Me: My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die.
Ding.
Cheating Asshole: Did you just quote The Princess Bride?
“OH MY GOD!” I yell. “He finally messages me back and THIS is what he replies with?” Andie grabs my phone from my hands and reads the message. “What the fuck?”
“I know!”
“No, I mean what the fuck does that mean? You typed a quote from a movie?”
I mean, well yeah. Why not? “Seemed fitting,” I say.
“Oh well, we have his attention. Keep going.”
Taking my phone back, I go in order of the questions we went over.
Me: Why is your dick so small and useless?
Cheating Asshole: I don’t think it’s small at all. I’ve always been voted top in my class.
What a conceited ass!
Me: Well, it did nothing for me.
Cheating Asshole: Maybe it’s because I would have had to be present to use it on you.
Oh, now he’s acting like he was never mentally there when we had sex?! The nerve!
Me: Your taint smells like horseshit.
That text was brought to you by Andie who snatched my phone from my hands.
Cheating Asshole: Maybe you should come over and offer me a redo.
When hell freezes over. My vulgar mouth seems to have taken over. This unfamiliar person who has taken over my body starts typing the next message before even consulting with me.
Me: No thanks, and for the record, I suck great dick. You’re going to regret breaking up with me.
Cheating Asshole: Sounds like you do. Again, come over. Put your mouth where your words are.
Just as I’m typing my rebuttal, another text comes through. Pulling the phone closer, I read the message from another number. That number being 1-555-657-5363.
1-555-657-5363: I want the key you have to my place back.
It takes a few seconds for it to register. And when it does, I freeze.
“Holy shit.” I stare at my phone. I go back to the number I’ve been texting. And then back to the number that just came through. Not Daryl, and then Daryl.
“Oh my God! I typed in the wrong number!”
“What?” Andie yelps, leaning over looking at my screen. “Well, then who the hell have we been talking to?”
As You Wish
THE PRINCESS BRIDE. SOMETIMES INSPIRATION strikes in the simplest of ways. Last night, after getting an accidental reaming by a stranger and having her—I’m assuming it was a her—quote The Princess Bride, a mental block in my head was obliterated. I’ve been staring at my computer for weeks in an attempt to come up with an entire branding package for a client. Websites are usually my forte and where I start—at least that’s how I did it at my old job. I build the logo, slogan¸ and brand from there. But for my first potential client on my own, I was coming up short. After the sad, drunk girl most likely fell asleep, since the texts were no longer coming in, I sat up all night designing Inigo Photog’s website.
Inigo.
The name hadn’t had any meaning to me until she quoted his character from the famed 80’s movie. Of course it made perfect sense to build a theme around The Princess Bride movie. I worked through the night and by dawn, I had something to send to the client. Finally. I’m just stretching and standing to seek out coffee when my phone buzzes.
Buttercup: I am SO sorry. I texted you by mistake. I’ll erase your number and you’ll never hear from me or my terrible friend Tequila ever again.
Of course I saved the sad stranger’s name as Buttercup. The name of the heroine from the movie. I smirk at her text before sauntering out of my bedroom in the loft I share with my older brother, Roman. As soon as I exit my room, I smell coffee. Thank God.
Me: Sounds like that asshole deserved it. Did you ever forward on those colorful insults or were they for my privilege only?
I’m grinning when I enter the kitchen.
“Are you sick, Ram?” my brother’s deep voice questions.
I glance up to see him already dressed for the office. He dons a three-piece suit and a permanent scowl. At one time he was my boss. That is, until his boss made him fire his own brother. Things haven’t been exactly kosher lately.
“I’m fine,” I grunt as I snag a mug from the cabinet. “Why?”
He sips his coffee and his eyes narrow. “Well, for one, I haven’t seen you roll out of bed before eight in four months.”
The reminder of how long I’ve been unemployed while desperately making a stab at being self-employed and relying on my brother to pick up my part of the rent stings.
