Crazy Girl

by B. N. Toler

  I glowered and she huffed, her shoulders sagging. “Just try it,” she pleaded.

  “I don’t even know how I would talk to anyone,” I admitted. “Hi, I’m Hannah, and I’m divorced and in debt up to my chin. Sounds really sexy.”

  She snickered. “How about, I’m Hannah Motherfucking Bircham, best-selling author, hot as fuck, and give wicked head.” I wanted to spit my drink out. But chose to remain calm. Leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table she said, “That might be a little over the top. Maybe take the part about head out. Makes you sound slutty.”

  “Courtney,” I scoffed with humor. “It was all over the top.”

  “I just want you to see what we see.”

  Letting my laughter ebb, I smiled at her. “You’re my friends, of course you think I’m great.”

  “And any man, any real man,” she emphasized, “will think that, too. But if you want to find the right man,” and she paused as she leaned back in her seat. “Well, you gotta get out there.” She shrugged, flashing me a sympathetic smile. She knew I wouldn’t like hearing that, but I needed to. “Try the app, Hannah.”

  I loved her. I believed that she believed I was as great as she described, but I couldn’t see it myself. And that bothered me. Was I just being one of those women? The ones that felt sorry for themselves and hid from the world? Ugh, I sooooo didn’t want to be that woman. “Fine,” I mumbled before taking the last gulp of my drink and standing.

  “You never know what could happen, Hannah. Maybe you won’t meet your forever, but maybe you’ll meet your muse.”

  Widening my eyes, I smiled faintly, proud of myself for containing the eye roll I so badly wanted to let out. My muse? All of it felt too…complicated and overwhelming and horrible, but I nodded and smiled politely to ease my friend’s worries. Standing, she hugged me and we walked to the parking lot together. I’d had enough talking for one night.

  By the time I started driving home, I was feeling more accepting of the idea. I just needed time alone to let it sink in. Courtney was right. Maybe I wouldn’t meet Mr. Forever, but maybe getting out there, doing something outside of my comfort zone would spark my creativity. At this point, did I really have a choice? Inspiration wasn’t just going to knock on my door and invite itself in. Which meant, as hesitant as I felt about it, I’d have to go out and find it myself.

  “Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged

  by policemen or one living in perfect

  freedom who has nothing more to say?”

  -Kurt Vonnegut

  I was back at it again. The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked. It taunted me. Are you kidding me? I’d squeezed out 124 words in two hours and it was all utter nonsense. I glared at the screen. The cursor showed no mercy. Highlighting it all, I hit backspace and deleted the idle babble I’d typed with a defeated sigh. Closing my laptop, I slid it beside me and checked my phone.

  8:55 p.m.

  This was the hardest part of my day—those hours of the evening where I was left with only my thoughts. Most nights I’d binge watch something on Netflix until I passed out. Other nights, I’d lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, torturing myself with my failures. And on the really heavy nights, in the late-night hours where I couldn’t calm my restless mind, I’d pray. I wasn’t a religious woman and I rarely went to church, but I did believe in something bigger—something higher. I made sure to give thanks for the things I did have. I knew, even as hopeless as I felt, I was blessed in so many ways. But I also prayed for more.

  “God, please don’t let this be it for me,” I’d whisper, unleashing my chaotic worries to him. “Please don’t let me fail. Help me find my way.” Sometimes I felt sorry for him having to listen to me, but who else could I share my madness with without fearing judgement? Grabbing the pen I kept beside my bed with a pad of paper—incase by some miracle an idea struck me and I needed to jot it down—I wrote on my hand: Everything will be okay. I needed to be reminded of that. Some days I wasn’t so sure everything really would be okay. Tossing the pen aside, I was about to turn on my television when my phone chimed indicating I had a text.

  Courtney: Any hits with that app yet?

  Tilting my head, I realized I hadn’t even thought about it.

  Me: No, haven’t checked it yet.

  Courtney: I knew I should have put your notifications on or you’d never check it. CHECK IT NOW!

  Me: Okay, okay.

  Like I said. Total sasshole. Hopping up, I scurried downstairs and grabbed the bag of Cheetos I’d bought from the gas station on my way home yesterday and a soda from the fridge, then climbed back in bed with my snack, prepared to give the dating app some serious attention. Scrolling through my phone, I selected the icon and opened it. The first page showed my profile and I groaned when I saw which photo Courtney had selected as my profile picture. Me…in a bikini. As if that didn’t scream desperate. “That sasshole,” I griped to myself. I had no idea she’d uploaded photos from my phone. Swiping to the left, it took me to the messages.

