Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Mountain life suits me. Has since the day I drove up here with nothing but a truck full of tools and a need to disappear from everything that had gone wrong down in the valley. No neighbors dropping by unannounced, no traffic, no complications, and no ex wives. Just me, my dog Rex, the trees, and enough space to think with no one else's noise crowding in.
My phone sits silent on the kitchen counter where it belongs. Most days it stays that way. The occasional text from my sister checking I haven’t fallen off a cliff, maybe a supply delivery confirmation, but that’s about it. People learned not to expect much from me in the communication department.
The phone buzzes just as I pull off my shirt for bed. Rex’s ears perk up as he lifts his head from his bed.
Eleven PM. It’s either an emergency or a wrong number, and emergencies rarely announce themselves with text messages. Probably someone looking for their teenager who missed curfew or a delivery mix-up. Happens more often than you’d think when you live at the end of a dirt road that GPS thinks leads to three different addresses.
The screen lights up, and for a solid ten seconds my brain refuses to process what it’s showing me.
There’s a woman. There are breasts. There are a lot of words in all caps about cantaloupe and grapefruit and kidney selling, and my thumb “accidentally” hits the photo to make it bigger before I can stop myself.
"What the hell."
The image fills the screen now, and despite every reasonable instinct telling me to delete this immediately and pretend it never happened, I actually look. Not in a creepy way, but in the way you might study a car accident. Horrible and fascinating and impossible to ignore.
She’s pretty. That hits me first, which makes me feel even more of an ass for staring. Soft curves and golden skin, standing in front of a mirror with her hair falling in waves over one shoulder. The lighting is terrible and the camera quality worse, but there’s something about her expression that makes my chest tighten in ways it hasn’t in years.
Her breasts look fine. Better than fine, actually, they’re fucking perfect, though I'm not the guy she meant to ask. And I definitelyshouldn't be looking this long. Salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
The panic in her message is almost endearing. Emergency with three exclamation points, like asymmetrical breasts, might constitute a crisis worth calling in the cavalry. She sounds drunk and dramatic and is convinced her friend Maya needs to solve this catastrophe immediately.
Maya. Definitely not my name.
Common sense says to ignore this, let her figure out her mistake on her own, maybe block the number if she keeps sending pictures. That’d be the smart thing. The normal thing.
Instead, I type. My brain has taken the night off and left my fingers in charge.
Me: Lady, I think you've got the wrong number. But for what it's worth, they look fine to me.
I hit send before I can reconsider.
The response comes back so fast she must’ve been staring at her phone.
Her: OH MY GOD. Oh no. Oh no no no. This is not Maya, is it?
Me: Not unless Maya is a guy named Beck who lives on a mountain and minds his own business.
Her: I’m going to die. Actually die. Right here in my apartment. They’ll find my body clutched around this stupid phone and know that I died of mortification after sending boob pics to a random stranger.
Her: I am so sorry. SO SORRY. Please delete that immediately and pretend this never happened. I’ll change my number and move to another state.
A laugh escapes. Actual laughter, rusty from disuse but real. When was the last time anything amused me? Months, maybe longer.
Her: Oh god you’re probably married with kids, and your wife is going to see this and think you’re cheating with some crazy drunk woman who doesn’t know her own bra size.
Me: No wife. No kids. Just me and a very confused dog who is wondering why I’m laughing at my phone.
Her: You have a dog? What kind? This is me trying to change the subject of my spectacular humiliation. *Hint: take the change of topic.*
I chuckle again. This girl’s funny, and I can tell she isn’t trying to be.
Me: German Shepherd mix. He’s judging you less than you’re judging yourself.
Rex stares and gives me a look that says, "You're texting strangers at 11 PM. I'm judging you plenty."
Her: That’s good because I’m judging myself VERY harshly right now. Also, I don’t really have a Maya emergency protocol. I just panicked.
Me: Maya emergency protocol?
