Page 10 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

Didn't want to. Until recently.

Me:

How recently

Wrong Number Guy:

About three months.

My phone nearly slips out of my hand. I press it to my chest, eyes closed, heart doing something dangerous and stupid and completely unstoppable.

Me:

I should probably stop texting the stranger I accidentally propositioned

And then accidentally fell for

Wrong Number Guy:

Probably.

Me:

And yet.

Wrong Number Guy:

And yet.

Three weeks later,I'm on Highway 93 somewhere north of Tonopah with my windows down, my Spotify on shuffle, and a check engine light that's been blinking for the last forty minutes. The GPS has me on a route I don't recognize, something about construction on I-80 near Winnemucca, so it rerouted me through the mountains.

The car makes a sound. Not a good sound. A grinding, coughing, metal on metal sound that makes me grip the steering wheel with both hands.

"No. No no no no no."

The engine sputters. The dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree. The car rolls to a slow, defeated stop on the shoulder of a two lane mountain road with no cell signal, no other cars, and a sign half a mile back that said WHISPER VALE 3 MILES.

Three miles. Fine. I can walk three miles.

In ballet flats.

In August.

Uphill.

Forty five minutes later I'm standing in front of a sign that reads KIRBY CUSTOM MILL, sweating through my sundress, my ponytail destroyed, a blister forming on my left heel. The mill sits at the edge of what appears to be the smallest, most impossibly cute town I've ever seen. There's a general store across the road. A bakery with a chalkboard sign. Mountains in every direction.

The mill is a large metal building with wide doors pushed open, the sound of a saw cutting through wood echoing out into the summer air. A truck sits in the gravel lot. An Australian Shepherd with a graying muzzle lies in the shade by the door, lifting her head when she sees me.

"Hi, sweet girl." Crouching down hurts every muscle in my legs, but the dog sniffs my fingers and her tail moves. Once. "Can you tell me where I can find a tow truck? Or a phone? Or a time machine so I can undo my entire life?"

The saw goes quiet.

Footsteps on concrete. Heavy boots.

I stand up, pushing hair out of my face, ready to explain my situation to whatever grizzled mountain man runs this place.

He comes around the corner of the mill.