Page 3 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

I take a deep breath, exhaling in a laugh.

This must be a display error.

Mike’s brother Colton told me that he had the number disconnected, and though he’s a stuck-up prick, he has no reason to lie about this.

Apart from my best friend Andrea, Colt is the only person who knows that Mike was unfaithful. My confession was a spur of the moment kind of deal.

When Mike didn’t come home the night of his death, I called Colt in the morning. Panicked, I asked if Mike had crashed at his place. When Colt said he hadn’t seen him, my brain malfunctioned from stress and the truth spilled from my lips.

The cheating. Our fight. How I broke up with Mike and kicked him out.

I regretted my meltdown immediately. I didn’t want a soul to know I’d been cheated on because it felt like it was somehow my fault.

Was I not sexy enough? Not young enough anymore? Not beautiful enough? If I wasn’t such a pervert with my fucked-up fantasies, would Mike have been faithful?

My marriage going down in flames was the perfect ammunition for Colt to publicly humiliate me like he did with that spider prank in school, but he promised to keep my secret.

To my surprise, he actually did.

Colt also offered to take care of Mike’s estate, and I happily stuffed all my husband’s shit in boxes for him to pick up. I banished everything that belonged to Mike from my apartment. Just looking at his things made me feel dirty because the truth about his affair was worse than I first thought.

After the police investigation, I got Mike’s phone back and found texts and emails from more than just one other woman. There were dozens of girls, barely old enough to go to college.

I’d never been so disgusted. It suited me to let Colt take care of everything.

Then in spring when I lost my job as a legal secretary because the IRS audited the firm, Colt offered me work at the Retro Reel , the old movie theater he bought and renovated.

It’s definitely not because he’s such a nice guy.

He’s the opposite, but he’s also dutiful to a fault and he probably feels a sense of familial obligation since I’m his widowed sister-in-law.

I took the job because free popcorn and free movies are too good to pass up and the commute is thirty seconds. The Retro Reel is just across the street, below his apartment.

No, I don’t believe Colt has anything to do with this glitch. If I restart the app, it’ll be gone.

Heart in my throat, I close the chat and open it again.

No. No. Fucking no !

Read.

I scroll up, fingers flying past videos of me pleasuring myself with an arsenal of different toys in every room of my apartment.

Read. Read. Read. Read. READ!

They’re all read!

I jump up. My bare feet slap on the hardwood floor as I pace.

The phone company must have given the number to a new customer. Why didn’t I think that this could happen?

I smack my forehead.

I’m such an idiot. A horny idiot!

What the hell am I supposed to do?

I could ignore the incident and hope it goes away. If I get called out though, I can’t deny that it’s me. My face is visible in every video.

I could claim that it’s another woman who looks a lot like me. There is that wacky theory that every human has a near identical lookalike somewhere on the planet.

I groan, cradling my head in my hand. No, that won’t work either.

The tattoo on the inside of my right forearm identifies me as me. No other woman looks like me and has a tattoo of a slasher knife with a heart-shaped, pink drop of blood dripping from the blade.

I could throw the phone out of the window or smash it with a hammer or—but that still won’t unsend those texts.

An apology !

I snap my fingers.

Yes, an apology would be appropriate. I bombarded some poor, unsuspecting soul with a very detailed view of my private parts. Multiple views. From all angles. In full color, close up, and with sound .

Saying sorry is the least I can do—even if they’re freshly washed and shaved private parts.

My fingers trembling, I type.

Dear Sir and/or Ma‘am,

Please accept my sincerest apologies for my indiscretion. By accident, I sent you some of my intimate home videos and ? —

I pause. Does that sound too corporate? This person just watched me ram a dildo into my pussy like a sex-starved maniac and I go all lawyer-speak on them. I mean, who the fuck talks like that? Not even actual lawyers do!

I delete everything I’ve written. When I’m starting over, three dots appear on the left of the screen.

Someone on the other end is typing .

My knees give out. I catch myself on the bed frame before I crumple like a Victorian maiden in a too-tightly laced corset. I always thought those ladies were overdramatic, but it seems people can faint out of the blue like that. I don’t even need a corset for it.

Unfortunately, I don’t hit my head and die, which would be preferable to the humiliation awaiting me.

Where’s a hole to crawl in when you need one? But the only hole is my pussy staring back at me from the phone screen.

I’m about to puke. Bile burns my throat and I’m choking on air. Folding my clammy hands with the phone between them, I launch into an impromptu prayer.

Dear whoever is in charge up there. Or down there.

If you’re out there, please take pity on this desperate, panty-less sinner and smite that stranger’s phone.

Wipe the memory. Blow up the battery. Let the world end in a fiery inferno.

Send an alien invasion. Anything, okay? Thanks in advance.

P.S. Sorry for the nudity if that is against your code or something.

Hopefully that’ll do. I’m not a religious woman, but nothing short of a divine miracle can save me .

My eyes fix on those three dots like they’ll disappear if I look hard enough. When they do, I can’t believe my luck.

Close one .

I let out a breath before fresh anxiety roots itself in my stomach. Now the ball is back in my court, though. Fuck.

I have to say something , but nothing too formal. Go for authenticity!

I type without putting too much thought into it and hit send immediately.

Me

Hi! I’m really sorry about those messages and the videos. I thought this number wasn’t in use anymore.

The message status switches to read but nothing happens.

Two minutes and twenty-two seconds pass in agonizing limbo. I know because I count every second one Mississippi, two Mississippi style while trying not to vomit.

Okay, this waiting is actually worse than before. I didn’t think this situation could get worse, but it sure did.

My ribs are so tight I might have a heart attack and with the numbness creeping into my hands, it could be a stroke, too. At least that would put me out of my misery.

I type out another message, opening myself up to further humiliation by double texting.

Me

I promise I don’t usually send unsolicited pussy vids to strangers. This is horribly embarrassing. Is there anything I can do to make this right?

I won’t be an immature asshole who runs away from her mistakes, even if taking responsibility means owning up to getting off on dirty texts and freaky home videos.

A thick knot builds in my throat when the three dots reappear. A message follows and my shame turns to anger.

Unknown

Don’t contact this number again or I’m calling the police.