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Sure, he was bad in bed, but most men didn’t know what they were doing. I could take care of myself just fine.
With the buzz of half a bottle of wine in my system, the idea of getting back together with Bradley wasn’t sounding half bad. He was a warm body and, in retrospect, it wasn’t that bad. Men cheat from time to time. It’s like my sister once told me: “All men cheat, just some are better at not getting caught.” I suppose that was the price of heterosexuality.
Deep in my mind was sensible, sober Sloane, who was shouting with all her might that Bradley was bad news and I deserved better. And even nothing was better than him. But on a night like this, it didn’t seem that way.
“I’m going to call him,” I said aloud, as if expressing it verbally would quiet my conscience and convince her that I’d made my decision.
My phone wasn’t next to me, though. I checked in-between the cushions of the couch, but it wasn’t there either.
“Where’s my phone?”
I could almost hear my sober self giggling to herself inside my head. My sober self knew exactly where the phone was, but she wasn’t going to tell me. But I didn’t need her. I could find it on my own. There were only so many places it could be.
I checked my purse, which was hanging on the hook in the entranceway, but it wasn’t in there. Nor was it on my bed or in the laundry basket with my dirty clothes. I laid down on my bed, and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate and remember the last place I used it, but the last 24 hours were a blur. At that moment, the past several months were a blur.
In my mind, my sober self stood off in the distance with a smirk on her face. And I thought maybe she didn’t actually know where my phone was. I’d lost my phone before and my sober self always managed to find it again. How did she do that?
That’s when I remembered the Find My Phone app. It connected my phone to my laptop and would use the GPS to tell me exactly where that phone was, so long as the battery hadn’t died.
Now I was the one laughing at sober Sloane.
I grabbed my laptop and opened up the app, which asked me for my password. After several tries, my fingers finally cooperated and unlocked the screen, providing a map of the greater Los Angeles area. Concentric circles dotted the screen until eventually settling on a place not too far from my apartment.
“Where the fuck is that?” I asked.
It was one of the nice houses about a half mile from my apartment, but I’d never been there. And then it dawned on me: I hadn’t lost my phone at all. Somebody stole it!
There was no way I was going to let them get away with that. I scribbled the cross streets and address down on a small notepad, then searched my closet for my raincoat, which was still in its packaging from when I’d bought it several years ago — rain was not a common occurrence in LA — and put it on along with my rubber flip flops for the beach.
And in my ridiculous outfit, I stormed out of my apartment and got in my car to get my phone back.
CHAPTER8
***WESLEY***
Ishould have picked something up on the way home, but I hadn’t thought of it. The second I stepped foot in my house, I realized just how hungry I was. And nothing in the house ever sounded appetizing. One of the cruel downsides of perpetual bachelorhood was that meals were seldom designed to be made for one. It didn’t make sense to bring out a set of pots and pans, then have to clean them, if you were just cooking for yourself.
So tonight, like every night, I pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer and threw it in the oven, setting it to 425 degrees without waiting for it to preheat.
And then I went to the couch and started looking for something to watch on TV before eventually landing on a Marx Brothers movie. They were old and silly, but no matter how long a day I’d had, I could always count on them to make me laugh. A lot of people have a favorite of the three main brothers and most of them would assume I was a Groucho guy, with his sardonic one-liners, but I’m not. I love Groucho, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Harpo, the silent clown who speaks only with pantomime and a bicycle horn.
This time, however, for whatever reason, I was giggling at Chico, with his over-emphasized Italian accent.
The movie passed the time nicely and, before I knew it, the timer on the oven went off and I went to check on my dinner.
The pizza was still a bit cool, so I put it back in and was about to set the timer when there was a knock at the door. I hadn’t been expecting anyone and it was already well past 9 PM, so I went and checked the peephole.
Sloane stood in my doorway, with a look of fire in her eyes — it was easily the angriest I’d ever seen her.
“Open up!” she yelled. “I know you’re in there!”
I had no idea what she could be so angry about that she tracked me down to my home. In fact, I had no idea how she’d even gotten my address, but she was drenched from the rain, even in her oversized raincoat, and I wasted no time in opening the door for her.
“Sloane, what’s the matter?”
That fire in her eyes immediately extinguished itself.
“You’re the thief?” she asked.
