasms I had last night. We had fun together. As I mentioned.”
Fun seemed such a pale word for getting down and dirty with each other.
“Well, here’s both my and Sean’s consensus on what that phone number is. I showed it to him and we’re in agreement with each other.” She recited a number.
She thought it was the same number I originally texted. “Nope. That belongs to a dirtbag stranger who asked me to send nudes.”