“You know I can’t sleep,” I snap. Truth is, I’ve developed an annoying case of insomnia—again—ever since I was fired in such a humiliating way. I keep replaying how the CEO stood by with everyone in the company looking on as he waited for my brother to let me go. All over some stupid bullshit. My then girlfriend at the time, Chelsea, even had the gall to look disgusted. It pisses me off that she didn’t back me up.
“Yeah, I hear your annoying chair creaking as you swivel back and forth all night. Most people sleep at night because they actually get into their bed,” he grumbles and takes another sip.
I simply shrug as I pour some coffee into my mug and dump an unhealthy amount of sugar into it. “Do you want me to move out?”
His gaze softens and he tugs at the knot on his tie. My brother. A stiff suit. I’d attempted to follow in his footsteps, even accepted the marketing job at his company he worked at, but I was never good at working for the man. Where Roman has always been the rule follower, I’ve always been one to color outside the lines.
“You’re not moving out, asshole,” he replies, a small smile tugging one corner of his lips. “I’m just shocked is all. What’s gotten you out of bed and looking more like my brother this morning? Did you land that client?”
I see the hope in his eyes and it wounds me. Ever since I was let go, he’s encouraged me to start my own marketing company. One where I’m the only employee. I liked the idea, but it’s been harder than I thought. Companies are pretty loyal to the people they currently use. And convincing them to reevaluate their branding takes a lot of unpaid work on my end because I have to show them the potential. It’s slow going, but the idea of working for myself is actually quite exciting.
“I was stuck on a design concept but I finally worked through it. If I land Inigo Photog, that’ll get me my start,” I tell him, my voice low.
He slaps my shoulder and grins. “Best news I’ve heard in a long time. Want to meet me for lunch today? We could go have some beer and wings at that tavern we used to always go to.” Again, another hopeful look in my older brother’s eyes. I suppose I have been sort of a grumpy ass the past four months. My brother and I used to do everything together. After I was let go, I’d slipped into a depression—again—where I slept all day and obsessed over my life’s direction at night. It didn’t leave much time for watching football with my brother like we used to or occasional lunches where he’d hit on the waitresses, much to my amusement.
“Lunch sounds good,” I agree. “But I’m not coming up to the office. Meet me at the tavern.”
A dark look passes over his features. “I’d never ask you to go back there. Not after what happened.”
Relief floods through me, and I tip my chin at him. “Speaking of. Don’t you need to get out of here?”
His gaze darts to his watch and he groans. “Fuck. I’m going to be late.” As he passes me, he slaps my shoulder again. “Noon.” He flashes me a wide grin that reminds me of our deceased father’s. “Glad to have you back, man.”
After Roman leaves, I settle back at my desk with a fresh cup of coffee. My mind is buzzing with ideas for this branding package. It’s the best I’ve felt about a design since before the big spectacle.
Anger ripples through me. They never even investigated. Never even gave me a chance to explain that I’d received the email from Chelsea, daughter of the CEO James Tucke
r, and my then girlfriend. That it was a virus. At least I’d hoped. Surely she wouldn’t send that shit to me on purpose.
But I can’t forget the look of contempt in her eyes. My uptight Chelsea no longer looked at me like I was her shiny new toy. The spoiled brat clearly got tired of me and discarded me as if I were nothing.
And by discarded, I mean sent me a goddamned kiddie porn virus.
I shudder from the humiliation of opening that attachment. How it alerted our IT department and blasted from the speakers on my computer at my cubicle. How my brother’s normally cool face was screwed up and red with horror. Sure, he knew I wasn’t capable of being some sicko but with his own job on the line, he fired me.
That shit stings.
The only reason I didn’t have the police knocking at my door was because the IT department finally ascertained it was the only dirty thing on my computer after a careful scrub down of my hard drive. They stood by their reason to end my employment, but they never involved the police.
I spend many sleepless nights wondering if Chelsea sent it to me on purpose. For four months, I’ve obsessed over it. Now, I’m over it. I’m tired of letting Tucker Advertising control my life. They lost that control the moment my brother handed me the box to pack my shit.
A buzz comes from my phone, and I smile wondering if it’s Buttercup. When I swipe the screen, I grin.
