Wrong Number, Right Woman Page 4

  Eliza pulled out her bed that was hidden in the bottom compartment of the cabinet during the day—one of the best features of her tiny apartment. Yawning, she flicked off the light and crawled beneath the covers. Then she remembered that she had to get up at eight tomorrow to set up the booth she and Heather shared to sell their craft items at Saturday Market, so she reached for her phone and set her alarm, just in case she didn’t wake up on her own.

  Just as she had settled down again and tried to shut off all thoughts so she could go to sleep, her phone chirped.

  Her eyes popped open, and she stared at her phone in the near darkness. For a moment, she considered ignoring it, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep without finding out what Ms. First-Date Whisperer had written.

  If it was her. After all, other people sent text messages too.

  But somehow, she knew who had contacted her. Finally, she gave up, turned the light back on, and swiped to unlock her phone.

  She had been right. It was a text from Ms. First-Date Whisperer, whatever her name might be.

  Look, the message said. I don’t want you to be embarrassed. It was an honest mistake.

  A glimmer of anger flared up in her. She wasn’t even sure why. Damn straight it was, she replied. How was I supposed to know? Since you didn’t send me a picture or tell me your name.

  Um, my name is pretty gender-neutral, so it wouldn’t have helped even if I had told you, Ms. First-Date Whisperer answered.

  Eliza’s annoyance vanished as fast as it had appeared. Maybe we should do it anyway, she typed back. Exchange names. I mean, if we keep texting, I’ll need a name to put in my contacts.

  It surprised her how strong the urge to know was, but she decided to follow her gut. With a tight grip on her phone, she waited for the answer.

  Sneaker Woman wanted to keep texting! Denny flopped onto her bed and pumped her fist. Yes!

  Another text arrived. So? Want to tell me your name?

  Denny stopped in the middle of her little celebration and dropped her fist to the bed. Slowly, she raised her hand back up to answer. What, and ruin the mystery?

  You’re really not going to tell me your name?

  Denny hesitated. Not because Sneaker Woman was a stranger and she didn’t trust her with personal information but because real-life Denny was awkward and didn’t know what to say to women. The nameless person Sneaker Woman had been talking to didn’t seem to have that problem. She bantered back and forth as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Denny wanted to remain that person a little while longer. Not right now. If that’s okay.

  All right. But what do I put in my contacts, then? Senior citizen?

  Don’t you dare!

  Sneaker Woman sent a grandma-with-silver-hair-and-glasses emoji. Yep, that sounds good. It could be SC for short.

  If you call me that, I’ll have to come up with a mean nickname for you too, Denny replied.

  Like what? Queen of Disastrous Dates? Is that what you have me saved as in your phone?

  Denny chuckled. No. I’ve been calling you Sneaker Woman.

  Cute, Sneaker Woman replied. I admit I kind of like it.

  As much as I would like to take the credit for your nickname, it was my niece, Bella, who came up with it.

  She knows we’re texting?

  She was with me when you sent the photos, Denny typed back. She thought the sneakers with the skirt were cute too, btw.

  Seems good taste runs in the family. Sneaker Woman added a winking smiley face.

  Laughter burst from Denny’s chest. There it was—that snarky banter she had come to associate with Sneaker Woman. It was good to get it back.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Eliza leaned across her display of colorful polymer clay earrings, figurines, and miniature animals lounging on rocks to watch the other crafters, artists, and the people strolling along the booths. People-watching was one of her favorite things to do while selling her crafts at Saturday Market.

  Well, that and taking in the cherry blossoms in full bloom and the yummy scents surrounding her. Indian spices mingled with the aroma of artisan caramels, coconut almonds, and cheese pupusas from the nearby Guatemalan food cart. The twang of a busker’s guitar, laughter, and the murmur of conversation drowned out the sound of traffic along the Waterfront Park.

  The familiar white noise made her even more sleepy than she already was. She took a sip of her chai tea, but all the caffeine in the world couldn’t fully wake her up today. She yawned for the fifth time in as many minutes.

