Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

Mom.

Dad.

Patrick.

Katie.

A whole list of no options. I stare at the list of names until the screen starts to dim.

I sigh and let the phone flop onto the couch beside me. It buzzes almost immediately. My heart does the stupid little hopeful leap I swore it wasn’t going to do.

Mark.

For one humiliating second, I think maybe he’s texting to apologize.

I hope you’ll still consider helping me with the athletic drink pitch.

I stare at the screen. Then I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because if I don’t laugh, I’m going to throw my phone through my television.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter. “I hope Carrie enjoys your next trip to the supply closet.”

Block Contact.

Done.

Well. That chapter of my life lasted a whopping eight weeks. Yay me.

The apartment falls quiet again. I curl deeper into the corner of the couch, pulling my knees against my chest.

Not wanting to watch TV, and not quite ready to doomscroll, I open my contacts again. My thumb scrolls past names I haven’t thought about in years.

Former coworkers. College classmates. People I once swore I’d keep in touch with. It’s funny how life gets in the way of those promises. Then my thumb stops.

Ethan.

My stomach twists. I haven’t talked to Ethan since... College? Maybe. It’s been so long I honestly can’t remember.

He was my favorite study partner. My favorite person to grab terrible vending machine coffee with between classes.

The guy who always saved me a seat.

The guy who walked me back to my apartment after late-night library sessions because he insisted campus wasn’t safe after midnight.

We were never anything. Not officially. Just... Friends. Really good friends. Except every once in a while he’d smile at me across a textbook and I’d wonder if maybe... Maybe...

Then graduation came. Jobs happened. Life happened. And he became one of those “what if” chapters in my life.

I smile sadly. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. Probably not. He’s probably married. Living somewhere with a golden retriever, two kids, and a house with a wine fridge.

Good for him.

My thumb hovers over his conversation anyway. The last text is almost nine years old.

If we survive finals, drinks are on me.

I never answered. God. I’m the worst.

“What are you doing?” I ask myself. I open the message thread anyway. My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I type. Delete. Type.