Page 6 of Knocked Up By The Mountain Man

If she gets away a second time, it won't be because I neglected to get her phone number or her name.

I'm not gonna fuck this up twice.

When my palm meets her shoulder, it feels like some sort of electric shock, like static being set off by the contact.

Except it's not static; it's just what happens whenever we touch.

It's why I haven't been able to forget about her, why even though she's nameless, she's far from faceless. She makes frequent appearances in my dreams at night, and fantasies of her intrude during the day when I'm trying to concentrate on other things, like work.

“Alyssa,” I say, speaking her name aloud for the first time in weeks.

Round brown eyes look at me in shock.

“You remember my name?” she asks.

“Of course I remember it,” I reply. I feel offended. How could I not remember the woman who had changed everything for me?

I've been trying to change it back ever since and have failed.

The only reason I tried to change it back is because I figured I'd never see her again. Though now that she's here, back in Wildwood, I have to make her see reason. And I have to hope that she sees our connection the same way that I do.

She frowns at me.

“Then why didn't you call?”

“Call?” I ask. “I never got your number.”

“I left it on your nightstand,” she says. “I had to go in the morning, but I wanted to stay in touch. I told you that.”

“I never saw any phone number you left behind,” I insist. “Or I would have called you the very next day.”

And every single day after that, too.

She shakes her head, like she doesn't believe me, and I feel offended all over again.

She would have to be insane to think that I could forget her, that I would avoid her, that I would lie to her. If I had her number, I would have been giving her a phone call every hour on the hour for these last several months.

I would have looked her up. I would have tried to find her with that little detail.

Going further than any highly paid private investigator ever could to track down the woman who had permanently rewired the circuitry in my brain.

“It doesn't matter,” she mumbles.

“Why are you back in town?” I ask.

She looks at me, and then back at the ground quickly.

“Just trying to find my dad,” she says. “Same reason I was here last time.”

Something feels off in her tone of voice. She looks different. She sounds different, even though the electricity between us feels the same as ever.

She shivers, and my concern grows.

“Come back inside,” I say. “Stay a little while. Let's catch up.”

“Catch up about what?” she asks vacantly.

“I don't know,” I say. “Anything. Come inside and get warm. This place has great apple pie.”