  Heather bumped her with her shoulder, nearly making Eliza spill her tea. “What’s up with you? Are my earbud holder tacos and I boring you?” She lovingly traced her latest scrap leather creation with her fingertip.

  “No,” Eliza said. “I love how you made them look like real tacos. I just stayed up too late last night.”

  “Ooh, I forgot! You went on another date last night, didn’t you?” Heather turned to face her more fully. “How was it? If you stayed out late, it must have been great.” Her eyes widened. “Wait, you didn’t go home with him, did you?”

  “Shh!” Eliza glanced left and right while hiding behind her travel mug.

  Leanne, who sold sea glass jewelry and suncatchers in the stall next to them, was arranging several pendants at the edge of her booth closest to theirs and trying hard not to appear as if she was listening in on their conversation.

  “No, of course I didn’t,” Eliza whispered. “You know I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.”

  Heather waggled her shapely eyebrows. “Did he try?”

  Eliza emphatically shook her head. “By the time we said good night, even he realized things weren’t going well, so thankfully, he didn’t try to kiss me.”

  “Ugh. Another total flop?”

  “Yeah. I’m beginning to think online dating isn’t for me.”

  Heather shook her finger at her. “Oh, no, no, no. You’re not getting out of our deal, Eliza Harrison. Two dates is not a pattern. All good things come in threes, right?”

  Eliza eyed her over the rim of her travel mug. “If you have that much trust in the magic of online dating, why aren’t you going on as many dates as me? You dating more was part of the deal, remember?”

  “I am. But I’m never going to get as many people right-swiping me as you do. There are fewer lesbians than straight guys on most online dating platforms. But I’m chatting with women all the time, and if I find one that I seem to click with, I’ll go out with her. I just usually take more time getting to know them online first. It helps me filter out the weirdos, the people who don’t want to go out with a trans woman, and the chicks who are hung up on their exes.”

  Eliza rearranged Heather’s leather bracelets at the front of the table. “Hmm. Maybe I should do the same. But with my dates, their weirdness only seems to come out once we meet in person.”

  Heather took a sip of her coffee. “I won’t pretend No More Frogs is perfect. Despite the name, I admit you might have to kiss a few more frogs before you find your Prince Charming. But where else are you supposed to meet men if not online?”

  “Hey, it’s not like I sit at home all week. I leave the house every day, you know?”

  “To go to work—for two lesbians. Not a lot of workplace romance going on; you have to admit that.”

  Eliza chuckled into her tea as she remembered walking in on Austen and Dee exchanging a sweet kiss in the storage room yesterday. “Oh, there’s plenty of workplace romance going on.”

  “I’m not talking about your bosses. I meant for you.”

  Eliza tilted her head in reluctant acknowledgment. “I don’t care. I love my job, and I’m happy with my life the way it is.”

  “I’m not saying you’re sobbing into your pillow every night. But just think about how much happier you’d be if you could share all of this,” Heather waved her hand in a gesture that included the entire market and the city beyond, “with someone special.”

  After less
than five hours of sleep, Eliza wasn’t in the mood to go down that road, so she took refuge in their familiar teasing. “I’m sharing it with you. Are you saying you aren’t special?”

  Heather straightened to her full six-foot-one height. “Of course I am. But you declared yourself not interested in my designer girls,” she cupped her breasts, “or my feminine charms, so…”

  Eliza peeked at Leanne, who gave her an embarrassed grin at being caught eavesdropping and held out her bag of cinnamon cashews.

  “No, thanks,” Eliza said.

  “To the cashews or the breasts?” Heather smirked.

  “Both.” Eliza gave her a gentle shove, even though she couldn’t help laughing. “Now stop badgering me before I’m fully awake.”

  Heather reached for her own travel mug, then paused. “Wait, if you weren’t out late with the guy from No More Frogs, what kept you up?”

