Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

But something about his voice—the gruffness that isn’t quite as gruff as he wants it to be—makes me not want to fill the silence. I want to enjoy it for a second.

“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll check the battery first. And if that doesn’t fix it, I’ll bring it in.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer.”

“Beck.”

“Thank you, Beck.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. No “you’re welcome,” no “see you later,” no sign-off of any kind. Just the click of a dead line.

I stand there in the doorway of the outfitter, phone against my chest, grinning like an idiot at the cobblestone courtyard.

The man is rude. Genuinely, impressively rude. And I called the wrong number and described a green bicycle to him like he was a customer service line, and he diagnosed the problem anyway, and then told me to bring it in even though I’m not his customer and never have been.

I go check the battery. It’s seated fine. The contacts are clean. The reset button does nothing.

The bike is still dead.

I look at the sticky note one more time, then fold it in half and put it in my pocket. I don’t need the right number anymore.

I already have the wrong one.

2

BECK

I’ve been under a Chevy Silverado for forty minutes when I hear the front door scrape open.

The door sticks. Has for years. I keep meaning to plane it down and never do, because the scrape gives me a two-second warning before anyone walks in. Two seconds is enough to decide whether I want to deal with them.

“Hello?”

My wrench stops moving.

I know that voice. Bright, warm, slightly too cheerful for the situation. The girl from the phone. The one who described a dead e-bike as “the green kind” and then laughed at herself so hard, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

I’ve thought about that laugh exactly twice since she hung up.

Okay, maybe three times.

“Back here,” I say from under the truck.

Wheels squeak across the concrete. The e-bike. She actually brought it. I wasn’t sure she would. People say they’ll bring things in all the time and then call someone else. Someone closer. Someone who answers the phone with more than one word.

“Beck?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Callie. From the wrong number.”

“I know.”

I roll out from under the Silverado and sit up on the creeper, wiping my hands on the rag I keep in my back pocket. I look at the e-bike first. Force of habit. Mid-range pedal-assist, Shimano motor, probably three years old based on the frame design. The display unit is dark. Battery casing looks fine from here.

Then I look at her.