The Rock Star Wrote Every Song About the Size 22 Girl at the Merch Table novel · Chapter 17 of 24

Chapter 17: Wrong Digit

"Explain," I said.

Stevie had both hands pressed flat on the table.

"The week I got the new phone," she said, "you asked for my number, and I texted it to you."

"I remember."

"I typed a seven where there's a one." She laughed, and it sounded awful.

"I never checked it. You saved it, and I never checked it."

"That's it?"

"That's it. That's the whole thing." Her eyes filled. "A year of your life, and it's a typo."

I looked at the log again.

The receiver column was Jude's new number, off from Stevie's by one digit.

Six people had it, and one of them was a wrong number at two in the morning.

I felt something cold slide up my spine.

"When did you know?" I said.

Stevie looked down.

"Stevie."

"Cleveland."

"Cleveland."

"I scrolled back through our old texts to find a photo for you, and I saw it. I saw the seven."

"And you said nothing for three weeks."

"You were so happy!" she burst out. "You were different, Mags.

I thought if I told you it was a mistake, you'd think the whole thing was."

"You decided what I could handle."

"I know."

"I stood on a stage last night and you knew."

"I know."

She was crying openly now, ugly and loud.

"I'm so sorry. I'm the worst friend in America."

I should have hugged her.

Instead I stood up and walked to the front of the bus and back again, because my chest was too hot to sit in.

"You don't get to decide that for me," I said. "Ever. I don't care if it's kind."

"Okay."

"I would have wanted to know."

"Okay."

"I'm so mad at you I can't breathe."

"I know. You're allowed."

I stopped in front of her.

She looked up at me with her mascara down her face and her nose ring crooked.

She was the girl who had picked up my call at every bad hour of my life, except one.

I sat down next to her and put my head on her shoulder.

"I called you," I said into her denim. "That night. I called you. You were the one I called."

"I know."

"It just went somewhere else."

"It went to the right place," said a quiet voice.

We looked up.

Jude was standing by the table with his hands in his pockets, looking at the carpet.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to make this about me."

"You're allowed," Stevie said, sniffling. "It's your phone number."

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