3. Chapter 3
Sunny
Death would be preferable to 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. Thank you 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?
Beck: Not usually. But if they did, this one would be a problem drinker.
A laugh escapes despite my pounding head. This man has no right to be this funny when I'm trying to stay embarrassed.
Me: Well, thanks again, and I promise never to bother you again. You take care.
Man oh man, I hate the idea of never talking to him again. It’s making my stomach sour, and it’s not from the hangover. This makes no sense, but it’s nice to have somebody to talk to. Maya shouldn’t be the only regulated person with front row seats to my crazy. It should be shared.
I groan and flop back onto my pillow when my phone pings.
Beck: Want to share what's making you drink? I've got time.
Something about the simple way he says it makes my chest feel warm. Like he actually wants to hear about my disaster life instead of just being polite.
Me: Lol. You more than deserve to have context for my crazy. I mean, you saw a lot of me.
Beck: ??
Me: Remember the Maya emergency protocol I mentioned? Well, yesterday my ex posted engagement photos. Three months after we broke up. THREE MONTHS. Apparently, I was just keeping his bed warm for TWO FREAKING YEARS until his actual soulmate showed up.
Beck: Ouch.
Me: Right? So, I'm at work trying not to cry into someone's birthday cake when I see the post. Then I dropped my phone in cake batter because my coordination abandons me during emotional crises.
Beck: Hence the new phone.
Me: Hence the new phone that looks like it survived Y2K and has the technological capabilities of a potato. Which is how I ended up texting you instead of Maya, because I can't even have a proper breakdown without screwing it up.
Beck: Could have been worse.
Me: How exactly could it have been worse?
Beck: Could have sent it to your boss. Or your ex.
The thought makes me shudder.
Me: Oh God. Can you imagine? Josh opening that message? He'd probably screenshot it and show his yoga instructor fiancée so they could laugh about his crazy ex.
Beck: His loss.
Two words. Simple, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. My throat gets tight.
Me: You don't even know me. I could be completely awful.
Beck: Could be. But you apologized when you didn't have to, you're worried about bothering a stranger, and you care about your friend's feelings enough to have a Maya emergency protocol. Doesn't sound awful to me.
Beck: Plus you made me laugh twice yesterday, which is more than most people manage in a month.
Me: Is that because mountain life is a very serious business or because you don't talk to people much?
Beck: Both.
Me: Hermit mountain man confirmed. What made you decide to live out a sexy lumberjack fantasy? **And yes, I do read those books with the flannel ripped open and the man chest on full display. So you embody the lumberjack fantasy in my mind. ??**
The typing dots appear and disappear several times before his response comes through.
Beck: Long story. What made you decide to work at a bakery?
Deflection noted and filed away for later. Everyone has their stuff.
Me: Needed a job that wouldn't make me hate mornings more than I already do. Turns out decorating other people's joyous occasions while your own life falls apart is its own special kind of torture, but the pay is decent and I get to eat broken cookies.
Beck: What would you rather be doing?
The question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask about dreams, just assume you're where you want to be.
Me: Food truck. I know, I know, everyone and their cousin wants to start a food truck. But I have this whole concept worked out. Comfort food with a twist, rotating locations, decent prices. Been planning it for two years.
Beck: What's stopping you?
Me: Money. Courage. That I can't even successfully text the right person, so maybe I shouldn't be trusted with a business that involves fire and the public. And let's not forget the fact I’d be behind the wheel of a TRUCK. Very smashable.
Beck: You're talking to me, aren't you?
Me: That's different. You're nice. And you've already seen me at my absolute worst, so there's nowhere to go but up.
Beck: This was your worst?
Me: Please don't ask me to elaborate on that. Some stories require more wine than I can handle today.
Beck: Fair enough.
The conversation flows easier than it should with someone I've never met. Something about his dry humor and steady responses makes me want to keep talking. Like he listens instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. He also bypasses my craziness, which most people don’t do.
Sometimes when I talk with people, they end up reacting to my off the wall comments, and the conversations sail far off in a different direction. He keeps the conversation on track.
It’s nice, since I have a feeling it would get very annoying talking to somebody like me. And this is how I function.
Me: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad I texted the wrong number. You're much better at crisis management than Maya would’ve been. She would’ve just sent me ice cream emojis and tell me to drink water.
Beck: Sound advice.
Me: Don't you start. I get enough practical wisdom from Maya.
Beck: Someone's got to keep you from drunk texting the entire phone book.
Me: Hey! I’ve NEVER drunk texted the entire phone book. Just one innocent mountain man who probably thought his peaceful evening was about to get very complicated.
Beck: Wasn't wrong about that.
Me: But was it bad complicated or good complicated?
The three dots appear and disappear again. For a moment I worry I've pushed too far, gotten too comfortable too fast.
Beck: Jury's still out.
Me: I'll take that as progress. By the way, I should know what to call you besides Beck the Mountain Man. Unless that's your legal name, in which case your parents were either very optimistic or very specific about your career path.
Beck: Just Beck. And you're not Drunk Boob Lady?
The callback to last night makes me snort with laughter, which hurts my head but feels worth it.
Me: Sunny. And before you ask, yes, it's my real name, and no, my parents weren't hippies. Just overly optimistic about my disposition.
Beck: Sunny suits you.
Me: Even after witnessing my spectacular meltdown?
Beck: Especially after.
Something flutters in my chest at the way he says it. Maybe being a disaster isn't the worst thing in the world if it leads to conversations like this.