Buttercup: He truly is a horrible human being but he didn’t deserve those insults. And you didn’t deserve them by accident. Again, forgive me.
For a guy who hasn’t smiled in a while, I’ve done a lot of that in the past six hours or so. All from a stranger’s texts that weren’t even for me.
Me: I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name, Buttercup.
The three dots on my screen move as she replies.
Buttercup: I don’t give my name out to strangers.
I snort.
Me: But you give them verbal lashings instead? You at least owe me your name…
It only takes her a moment to respond.
Buttercup: Tell me yours first, please.
Please? I smirk. She sounds cute. I shake my head because for all I know “she” could be a “he.”
Me: Ram.
This time, her response is immediate.
Buttercup: Like a goat? With horns?
Me: Like I haven’t heard that one before. Baaaaaaad joke, Buttercup.
While I await her response, I open up Photoshop and begin working on the logo for Inigo. I’m so sucked into my design that I miss her next couple of responses.
Buttercup: Why do you call me Buttercup?
Buttercup: I’m sorry if I offended you.
Buttercup: That’s not really your name.
Buttercup: OMG. I’ve offended you twice in the past nine hours.
I jolt up and check the clock. I’m supposed to meet Roman in an hour. I haven’t showered or anything. But the logo looks badass. I’ve found my groove again, thank fuck.
Me: You accused me of killing your father. Would you prefer I call you Inigo? I mean…I still haven’t established if you’re a chick or a dude.
Buttercup: Ahhh. The Princess Bride. I’m surprised you caught that.
I grin as I respond.
Me: At least I know we’re from the same generation. At least I hope you are.
Me: Tell me you’re at least 18.
The very thought of texting with a teenager after my kiddie porn mishap makes me shudder.
Buttercup: 25. Tell me you’re at least under forty.
I laugh as I type.
Me: 30. Was your dickhead ex an old geezer? Also…you never told me your sex.
Quickly, I hop in the shower. I don’t have time to shave off my scruff, but I’m kind of liking it now. After working at Tucker Advertising and dealing with their shitty dress code for three years, I’m enjoying the non-robot look. I brush my teeth in warp speed and style my hair in a messy way before throwing on a pair of holey jeans and a white Clash T-shirt. I frown when I realize it’s gotten smaller.
And no, I haven’t turned into a fat ass.
Opposite actually.
When you can’t sleep at night, sometimes lifting weights is the only thing to keep a person sane. I’ll need to buy some new shit if I continue to get more built. I grab my leather jacket and stuff my feet into my combat boots before heading out the door. While I walk to the parking lot where my old Mustang is, I check to see if Buttercup has responded.
Buttercup: I’m a girl.
Buttercup: I mean…a woman. Gah!
Buttercup: I’m not good with people. Clearly.
Buttercup: Sorry, Mr. Stranger. Er, Ram. I’ve already creeped on this little conversation too much. Hope you have a nice life.
I stop just as I get to my car that my dad and I rebuilt before he passed away ten years ago.
Me: Glad to know you’re a woman. And newly single from my observation. You don’t get off that easy…unless you want to. ;) What’s your name?
The three dots are immediate, like she was waiting for my text. The thought warms me.
Buttercup: Carrie.
Me: Like Stephen King’s? The one covered in pig’s blood?
Buttercup: No! Like Underwood!!
Me: Hmmm. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of her. Perhaps you should send me a picture of yourself.
I climb into the car and turn over the engine. The loud rumble is my favorite part of this car. Every time I get in, though, I think of Dad. My chest aches a bit, and I absently rub my fist over it.
Buttercup: Fat chance, mister! How do I know you aren’t some creepy stalker who is going to do nasty things with my picture?
I laugh out loud before firing off my response.
Me: Define nasty.
Feeling brave, I take a selfie but crop off my head.
Me: If it makes you feel any better, you can do nasty things with my picture. Again…define nasty.