  Fifty-two messages? The hell? She’d set me up on this app less than twenty-four hours ago, and I already had fifty-two messages? It seemed like a lot to me, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was normal. Each message contained the user’s profile picture, name, and when they’d sent the message. Thumbing through, I casually glanced at each photo, none of them really sticking out. Some I already knew I would never open because they were too old or young for me. I rolled my eyes. I literally despised the idea of men thumbing by my profile based simply on a profile picture, yet there I was, at the height of hypocrisy, thumbing by a blur of faces, none standing out to me.

  I decided to keep at it so I wouldn’t have to tell Courtney I hadn’t tried. Thirty minutes later, I’d opened a few of the messages, most of the men starting with the same greeting.

  You have a stamp collection?

  I had to go back and investigate my profile before I understood why they were asking that. Apparently, Courtney thought that would draw them in, some ironic headliner. Great, she’d already pigeonholed me on the app as a gigantic dork.

  A new alert popped up, indicating I had a new message so I clicked on it.

  New Message

  From: RinTinTin

  Raising my brows, I inspected RinTinTin’s profile picture. It was in black and white, a close-up of him looking off into the distance. His eyes were dark, a seriousness to them I immediately found intriguing. Eyes were always one of the first features I noticed on a man—the eyes of a man were every bit as important as hands and size. With a strong and confident gaze, a man could hold and lead a woman without ever touching her; say things that appealed to her without speaking a word. Yes, eyes were important. The profile picture was a nice shot. He was handsome, I’d give him that, and he had a beard; a close kept one you could tell he spent time maintaining. I really loved beards, the virility and ruggedness of them.

  I opened the message.

  RinTinTin: Are you a catfish?

  Narrowing my eyes, I reread the message. A catfish? What the hell did that mean?

  Me: I don’t know what that means.

  RinTinTin: Are you a real woman, or are you some fifty-year-old bald dude sitting in your sweats trying to pretend to be a woman and sell me porn?

  I snorted. Did people really do that?

  Me: Wow, that really happens on here? No, I’m definitely not a catfish.

  RinTinTin: Cool. My name is Wren. Yours?

  I let out a long sigh. His responses were short; clipped. It felt less like let’s get to know each other and more like let’s get down to business. I didn’t like that. My world was fueled by words, especially the way they were read. Why couldn’t he have opened with something a little smoother, like, how are you this evening? A simple question—polite and inviting. But I reminded myself that not everyone is a writer and to stop being a snob.

  Me: Hannah.

  The conversation went on this way—us going back and forth with short
answers for a while. In under 200 words, Wren explained he was contracted by the government, though he wouldn’t say what exactly it was he did, and he lived in a small town about an hour away from me. The short wording and the distance were already setting me on edge. Maybe it was time to end this chat and move on.

  I was just about to tell him this when he sent a new message.

  RinTinTin: Those eyes of yours. They’re intense. Beautiful, really.

  Oh. He must have been looking at the pictures of me on my profile. And definitely not the bikini one. Scooting up, I proceeded to suck the Cheetos’ coating from my fingers as I read the message again. He hadn’t once in our conversation mentioned my looks. Most of the other men from the messages I’d briefly opened had mentioned I was ‘hot’ or ‘pretty.’ One douche even commented on my bust size. I’d exited those messages within seconds.

  Wren’s comment had gotten my attention. They say eyes are the windows to the soul—could he see more of me than just my looks? I shook my head, doubting he did. Most people didn’t think like me. But still, I appreciated the compliment—I very rarely got complimented on my eyes. Before I could respond with a thank you, he messaged me again.

  RinTinTin: Can I get your number? Texting would be easier than using this app.

  He was right about that. The app had lapses in time making the conversation slower, but did I really want to give him my number? I didn’t even know him. Glancing down at my chest, I curled my lip when I noticed the dusting of Cheetos crumbs on my shirt.

  And just the sight of those tasty little processed crumbs hit me hard.

  This was what my life had become—a woman in her thirties, sitting alone in bed, eating a bag of Cheetos that clearly indicated the serving size was for 2.5 people, yet I’d almost inhaled the entire bag. I was mentally torturing myself, trying to create a romantic love story, yet I had no romance of my own; no experiences that inspired me. Courtney was right. Something had to change; I had to change if I was ever going to get out of this slump. And that meant I had to start getting outside of my comfort zone and take some chances, no matter how scary that seemed.

  Typing in my number, I hit send, then closed the app. If he texted or called, great; if not, it’s not like my world would end. I had plenty of things to distract myself with or to stay occupied. This is what I told myself anyway. Putting my phone on the charger, I cleaned up my Cheetos mess and went to brush my teeth, committing to running my ass off on the treadmill the next day to work off the insane amount of calories I’d just consumed. As I brushed my teeth, I took a moment to stare at my own eyes as I remembered what Wren had said about them.

