GHOSTED EPISODE 1: THE ACCIDENT OF THE HEART
954 Words
CHAPTER 1: WRONG NUMBER, RIGHT FEELING
The humid Atlanta air clung to Jeremy Wright’s skin like a second layer as he leaned against the brick exterior of The Daily Grind, the coffee shop he’d managed for the past three years. It was a Tuesday afternoon in late June, and the midday sun had turned the pavement outside into something close to molten asphalt. He’d just finished training a new barista—some college kid who kept mixing up oat milk with almond—and all he wanted was five minutes to himself with his phone and a cold bottle of water.
Scrolling through his contacts, he tapped on the name “Celia”—a woman he’d matched with on a dating app two weeks prior. They’d texted back and forth a handful of times, traded a few awkward voice notes, and finally agreed to meet for dinner that Friday. His thumbs hovered over the screen as he typed out his message: “Hey! Just wanted to check if 7pm at that Italian place on Peachtree still works for Friday? Also, heads up—I’m a terrible liar so if you hate mushrooms, please tell me now because I love them and will definitely order the truffle risotto.”
He hit send without a second thought, shoving his phone back into his pocket and heading inside to check on the afternoon rush. The shop was buzzing—laptop-toting remote workers hogging every outlet, a group of high school girls giggling over rainbow sprinkled lattes, and an elderly couple sharing a slice of lemon pound cake in the corner booth. Jeremy moved through the space with practiced ease, refilling water glasses, wiping down counters, and making small talk with regulars.
Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out expecting a reply from Celia, but the number wasn’t in his contacts. The message read: “Mushrooms are the devil’s candy and I will fight you on this. But 7pm works perfectly—I’ll even let you order your cursed risotto as long as I can steal bites of your bread basket. Also… Celia? I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Cynthia.”
Jeremy felt his face heat up, a mix of embarrassment and amusement washing over him. He quickly pulled up his dating app messages and realized he’d saved the wrong number—Celia had texted him from a different phone than the one linked to her profile, and he’d accidentally input Cynthia’s digits instead. He typed back immediately: “OH MY GOD I am so sorry!!! I was supposed to text someone else entirely. That is so embarrassing—I promise I’m not some weirdo who randomly messages strangers about mushrooms.”
The reply came faster than he expected: “Relax, mushroom enthusiast—I’m not mad. In fact, I’m kind of glad you did. I’ve been having the worst day at work and your accidental message made me laugh. What kind of coffee shop lets their manager take breaks to plot mushroom-related dinners anyway?”
Jeremy grinned, leaning against the counter as he typed: “The kind that’s run by me, apparently. I’m Jeremy, by the way. Manager of The Daily Grind, lifelong mushroom lover, and professional sender of wrong-number texts.”
“Cynthia Chen. Graphic designer, mushroom hater, and accidental recipient of your chaotic charm. Where in Atlanta are you located? I’m actually in town visiting my sister—just got here yesterday from… well, let’s just say it’s a long way from Georgia.”
For the next two hours, between ringing up customers and pulling espresso shots, Jeremy found himself sneaking glances at his phone every time it buzzed. What started as an apology for a wrong number had turned into one of the easiest conversations he’d ever had. Cynthia told him she was staying in the Virginia-Highland neighborhood with her sister Maya, who’d moved to Atlanta three years ago to work as a pediatric nurse. She’d taken two weeks off from her job to spend what she called “quality sister time” before heading back to her regular life. She didn’t say where she was from, just that it was far enough that visiting required planning and more money than she’d like to admit.
Jeremy shared details about himself too—how he’d grown up in a small town in Alabama before moving to Atlanta for college, how he’d fallen into coffee shop management almost by accident after working part-time through school, how he still called his mom every Sunday without fail. They talked about movies they loved (she was a die-hard romantic comedy fan; he preferred gritty dramas), music that shaped them (she’d grown up on classical piano, he on southern rock), and their most embarrassing childhood stories (hers involved a school play and a costume malfunction; his involved a failed attempt to build a treehouse that collapsed on his neighbor’s fence).
As closing time approached and the last customer filed out, Jeremy typed: “I know this is completely insane because we literally met ten minutes ago via wrong number… but would you want to actually meet up for dinner? Not as Celia—just as you and me. I promise to order whatever you want, no mushrooms required.”
He stared at the screen, heart hammering against his ribs. What if she thought he was moving too fast? What if she’d only been humoring him this whole time? The three little dots indicating she was typing appeared and disappeared three times before her message finally came through: “You know what? Yes. Let’s do it. Friday at 7pm, that Italian place on Peachtree. And Jeremy? I’m holding you to that no-mushroom promise.”
#vote#
- Writer
