Wrong Number, Right Woman Page 6

  Oh yeah. I keep forgetting you’re a senior citizen.

  The gentle ribbing loosened some of the tension in Denny’s shoulders. Seriously, I’m almost thirteen years older.

  Wow, Sneaker Woman texted back. That IS a large age gap!

  Yeah. My parents were eighteen when they had me. Denny again surprised herself with how much personal information she revealed.

  And yet they kicked your sister out when they found out she was pregnant at seventeen?

  Pretty hypocritical, right? Denny sighed. At least our age gap turned out to be a good thing because by the time she was seventeen, I had my own place and could take her in and help with the baby.

  True. It’s great you were in a position to do that. I bet you’re an awesome aunt.

  Denny shrugged even though Sneaker Woman couldn’t see it. My niece doesn’t complain too much.

  How old is she now?

  Nearly eleven going on twenty-five, Denny replied.

  Sneaker Woman sent a row of laughing-so-hard-it-makes-you-cry emojis. That seemed to be a favorite of hers. I know what you mean. My nephew and two of my nieces are that age too.

  Denny pursed her lips to form a soundless whistle. Three preteens in the same house? She couldn’t imagine. Oh wow. Do you see them regularly?

  Yes, I do. The whole clan still lives in and around Portland. I see them all the time, but I had to put my foot down, or I’d see them a little too often.

  Too often? Was there such a thing as seeing family too often?

  I know that sounds strange, Sneaker Woman replied. I love them all to death, but I’m the baby of the family, so when I first moved out, it was a struggle to keep them from stopping by every day to check on me. They needed to learn that I’m a grown-up and want to have my own life.

  Denny couldn’t imagine that happening in her own family. Her parents had been too self-absorbed to check up on their daughters all the time, even back when they had still been in touch. Mostly, that was how Denny had preferred it, but every once in a while, she would have appreciated a little more interest. So you were the youngest. Bet you were spoiled.

  Terribly. Sneaker Woman added a princess emoji. But actually, my parents were pretty good at giving me limits and rules too, so I think I avoided turning into a brat. How about you? Are you the typical super responsible, bossy firstborn? Assuming you are the firstborn.

  I am. I’m pretty responsible, but my sister is the bossy one. Denny grinned as she peered at her unsuspecting sister.

  Probably comes with being a mom, Sneaker Woman answered.

  I’m not so sure about that. My mother wasn’t bossy. She worked in a call center, and when she was home, she didn’t talk much at all. Denny’s finger hovered over the little arrow that would send the text she’d just written. She rarely volunteered information about her family and didn’t like talking about her parents, but Sneaker Woman kept the tone of the conversation so lighthearted that her usual tension didn’t rise. With a shrug, she tapped the send arrow.

  Oh. I’m so sorry.

  Denny eyed Sneaker Woman’s last message. Why was she sorry? Is not having a bossy mother considered a bad thing?

  No, but you said your mother WASN’T bossy, so I thought…

  Oh, no, she’s alive and kicking. At least last I heard. Denny clutched the phone more tightly as the old bitterness crept up in her. I haven’t seen her or my father since the day they kicked my sister out.

  It took several moments before Sneaker Woman responded. They cut off contact with both of you? Just like that?

  Yep. My sister sent them a photo when my niece was born, but they never responded.

  Wow, Sneaker Woman answered after a while. I don’t know what to say except for: I’m so sorry.

  Denny cleared her throat to get rid of the lump that had lodged there.

  Salem stopped reading and looked at her over the top of her cell phone. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Denny fought the urge to clear her throat again.

  But Salem didn’t return her attention to her e-book this time. She continued to study her.

  “Do you ever miss Mom and Dad?” Denny asked quietly.

  Salem dropped her phone onto her lap. “Honestly? No. I’m not sure I ever had much to miss.”

  Denny nodded. She knew exactly what her sister meant. All her mother had wanted was to be left alone, and her father had been unable to leave his job as a corrections officer at the gate.

  “Was it ever different?” Salem asked. “When you were little?”

