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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.