I don’t wait for a response because I’ll be late to meet Roman if I don’t leave now. The entire drive, I can’t help but feel excitement bubbling just below the surface. I hadn’t realized just how depressed I was until the fog seemed to lift a bit. I’m not sure if I’ve even left the house in weeks. Roman’s concern had become permanently etched in his furrowed brow. And Mom called more than I could handle. Hell, he even roped in our little sister, Reagan, who’s in college in California. They were coming at me on all fronts.
The person to pull me out of the haze, though, was an absolute stranger with her random quote from The Princess Bride.
When I pull up in front of the tavern and park in one of the open spaces, I look back at my phone.
Buttercup: You’re a baaaad billy goat.
Buttercup: OMG…I offended you again.
Buttercup: I was just teasing.
Buttercup: I’m so sorry.
I shake my head and fire off another text.
Me: I’m not the old cheating geezer. It takes a lot more than a cheesy joke to hurt my feelings. What does wound me is the fact you feel you need to apologize for everything. You don’t know me and yet you’re worried about upsetting me. Who are you, Buttercup?
Three dots moving.
Buttercup: I’m a mess. And I actually just apologized again. You should be proud though because I deleted it. I’m not sorry! There!
I grin because I can almost imagine her triumphant smile.
Buttercup: Is that really your picture or are you catfishing me?
Snorting, I reply.
Me: It’s me. And now I’m sitting in a parking spot waiting to meet someone for lunch yet here I am texting with you. Even though I don’t know who you are.
She responds almost immediately.
Buttercup: I don’t do cheaters. Does she know you’re texting with a stranger? Does she know you’re wanting to do nasty things with my picture? Huh, asshole, huh?
I get out of my car and stride over to the front door where my brother is waiting. Before he can argue, I snap another selfie. This
time of the two of us. Again, I crop out our heads.
Me: Well, she’s a he so there’s that. And he’s my brother. So there’s that too.
My brother gives me a quizzical look before holding the door open for me. We pile into our favorite booth inside while I wait for her to reply.
Buttercup: OMG. I’m so sorry.
Buttercup: Dang!!
Buttercup: Well at least you know why he cheated on me. :(
At her last text, anger surges through me.
Me: He cheated because he’s a dick.
Roman’s brows are lifted as he watches me text my new friend. When she replies, I return my attention to my phone.
Buttercup: I need to get back to work. Can we pick back up on this later? You know…so I can formally apologize for being rude. Again.
I scratch at the stubble on my jaw and smile.
Me: As you wish.
Oops, I did it Again
“PLEASE STOP LAUGHING.” THAT’S ME with my hands covering my face, while Andie is practically rolling on the floor laughing at my embarrassing expense.
“Girl, I can’t. It’s just that… That…” She buckles over again in a fit of giggles. “And… and… Carrie? Really?”
I know I said I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’m about to tackle my best friend to the ground. “I panicked. I didn’t want to give him my real name. What if he’s like some psychopath?”
She snorts. “I doubt that. If he was able to replay lines from The Princess Bride, I’m guessing he’s more like some nerd who sits at home reading his comic books.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? That means he has a hobby,” I argue.
Andie rolls her eyes, mouthing ew, while she counts her drawer. She has been having a great laugh at my expense ever since I walked into the bank for work. I can’t say I have ever been so drunk in my life. Ashamed that I could barely remember how I got home or who undressed me, which was no one since I woke up in my clothes from the previous night. I also woke up to a long text message thread with a complete stranger. I can suck great dick? Really Danielle?
Mortified was putting it lightly on how I felt as I read through them. Those crude messages were not me. I barely swear. I never swear, but in one night, I decided to start drinking and go all out, bringing out this person I never knew existed. I was so embarrassed that after an hour of pacing my small apartment, I texted the stranger back, telling him I was sorry. Surprisingly, he texted me right back. And with each message, I found myself less embarrassed and more intrigued about who he was. He had just received some pretty insane messages from a stranger, but here he was texting back like we were old friends, bantering over a secret joke. And the fact that he got my The Princess Bride comment made me strangely elated. Being that it was one of my favorite movies. Daryl probably couldn’t even tell me my middle name. Let alone could he be bothered to care about my interests. But in this complete stranger, I found something in common.
Text 2 Lovers Page 2