  Damn. Eliza cursed herself for even mentioning that she’d stayed up too late. While Heather was her best friend and knew pretty much everything about her, she wasn’t sure she was ready to share her new acquaintance. Something about their tentative friendship made her want to keep it to herself a little longer. But, of course, refusing to answer would have been silly. “Um, remember your number neighbor?”

  “The one you sent your outfit pictures to? Of course!” Heather frowned. “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

  “No.” In a murmur, Eliza added, “If anything, it was the other way around. I kept sending texts after that accidental text snafu.”

  Heather gave her a friendly little slap to the shoulder. “Now I get it!”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you don’t want to keep going out with the guys from No More Frogs. You want to date him—your Mr. Wrong Number!”

  Eliza grinned. “No, thanks, that would be more up your alley.”

  “Mine?” Heather touched her own chest with a look of confusion. “You know I don’t date men.”

  “Good for you, honey,” an elderly lady who was admiring one of Eliza’s corgi figurines said.

  Eliza sold it to her for half of the usual price, just for that remark. “Yeah, well, she isn’t,” she said to Heather while she wrapped the little dog in tissue paper.

  “Isn’t dating men? Who?” Heather’s gaze went to the elderly lady, who held out her hand in a not-me gesture, put the corgi in her purse, and continued on to Leanne’s booth. “Weren’t we just talking about Mr. Wrong Number?”

  “It’s Ms. Wrong Number,” Eliza said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s not a man.”

  Heather burst out laughing and slapped her thigh. “Oh my God, you only found that out now? Didn’t her name tip you off?”

  “We haven’t exchanged names yet.” That might have seemed strange, considering that they had kept texting until three o’clock in the morning, but she had a feeling Whisperer—that was the name she had ended up putting in her contacts—had a good reason for not revealing her name, and she respected that, even though she was curious.

  “Huh. Then how did you find out?”

  “She sent me a nude,” Eliza said with her most deadpan face.

  For a moment, Heather’s expression resembled that of a cartoon character with its eyes bulging out of its head. “For real?” She waved her fingers at Eliza. “Show me!”

  “Jeez, I’m kidding, you perv! She didn’t send me a picture, much less a nude. Hmm, maybe I should talk her into it,” Eliza mused out loud. It would only be fair. After all, Whisperer had received two photos from her, while she still had no clue what the other woman looked like.

  “Now who’s the pervert?” Heather shot back.

  Eliza rolled her eyes up at the white tent stretching over their craft goods. “I’m talking about an all-clothes-on photo, not a nude.”

  Heather stuck out her bottom lip in a show of disappointment. “Damn.”

  A young couple stopped in front of their booth. “Oh, these are cute!” The woman carefully touched a tiny cat curled up on top of a rock. “You wouldn’t happen to have a fox one, would you?”

  “I had one, but I think I sold it. Let me check.” Eliza bent over the box in the back of the tent, glad to have escaped Heather’s interrogation for now.

  On Friday evening of the next week, Denny took another sip of her microbrew and glanced at her watch. It was midnight—that meant it was socially acceptable to finally get out of there, wasn’t it?

  Julie and two other colleagues from work had dragged her to their favorite bar and dance club, not taking no for an answer when Denny had tried to refuse.

  The mix of funk and soul music the DJ played downstairs was nice enough, but the small dance floor was packed, and the low ceiling of the dim, cavelike basement made her feel claustrophobic, so she had escaped to the upper floor of the two-level establishment.

  The upstairs bar section of the club was spacious, letting her breathe more freely. With paintings from local artists lining two walls, it looked more like an art gallery—except for the pool tables and the pinball machines toward the back.

  She managed to snag a small table in a corner and slouched down in the worn vinyl booth, hoping no one would find her here and try to drag her back downstairs.

  At least the burgers were great, and so were the garlic fries. Maybe there was something to be said for being single. She could eat all the garlic fries she wanted. She nursed her beer while she dipped the last fry into the malt vinegar mayo and watched the game being played at the pool table closest to her.

  A cute redhead cleared the table like a real pool shark. Finally, she sank the eight ball and pumped her fist. When she looked up, her gaze met Denny’s, and she winked at her, probably mistaking her for a man in the low light.