  Denny thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. I mean, they probably wouldn’t have won a Parent of the Year Award even back then, but I remember a time when Mom actually tried to listen and when Dad didn’t assume everyone was lying to him all the time.”

  “When did it all change?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it was a slow process. At first, I thought it was me.”

  “You?” Salem gave her an incredulous look.

  Denny shuffled the code sheet still lying on her lap. “They didn’t know what to do with me.”

  Salem still stared blankly.

  “You know.” Denny gestured at her short hair, the hoodie, and the pair of men’s sweatpants she wore.

  “Oh, Denny. It wasn’t you.” Salem’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t have been more of a girlie girl, and I was still just an afterthought to them.”

  Denny sighed. “We sure didn’t win the parental lottery, did we?”

  “Nope. But we did pretty well in the sister lottery department.”

  “Sure did.”

  They smiled at each other across the coffee table.

  The buzzing of Denny’s phone interrupted the comfortable silence.

  “Are you still talking to Sandal Girl?” Salem asked.

  “Sneaker Woman. And yes, I am.”

  “Good thing you have a phone plan with unlimited texts.” Salem studied her. “Are you…? You’re not telling her about Mom and Dad, are you?”

  Denny bit her lip. She hadn’t considered how her sister would feel about that. “Um, a little. Does that bother you?”

  “Heck, no! I spilled my guts to poor Matt on our first date. I just didn’t think you were the type to do that.”

  “I’m not.” Denny glanced at her phone, then back at Salem. “At least not usually.”

  Salem tilted her head. “Hmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” With a grin, Salem went back to her reading.

  Denny lowered her gaze to her phone.

  You okay? Sneaker Woman had asked a couple of minutes ago, followed by a line of question marks.

  I’m fine, Denny answered, and this time, she meant it.

  Chapter 6

  Early the next evening, Eliza shook her head at her fellow Portlanders. A guy in shorts and a short-sleeved button-up stepped onto the bar’s rooftop terrace, where she was waiting for Heather. Typical. The minute the sun came out from behind the clouds—which didn’t happen often in April—Portlanders wore shorts and pretended it was summer, even if the temperature was in the low fifties.

  Well, she wasn’t much better, sitting on the windy rooftop perched high above the city just because it was the first time the sun had come out all week. Admittedly, if it weren’t for the heat lamps and the firepits in the middle of the tables, she would be freezing her ass off.

  Her phone chirped.

  With a smile, she dug it out of her bag, eager to hear how Whisperer was doing.

  But it wasn’t her. The text was from Heather.

  So sorry! I’m going to be late. My bus had an impromptu inspection, so I had to pick it up from the garage, and then I started talking to one of the mechanics and forgot the time…

  Eliza pictured her elegant best friend deep in conversation with a burly, oil-smeared mechanic. The mental image made her laugh. But then again, Heather checked the tire pressure, the fluid levels, the air compressor, and all the other parts of her bus every
day, so she could hold her own when talking shop with a mechanic.

  Don’t worry about it, Eliza texted back. I’m enjoying the view while sipping my cocktail. She took in the stunning view of downtown Portland, the Hawthorne Bridge, and the Cascades in the distance.

  Next one’s on me, Heather replied. See you in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.

  Before Eliza could put her phone away, it chirped again.

  This time, the text was from Whisperer. Hi, how are you?

  The signature greeting made her smile. I’m being passionate from miles away.

  There was a short pause, then all Whisperer typed was, Uh, okay.

  Eliza laughed out loud, not caring that the people at the tables to her left and right were glancing over. Don’t worry. That’s not code for sexting you. Of course it wasn’t. After all, Whisperer was a woman.

  I didn’t think so, Whisperer replied. I assumed either your autocorrect was acting up, or it’s a millennial thing.

  Neither. It’s a cocktail thing. She nudged the exotic flower floating on her golden-hued cocktail aside and took a sip. The sweet yet tangy aroma of passion fruit, lemon, and brandy washed over her tongue.

