Chapter 2 - Same Time Next New Year's

I put my phone down with a chuckle as I shake my head. Reaching my hands up, I stretch while yawning simultaneously.

“Why were you grinning?” My sister, Liz, walks into my kitchen and leans against the counter. The area is surprisingly spacious, as far as studio apartments go. The open floor plan is sleek and modern. A decent sized marble island counter dominates the space in the kitchen and serves as both my kitchen table and work space. Low-hanging pendant lights hang above the surface, their warm and golden glow illuminating the gray marble.

“Some weirdo texted me.” I scoot forward in one of the tall chairs around the island and lean my elbows on the smooth surface.

“And that makes you smile?” she questions with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yeah, it was the wrong number.”

She frowns. “Was it a guy?”

I open my mouth to answer before it occurs to me that I actually don’t know. “We actually never got around to sharing pronouns.”

“Bummer.” She sighs. “If it was a guy, he could have been a nice rebound.”

I roll my eyes. “No thanks.” My stomach drops. “Why did I send a selfie? That was so weird,” I mumble.

“You sent him a selfie?” Liz cries with a huge grin. “Look at you getting back out there.”

“I’m not ‘getting back out there,’” I correct.

“Come on, Jo. The best thing for you to do right now is to put yourself back out there.”

“The divorce was just finalized a month ago,” I remind her while shaking my head. “It’s too soon.”

“You’ve been separated for what, six months?” she pushes. I try to ignore her as I pick up my mug of coffee and bring it to my lips, blowing on it before taking a small sip. A piece of hair falls in front of my face so I reach up and tuck the dark tendril back behind my ear.

I chopped my hair off a few weeks ago, in desperate need of a big and drastic change. The dark ends sit just on top of my shoulders now. While I do love the cut and change, I also hate it because of the inconvenience of not being able to throw it up into a messy bun anymore.

“But he put you through hell long before you even separated,” she continues.

“Drop it, Liz,” I warn.

“No, I won’t,” she tells me. Her hair is a bit of a lighter brown and falls to the middle of her back—about the length mine was before I cut it. Her blue eyes, that are the exact same shade as mine, narrow on my face. “I’m worried about you. You’ve been moping.”

“I’m allowed to mope.”

“One hundred percent.” She pushes her hip off the island and turns so she’s leaning across the surface towards me. “But that little pathetic smile I just saw while you were looking down at your phone was the first non-serious look I’ve seen your face make in months.” Her expression turns thoughtful before she says, “Years, actually.”

I roll my eyes again. “You’re so dramatic. I’ve definitely smiled in the last few months”—I glare at her—“and years.”

She gives me a look. “You can’t see your face.”

“I control my face, Liz.”

“Do you?” She smirks.

“I can’t deal with you right now.” I wrap my hands around my mug, letting the warmth sink into my fingers. My phone vibrates and I glance at the screen.

Unknown: Sorry, me again. Just wondering… do you even live in NY?

I read the message a few times. Liz stretches further across the counter to peer at my screen. “Is that the wrong number again?”

“Mhm,” I say, wondering why they’re still texting me.

“What did they say?” she asks.

“Mind your own business.”

“You’re my business!” she exclaims.

“I’m not,” I correct. I open the text thread with this person and debate answering. They could be a weirdo. They probably are, to be honest.

“Just answer,” she whispers from behind my shoulder like a creep.

I jump about a foot. “Oh my God, Liz, when did you even walk over here?”

“While you were staring at your phone screen, debating whether or not you’re going to answer the stranger.”

I sigh. “I’m going to answer.”

She squeals, and I throw her another eye roll.

Joanna: I don’t, unfortunately.

“Ooh, unfortunately,” Liz says excitedly.

“Shut up,” I mutter. My phone buzzes as a response comes back quickly.

Unknown: Dang.

Unknown: Not that I thought you would agree to meet up with a total stranger. I was just wondering.

Unknown: Would it be really creepy if I asked where you live?

Unknown: God, don’t answer that. It would be really creepy.

Unknown: I’m sorry, I’m just making it worse.

Unknown: Just block me.

Unknown: Or call the cops if you need to. I’d understand.

I bite down on the smile forming as I type out a response.

Joanna: This is the most exciting conversation I’ve had in months.

Unknown: Me too! Believe it or not, I don’t normally continue conversations with wrong numbers.

Joanna: No? You seem the type.

“You’re flirting,” Liz gushes. I give her a gentle shove, and she laughs. Standing up, I walk out of my kitchen and into the living room. The space flows effortlessly from one area to the next, with the island counter serving as a natural divider between the living and kitchen areas. A sectional in a muted charcoal gray sits in the center of the room. Pillows in varying textures—a mix of velvet, linen, and knitted fabric, courtesy of my sister and mother—are neatly piled on the cushions. A low, wooden coffee table, with rich warm tones, sits in front of the couch covered with a few magazines, a half-drunk cup of coffee (courtesy of Liz, the freeloader) and a single candle flickering softly (courtesy of me).

Never thought I would be living in an apartment by myself again at thirty-three years old, but here we are.

The living room itself is anchored by a large, floor-to-ceiling window that stretches across one wall. My favorite part is all of the natural light that floods the room during the day. It is the best room for the golden hour. A tall bookshelf stands against the far wall, each shelf still empty and waiting to be filled with the memories I’m yet to make.

My phone buzzes, and my hands react quickly, lifting the phone to see the message.

Unknown: You’re funny.

Joanna: I have my moments.

The little squeal behind me makes me grumble in frustration.

“You’re so annoying,” I mumble.

Liz ignores me and makes herself comfortable looking over my shoulder. She’s three years younger than me, and our personalities have always been stark opposites, but she’s my best friend. She has been for thirty years.

“Oh God, what if he’s like a creepy old man?” Liz asks nervously. I look over my shoulder to find her eyes wide in panic. She drops her voice to a frantic whisper. “Or like, a weird teenage girl?”

I bite my lip. “That seems highly unlikely.” I tap my fingers on the side of my phone as I contemplate. “Damnit,” I mutter.

Joanna: You’re not a creepy old man right? Or a weird teenage girl?

His response doesn’t come back right away, and I’m annoyed at the slight disappointment that lodges in my gut. I literally don’t even know this person—at all.

Their response vibrates my phone, and I let out a breath of air as I click on the picture they just sent.

Unknown: (sends selfie)