Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man

But the quiet feels different tonight. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice.

I notice.

CHAPTER TWO

MARA

Three days after Mango almost died, I text the stranger again.

Not because I need veterinary advice. Mango is fine. Mango is currently sprawled across Chioma's couch wearing a cone of shame, licking peanut butter off a Kong toy while my best friend hand feeds him treats she ordered from an organic pet bakery in Leslieville.

No, I text the stranger because it's 11:47pm on a Friday, my mother just called me a disappointment for the third time this month, and every person in my contacts list would try to fix it.

Random question for the wildlife vet in British Columbia. Do animals hold grudges? Like if a cow stepped on your foot, would she remember doing it the next day and feel bad?

Stupid. So stupid. My thumb hesitates over the send button for about two seconds before I press it anyway, because what's the worst that can happen? He ignores me. He tells me to stop texting him. Both of those outcomes are fine. Both of thoseoutcomes are what a normal person would do when a stranger from Toronto keeps bothering them about livestock psychology at midnight.

The reply comes in four minutes.

Cows don't feel guilt. They do hold grudges. I have a client's Hereford who's hated me since 2019 because I gave her a vaccination in the rain.

A laugh escapes. Actual sound, in my actual apartment, at midnight, sitting on the floor of my converted garage studio surrounded by cooling racks of beeswax votives that smell like bergamot. The candle order is for a boutique in Kensington Market, forty units due Monday, and my hands are stiff from ten hours of pouring.

So cows are petty. Good to know. Follow up question. What's a Hereford?

It's a breed of cattle. Red and white. Built like a tank with the temperament of a moody teenager.

That's my mother.

Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again.

Is your mother a cow?

My mother is a retired pediatric surgeon who spent thirty years saving children's lives, raised three daughters on her own after my dad passed, put all of us through university,and considers anything less than a medical degree a personal insult to the family legacy. So. Adjacent.

Silence. Long enough that I think I've scared him off with too much honesty too fast, which is exactly what Chioma says is my problem with men, with dating apps, with that one disastrous speed dating event at a wine bar on King West where I told a chartered accountant named Derek about my father's death within six minutes of sitting down.

But then.

What did you study?

Chemical engineering. Two years. Hated every molecule of it. Dropped out to make candles. My mother has not recovered.

You make candles.

Artisan candles and apothecary products. Small batch. Hand poured. Beeswax and botanical scents. My company is called Marrow and Light.

That's a good name.

Something warm spreads through my ribs. Four words from a man whose name I don't know. Whose face I've never seen. Who, for all I know, could be a seventy year old retired trucker catfishing me from a basement in Kamloops. But his texts are short, blunt, occasionally so rude I have to read them twice. No emojis. No exclamation marks. No filler.

Thank you. What's your name?

Holden.

I'm Mara. Short for Imara. It means "strong" in Swahili, which is ironic because I just ate an entire sleeve of Digestive biscuits while sitting on my garage floor crying about my mother.

That sounds strong to me. Most people cry without biscuits.