  Denny slid lower in the booth and glanced down at her plate, even though it was empty now.

  God, she hoped the redhead wouldn’t come over.

  She snorted and poked her chubby middle. Like she would be interested in you. But she didn’t want to take a chance, so she tried to appear busy by fumbling her phone from her pocket.

  Sneaker Woman was probably asleep, but she could still text her and say hi, right? She’d find the message when she woke up tomorrow. Maybe it would even make her smile.

  Denny opened the messages app and tried to think of something to say but drew a blank. Suddenly, she felt as tongue-tied as if she had to talk to her in person. Cut it out, she told herself. You’re not awkward Denny Jacobs to her. You’re her fun text buddy. Just say something. Anything.

  She sent the first thing that came to mind: Hey, how are you?

  Denny grimaced. “Really original,” she mumbled to herself.

  But she wasn’t trying to impress Sneaker Woman, was she? No need to act all suave since Sneaker Woman was straight anyway.

  Just as she was about to slip the phone back into her pocket, it lit up with a reply. Hey, Whisperer, why are you awake? Isn’t it past your bedtime?

  Great. She already had a reputation for going to bed at roughly the same time as a first-grader. Why are YOU awake? she texted back. Didn’t you say you have to get up early most Saturdays?

  Because you texted me and my phone dinged.

  Oh shit. Really?

  No, just kidding, Sneaker Woman replied, making Denny blow out a long breath. I’m up making a fox figurine a customer requested last week.

  Wow, you’re an artist? Denny studied the artwork covering every nook and cranny in the bar. Was any of her work on display here? But she couldn’t even be sure Sneaker Woman lived in Portland. Her area code covered several counties in northwestern Oregon, all the way up to Astoria and down to Salem.

  Not sure I’d call it that, Sneaker Woman answered. It’s just a hobby, but I enjoy it. I make figurines, jewelry, and other little trinkets out of polymer clay and then paint on the details with acrylics.

  That sounds cool, Denny typed. She wanted to ask for a photo of the little fox or other things Sneaker Woman had made, but she couldn’t reque
st a picture without showing her something in return, could she?

  Before she could decide, another text appeared. Wow, we really are party animals, aren’t we? It’s a Friday night, and the extent of our social lives is sitting at home, texting each other.

  Speak for yourself, Denny texted back. I’ll have you know I’m out and about, socializing. After looking at the empty booth across from her, she added, Well, kind of.

  Kind of? How exactly does this kind-of-socializing work?

  My friend Julie dragged me to this bar/dance club.

  And you’re sitting in a corner, texting me? Sneaker Woman sent a salsa-dancing emoji in a red dress and high heels. Go shake your booty and have some fun!

  Fun? Denny shivered. Being trapped in a crush of sweaty bodies, with strangers grinding into me, is not my idea of fun. She surprised herself by admitting it to Sneaker Woman, but then again, she was a forty-one-year-old woman, not a teenager needing to appear cool…right? I’ll leave that to all the twenty-somethings here.

  Got it, Senior Citizen.

  Denny ignored that nickname. She liked the other nickname Sneaker Woman had given her—Whisperer—much better. What about you? Do you go out clubbing? She wasn’t one to ask a lot of questions, but she found herself curious to learn more about Sneaker Woman.

  Maybe once in a blue moon. Not really my thing either. Although…with the right partner, grinding can be fun.

  Heat shot up Denny’s body and into her cheeks. God, this woman made her flush without ever having been in the same room! Good thing they were texting, so Sneaker Woman couldn’t hear how squeaky her voice would have sounded if she had tried to speak. So you’re not out there, cutting a rug either, but you call me Senior Citizen?

  Well, how else am I supposed to address you since you won’t tell me your name? Sneaker Woman asked. Or have you changed your mind about that?

  Denny sent back a nervously grimacing emoji.

  Sneaker Woman answered with a turkey leg, which Denny spontaneously countered with a flamingo.