Page 8 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Rex gives me a look that says, "Took you long enough to figure it out."
The day flies by and drags all at the same time. It doesn’t help that I keep checking my phone for messages. And little responses are sporadic, but they fuel me.
The sun has set, and I do one last walk around when my phone buzzes just as we circle back toward the cabin. I pull off my work gloves and check the screen.
Sunny: Do you always respond to random women this late? Because I'm noticing a pattern in your response times.
I check the timestamp. 9:43 PM. When did it get so late?
Me: Only the ones who send interesting pictures.
Sunny: Ah, so I have competition? Should I be worried about other women accidentally texting you their personal emergencies?
Me: You're the first wrong number I've gotten in two years. And the most memorable.
Sunny: Most memorable how? Because of my sparkling personality or because of my boobs?
Direct as always. Another thing I appreciate about her, the way she doesn’t dance around subjects or play games.
Me: Both. But mostly because you make me laugh when I didn't think I remembered how.
The dots come and go several times before her response comes, and it’s softer than her usual banter.
Sunny: That makes me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because I love making people laugh. Sad, because it sounds like you haven't had much to laugh about lately.
She isn’t wrong. The past couple of years have been about survival, not joy. Getting through each day, maintaining the cabin, existing without really living. Her messages have become the highlight of days that used to blend together in unremarkable sameness.
I settle into my chair by the fire, Rex curled up at my feet.
Me: Things have been quiet up here.
Sunny: Quiet can be good. But so can laughter. I'm glad I could bring some of that back to your mountain.
Me: What about you? What brings you joy besides tormenting mountain hermits with muffin photos?
Sunny: Music. Really terrible reality TV that I pretend not to watch. The smell of bread baking. Planning my food truck business that may never happen. And texting inappropriate things to men I've never met.
Me: How inappropriate are we talking?
Sunny: Well, right now I'm standing in my kitchen wearing nothing but an apron because I was baking cookies and spilled flour everywhere. And I may have thought about taking a picture to send you, but I figured you've seen enough of my impromptu photography skills.
The image hits me like a punch to the gut. Sunny in her kitchen, flour-dusted and barely covered, thinking about me while she bakes. My grip tightens on the phone.
Me: That's quite an image.
Sunny: Is it? What are you imagining exactly?
This is dangerous territory. The kind of conversation that leads to expectations and complications and all the things I moved up here to avoid. But I cannot seem to stop myself from responding.
Me: You in that apron. Flour in your hair. Wondering what you'd do if I walked into that kitchen right now.
Sunny: Oh. OH. Well now I'm not getting any sleep tonight.
Me: Because of the cookies keeping you awake?
Sunny: Because of thoughts about mountain men in my kitchen doing very un-neighborly things to women in aprons.
The heat that spreads through me has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. Everything to do with the images her words create, the way she makes everything sound like a promise.
