Mr. Wrong Number

You think you’re in love with me and even you have a hard time believing it.”

“Dammit, Liv—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well, then, dammit, Olivia.”

You think you’re in love with me and even you have a hard time believing it.”

“Dammit, Liv—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well, then, dammit, Olivia.”

“Don’t you find this bizarre? Like, Jack’s friend who told me when I was in seventh grade that my crimped hair looked like burnt French fries is holding my hand.”

Wait, that’s you? I’m taking out the girl who ran over her own foot with a car?”

Rubble is my favorite Paw Patrol dog, FYI.

“Actually, I dumped him because his love letters were positively ghastly. The guy rhymed ‘love’ with ‘glove’—can you believe that shit?”

Mr. Wrong Number: On that note, I’m taking a survey on female attire. Can you describe your current outfit?

I glanced down at my gym shorts and texted: Valentino gown, Ferragamo pumps, and the kickiest little feathered hat you’ve ever seen. Might’ve belonged to the Queen.

Mr. Wrong Number: So you’re in pajamas.

Me: Basically.

She sighed one of her why-is-my-daughter-such-a-nut sighs

So tell me exactly what you’re wearing.

A pervy wrong number? I wiped my nose and typed: Your mom’s wedding dress and her favorite thong.

: What do you think the first guy to ever milk a cow was thinking?
Mr. Wrong Number: Come again?
Me: Ew, I doubt it was that.