Page 9 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man

"She considers you family."

"She considers me a cautionary tale."

The look she gives me could curdle the soup still sitting on the stove. "Imara. When your father was alive, he had plans for you girls. Good plans. University, good careers, good husbands. You had all of that in your hands."

"I didn't want it."

"Want." She says the word like it tastes foreign. "Your generation and your wanting. Your father wanted to see his daughters settled. He died before he could. The least you can do is honor that."

Using my dead father to win an argument about my dead engagement. A new low, even for her. The plantains in my stomach turn to concrete. My eyes sting. My hands shake against the wet plate I'm holding.

"Daddy would have been proud of me."

"Your father would have wanted you taken care of."

"I take care of myself."

She dries her hands on the towel. Folds it into a perfect square. Sets it on the counter. "Do you, Imara? In that garage?"

The drive home takes twelve minutes. My apartment above the garage is dark. The studio below is exactly as I left it, cooling racks, pouring station, shelves of oils. Everything orderly. Everything mine. Everything so small.

My phone is in my hand before I sit down.

I need to tell you something.

Three minutes. He's awake. He's always awake when I need him.

Tell me.

I've been looking up Crimson Hollow. For weeks. I know it has a population of about 2500. I know there's a café called Bean and Bloom. I know the Kootenay Rockies look insane in photos. I know you live twenty minutes outside of town on a logging road.

Mara.

I'm not asking for an invitation. I'm telling you the truth. Because that's what we do at midnight. We tell the truth. And the truth is I have been falling for a man I've never seen for two months, and tonight my mother used my dead father to guilt me about my dead engagement, and I'm sitting on my garage floor for the hundredth time, and the only person I want to talk to is you. And I can't do that through a screen anymore.

Long silence. The longest he's ever taken. My heart is slamming so hard my ribs hurt.

You haven't asked for a photo.

You haven't offered one.

I know.

Why not?

The three dots appear and disappear four times.

Because I was afraid that if I saw you, I'd want you here. And I haven't wanted anything in five years.

Every molecule in my body stills. The garage. The candles. Toronto. My mother's voice. All of it goes quiet.

Holden. I'm coming.

What?

I'm getting in my car. I'm driving to Crimson Hollow. If you don't want me there, tell me right now. Right now. Because if you wait ten minutes I'll already be on the 401 and I won't turn around.

One minute.