The Memory Thief by Emily Colin Page B

his husky voice for the first time. “You okay?” He sounded concerned, but I could tell he was stifling laughter nonetheless.
    From my ignominious position on the forest floor, I glared at him. I couldn’t make out his features very well from this far down. My first impressions were of his long legs, clad in beige cargo shorts, and his utter nonchalance. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
    He shifted his grip on the branch. “I’m absolutely fine. Why did you scream?”
    Irritation loomed. “Why do you think?”
    â€œDo you always answer one question with another?”
    Great. He was psychoanalyzing me. “Are you always so impossible?” I snapped.
    Now he did laugh, a full-throated sound that made me want to smile despite myself. “So they tell me.”
    â€œWell, they’re right.”
    He did a chin-up. “Good to know.”
    I got to my feet, brushing the pine needles off my jeans and wiping the dirt from my hands. “What are you doing up there, exactly?”
    â€œWhat did you think I was doing?” His voice was dry.
    Two could play at this game. “Deciding how to end your miserable existence, maybe?”
    â€œThirty feet off the ground? I’d probably just wind up with a bunch of broken bones and a concussion.”
    I craned my neck up to judge the distance more clearly. “What are you made of, rubber?”
    â€œGumby is my alter ego,” he replied.
    He was mocking me. Fabulous. “If your life’s not in any immediate danger, then I guess I’ll be on my way.” I gestured down the trail.
    â€œOkay then. Nice meeting you. Thanks for stopping by.” He took one hand off the branch to wave at me. How could his arms not be tired? Was he part monkey?
    â€œMy pleasure.” I let a full measure of sarcasm flood my tone.
    â€œBe careful,” he called after me as I made my way deeper into the woods. “You want to watch out for those logs. They can come out of nowhere.” He was laughing again.
    As I wandered along, I contemplated the many ways in which I’d found him aggravating. First he’d frightened the hell out of me, then he’d somehow turned the tables so that I was the one who was taking her life in her hands, just by ambling down a quiet mountainside trail. (Although, when I thought about it, I had to admit that I’d taken a pretty spectacular wipeout right on terra firma, while he was safe and sound in midair, the bastard.) And then there was the laughing: You’d think that a grown man who decided to hang from trees like an orangutan would be a bit embarrassed about it, or least feel the need to offer an explanation—but not this guy. No, he’d made me feel like the crazy one, even had a good laugh at my expense, and then sent me on my way without so much as an apology for scaring me half to death and ruining my jeans. Yet somehow, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
    I told myself that this was because he was so rude. Who wouldn’t rehash such a bizarre encounter? I pictured myself back in Chapel Hill, telling the story to Lucy and Jos over lattes at Caffé Driade. They wouldn’t believe it, either. I could hear Jos now: “You found him hanging from a
what
? And he had the nerve to laugh at
you
? The prick.” And Lucy, ever the lawyer: “I bet if he’d given you a heart attack, you could have sued.”
    Bolstered by their support, however imaginary, I soldiered on until the trail looped around to where it had begun, depositing me in front of Wildacres Retreat’s flagstone pavilion, with its spectacular view of western North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, which today were shrouded in clouds. Shaking off the memory of my brief encounter with Monkey Man—God only knew what bizarre convention of human beings had brought him here—I made my way to my room to change my clothes. I had a writing workshop to