Page 4 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Drunk Boob Lady. What are the odds she'll remember any of this tomorrow?
What are the odds I'll delete that photo like a decent human being?
Yeah, we both know the answer to that one.
Chapter 3
Sunny
Deathwouldbepreferableto consciousness right now. The sunlight streaming through my apartment window stabs at my eyeballs like tiny daggers of judgment. My head pounds like someone's using it for drum practice, and my mouth tastes like I gargled with wine and regret.
The memories slam back in waves. Josh's engagement. The phone drowning in cake batter. The wine. The mirror. The photo.
Oh God, the photo.
My stomach lurches, and not just from the hangover. A complete stranger has seen my boobs and knows way too much about my current mental breakdown. A mountain man named Beck, with a dog and the patience of a saint.
The ancient phone sits on my nightstand like a piece of evidence. Three missed calls from Maya and two texts asking if I'm alive. Right, because I never texted Maya last night. Instead, I sent photos to some random guy who thinks I've lost my mind.
Which isn't wrong.
The smart thing would be to block his number and pretend this never happened. Change my name, move to Canada, take up ice fishing. Anything that doesn't involve facing what I did.
But the guilt eats at me. He was sweet about the whole thing. Nicer than he needed to be when some drunk woman's crisis landed in his lap at eleven PM. The least I can do is apologize properly now that I'm sober and my brain works again.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for ten minutes before I type.
Me: Hi Beck. This is the boob lady from last night. I’m mortified and wanted to apologize properly now that I’m sober and have remembered how to be a functional adult person.
Delete. Too formal.
Me: Beck! So sorry about last night. Wine makes me do stupid things, and you got caught in the crossfire of my life implosion.
Delete. Too casual.
Me: Dear Beck, I’m writing to apologize for my inappropriate message last night. Please know that I don’t normally send photos to strangers, and I understand if you think I’m insane.
Delete. Sounds like a business letter. And a one-way ticket to the nuthouse.
After twenty minutes of typing and deleting, I settle on something that works.
Me: Hi Beck. Sober now and mortified. I'm so sorry you got caught up in my wine crisis last night. Thankyou for being sweet about it when you could’ve just blocked my number. I promise I'm not this much of a disaster. Usually.
The three dots appear almost immediately.
Beck: Usually?
Me: Okay fine, I’m frequently this much of a disaster. But rarely in ways that involve bothering innocent mountain men with my personal problems.
Beck: Innocent might overstate it. How's the hangover?
The relief that floods through me makes my knees weak. He's not running away screaming or lecturing me about appropriate texting behavior. He's just talking to me like a normal person.
Me: Brutal. Feels like I got hit by a truck full of regret and bad decisions. How's your fence situation?
Beck: Still standing. Bear hasn't made his morning rounds yet.
Me: Maybe he's sleeping off his own hangover. Do bears drink?