  Sorry, I still don’t get it, Whisperer texted.

  Eliza took a photo of her drink and sent it, along with, It’s the name of my cocktail. Passionate from Miles Away.

  Oh. Wait. If you’re having a cocktail… Am I interrupting a date or something?

  No, Eliza replied quickly. Heather and I are meeting up for an after-work cocktail, but she’s running late.

  So, no date this weekend? Whisperer asked.

  An amused smile tugged on Eliza’s lips. Are you waiting for the next episode of Eliza’s Horrible Dating Adventures? A second before hitting send, she realized she was about to reveal her name, so she quickly backspaced and instead wrote, Sneaker Woman’s Horrible Dating Adventures?

  No, Whisperer replied. I admit you always make me laugh when you recount your dates, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed for an episode of Sneaker Woman’s Wonderful Dating Adventures.

  What a sweetheart. Most of the time, Eliza laughed about it when a date went wrong, but deep down, a part of her felt inadequate, as if there was something wrong with her and that was why she couldn’t find a decent guy. She was grateful Whisperer didn’t make fun of her, even in a good-natured way. Doesn’t look like there’ll be an episode of that in the near future.

  No promising candidates at all?

  Well, there was one that seemed nice. We exchanged a few messages via the app.

  But?

  But then he sent me a dick pic. Eliza fished the flower from her drink and took a big gulp. The pisco burned on its way down, making her cough. So I said to hell with dating and decided on a girls’ night out instead.

  What a dick! No pun intended. Guys really do that?

  Eliza plucked a petal from the flower. Not all of them, but it’s not the first time that’s happened. Don’t tell me no one’s ever done that to you?

  Um, no, can’t say I ever had that particular problem with a date.

  Wow, Eliza typed. Either you’re much better at picking the right guys to go out with, or you’ve found a dating site far superior to No More Frogs. Tell me where to find those guys!

  It took unusually long before Whisperer’s next text popped up. Sorry, can’t help you with that. I don’t date guys.

  Didn’t date guys? Eliza repeated it slowly to herself. What did she—? Then her brain finally seemed to kick in. Oh. You mean…you’re gay?

  Yes, Whisperer replied. Is that a problem for you?

  Eliza nearly dropped her phone in her haste to assure her. She didn’t want Whisperer to worry about her candid disclosure, even for a second. No! Not at all. My best friend is gay. The moment she had sent the message, she groaned and slapped her forehead. That was what all the homophobic people said to prove they weren’t homophobic. For some reason, Whisperer’s revelation had thrown her, and she didn’t understand why. Um, can we please pretend I didn’t just say that?

  Say what? Whisperer added an innocently whistling emoji.

  Eliza wiped imaginary droplets of sweat off her brow. So, dick pics aside, do you think dating women is different from dating men?

  Oh yeah. Women are always on time, they never monopolize the conversation, and they never show up with hickeys on their necks or mention one of their exes, even in passing.

  Really? Eliza asked.

  No.

  Eliza laughed, mostly at herself. You had me there for a second. But I guess it depends on the person, not the gender.

  I guess so. Not that I’d know from personal experience since I’ve never dated a guy.

  Before Eliza could continue the conversation, the doors to the bar’s terrace swished open. Heather dashed out, still in her work jeans, sneakers, and the company-issued blue button-down. “Sorry, sorry,” she called over the space between them.

  Eliza shot off a final text to Whisperer, telling her she had to go, before greeting Heather with a welcoming smile. “No problem. Whisperer kept me company.”

  Heather slid onto a chair across from her and studied her with a curious gaze. “What do the two of you talk about all the time?”

  “Dating women,” Eliza said with a chuckle.

  Heather pulled Eliza’s cocktail glass to her side of the table, leaned over, and sniffed it as if she suspected Eliza was drinking something very potent.

  Laughing, Eliza snatched the glass away from her.

  “You aren’t extending your search parameters on No More Frogs to the fairer sex, are you?”

  “No. Whisperer was just enlightening me to the fact that women can be as bad a date as men.”

