Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Lumberjack

Your instinct told you something was off. You followed it. That's not wrong.

Me:

Since when do you give actual emotional advice

You're supposed to be the grumpy one

Wrong Number Guy:

I'm not grumpy. I'm efficient.

Me:

That's what grumpy people say

Three dots. Then nothing for a full minute. Then:

Wrong Number Guy:

You deserve better than someone who makes you question whether checking was the right call.

My throat gets tight. That's the thing about Wrong Number Guy. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it lands with the precision of a man who measures things for a living.

Which he literally does. He's a custom sawyer. That's really all I know. That, and the fact that he has a dog named Maple, he drinks his coffee black, his brother calls every Tuesday, and a woman named Patty brings him pie he doesn't ask for. He never volunteers personal details. They slip out between my long, rambling paragraphs like sawdust shavings he can't sweep up fast enough.

I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. We exist in a space between strangers and something I don't have a word for, and it's become the most honest relationship I've ever had.

Which says a lot about my other relationships.

Me:

I ended it.

Packed a box of his stuff. Left it on the porch. Changed the deadbolt code.

Is it pathetic that telling you feels more real than telling my sister

Wrong Number Guy:

Tell your sister too.

Me:

I will. I'm driving up to see her next weekend actually. She's in Boise.

Wrong Number Guy:

That's a long drive from Reno.

Me:

Seven hours. But Tessa makes the best margaritas and she'll let me ugly cry on her couch without judging me.

Much.

Wrong Number Guy:

Good.