  “I could have told you that. In fact, I did tell you that.” Heather signaled one of the waiters and ordered a Lonely Hearts Club and some chickpea fries. Once they both had their drinks, Heather pulled the heart-shaped strawberry from the cocktail stick and gazed at Eliza from under half-lowered lashes while she popped the piece of fruit into her mouth and chewed. “So,” she wiped her fingers on the cocktail napkin, “is she married, happily partnered, living with three bossy cats, what?”

  Eliza shrugged. “I don’t know about the cats, but she’s living with her bossy sister. And she’s single.”

  “If she’s dating women, maybe you should set us up,” Heather said.

  A droplet of water hit Eliza’s nose. Then another. Before she could say another word, the sky opened up, and it started to rain—not the lazy drizzle Portland got most of the time, but big, pelting drops.

  They grabbed their drinks and fled inside to the lounge.

  “Shit.” Heather shook her wet locks. “Guess that’s a sign. Someone up there doesn’t want me to date your mysterious friend.” She peered through the floor-to-ceiling window. “Doesn’t look like it’s letting up. Did you bring an umbrella?”

  Eliza gave her a why-are-you-even-asking-me-that look. “That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it?”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “I’m a good Portlander,” Eliza answered. “Of course it’s a no. An umbrella wouldn’t do me much good on my bike anyway.”

  “You don’t need to take your bike home. I’ve got my car, so you can ride with me.”

  Eliza shook her head. “It’ll let up by the time we leave.”

  When they stepped out of the lobby of the hotel the bar belonged to, the rain had slowed, but not stopped. Eliza insisted on taking her bicycle home anyway. Their apartment building was only five minutes from here, and even if she got wet, she could take a hot shower as soon as she got home.

  She whizzed up Jefferson Street as fast as the poor visibility and wet streets allowed. Her jeans stuck to her thighs, making it hard to pedal. She slowed for a pedestrian who ran across the street and stepped into the bike lane without seeing her. Drops of rain clung to her face and eyelashes, blurring her vision.

  She made it across Broadway without the light turning red. Yes! Almost home.


  As she pedaled past the Oregon Historical Society, a driver in an SUV parked along the street opened the driver’s side door into the bike lane.

  “Shit!” Her brakes squealed as she clutched both at the same time. Her tires skidded across the wet asphalt, and then the front tire hit the door, and she was tossed from the bike.

  Chapter 7

  Sweat trickled down Denny’s back as she heaved a box of beans onto the shelf, then placed a box of canned tomatoes next to it. By the time she had unloaded the entire six-foot pallet of canned goods, her shirt stuck to her torso. Restocking was backbreaking work, and she would have to ice her aching wrists and forearms tonight. Still, she preferred this task to running the register—especially today.

  At least while clearing the pallets, she had no time to glance at her watch and wonder if Sneaker Woman had texted.

  She pulled the empty pallet back into the stockroom, then went to the break room to guzzle down some water.

  While there, she couldn’t resist opening her locker and sneaking a peek at her phone.

  Nothing. She still hadn’t gotten a response—not last night, not this morning, and not during lunch.

  What was up with Sneaker Woman? She hadn’t received a word from her since their exchange about dating women last night.

  Denny had gone over their conversation about a hundred times. Had she said something wrong? All she could think of was that she had told her she was gay. But Sneaker Woman had seemed fine with it.

  Sure, Denny had met plenty of people who seemed fine with it at first…until it turned out they weren’t. Denny didn’t want to believe Sneaker Woman might be one of them. Her refreshing nonjudgmental attitude was one of the things Denny liked about her.

  But if Sneaker Woman was so nonjudgmental, why had her phone stayed silent all day? Usually, she was in touch with at least half a dozen texts, funny memes, or unexpected observations by now. She hadn’t mentioned any special plans for today, and it was a Saturday, so she should be home, even if she had gone out to sell some of her earrings, figurines, and other handcrafted items at the market.

  With a grunt, Denny tossed her phone back into the locker.