  I gave my reflection a firm frown of disapproval, and asked myself, “Really, Hannah? Is that all it takes to get you all smitten with a guy?”

  “Intense. Beautiful.”

  I imagined what his voice sounded like as I repeated what he’d said and smiled.

  Apparently, that really was all it took.

  “Writers are the exorcists of their own demons.”

  -Marito Vargos Liosa

  Two days passed. No text.

  I signed on to the app and looked. He’d read the message where I’d sent my number. He had it. But he wasn’t texting or calling. Well, that was a waste of time.

  “This is how it is out here,” Kate assured me. She had just picked me up, and we were heading over to Deanna’s house to provide counsel on the best shade of yellow to paint the nursery. I’d told her and Deanna about the app Courtney had so insistently suggested, and it was the center of attention as we drove to baby central. For our most respected opinions, Deanna had promised us dinner and sangria. It was definitely a trade tilted in our favor.

  “You’ve been married for 800 years, Kate,” I pointed out. “How do you know how it is?” I laughed.

  “I watch reality TV and stuff,” she defended with a shrug. “And there’s always all of these articles on Facebook about how to date and tell if he likes you, and so on.”

  “So you’re a wealth of knowledge in the thirty-something dating world?” I asked dryly.

  A giant grin spread across her face as her blue eyes twinkled. “Damn, Hannah.” She said my name with her long, Southern twang. “You’re really twisted up about this.”

  Shaking my head, my cheeks heating slightly in embarrassment, I insisted, “No. Not at all. I just don’t get why he asked for my number if he had no intention of calling.”

  “So just message him and ask him. Simple as that.” She shrugged again as if it was, in fact, just as simple as that. She was driving so she couldn’t see the Are you serious? look I was giving her. How was I really, as an adult woman with any amount of pride, supposed to message Wren and ask him: Why didn’t you text me? It would make me look completely pathetic. “Or sit here and torture yourself over it. That’s a good idea, too,” she teased when I didn’t respond. Smartass.

  “I’m not torturing myself over it,” I argued, busying myself by picking a piece of invisible lint from my jeans.

  Flicking her blinker, she turned into Deanna’s driveway. “You don’t even know him. What does it matter if you ask?”

  She had a point. How could I be embarrassed if I’d never even met the guy? Reaching down, I blindly dug in my purse from where it sat between my feet, seizing my cell phone. “Fine,” I murmured. She was right. It was obviously on my mind for some weird reason. I didn’t want to believe my ego was offended, but maybe in part it was. Had he not thought I was attractive enough? Had another woman on the app caught his eye and he’d forgotten all about me? But it was more than that. You don’t ask for a woman’s number and just not use it. Pulling the app up, I went into messaging.

  Me: So you asked for my number…haven’t heard from you. Just curious why you asked for it.

  Hitting send, I shut my phone off and chucked it in my bag. “Okay. Message sent. Now let’s get inside and have a drink. I need one.”

  The evening was awesome. Deanna cooked us an amazing meal and her husband Allen was acting like the most adorable father-to-be in the world as he kept suggesting atrocious baby names just to get a rile out of us. I was pretty sure we melted into a puddle when he bent down and kissed her belly just before heading up to bed. He had a flight out of town the next day for work so he left our little henhouse gathering to get some sleep.

  By the time Kate dropped me off, I was still slightly buzzed from the four glasses of sangria I’d drank. I stepped into the house, letting my keys fall on the floor. Peeling off my skinny jeans and shirt, I tossed them aside and flopped on my bed and pulled the covers up. I wiggled a bit trying to find a comfortable position, letting out a sigh. I really needed to pee, but I was just too tired. Laziness at its finest; my kidneys would probably feel like they were about to burst out of my back by morning. A heaviness, that feeling that weighs you down just as you’re about to drift asleep, fell over me and I was seconds from giving into it when my phone chimed indicating I had a text.

  I didn’t open my eyes, considered ignoring it, but then I remembered I’d told Kate to text me when she got home, and I didn’t want to assume it was her just in case it wasn’t. I grunted as I rolled over and blindly felt for my phone. When I found it, I rolled back to my position and pulled my screen up. It was a text, but not from Kate. I didn’t recognize the number.

  Opening it, I quickly realized who it was.

  Wren: This is Wren. I didn’t text because I didn’t think you really wanted me to. You didn’t seem interested.

  Squinting at the screen, my buzz making everything look a little hazy, I typed a message back.

  Me: I gave you my number. What about that said I wasn’t interested?

  Wren: Yeah, you just typed the number and signed off. I wasn’t sure.

  I twisted my mouth at that. It was my nervous habit when I was uncomfortable. I gave him my number. How could he, in any way, interpret that as me not being interested? We went back and forth for a few minutes with the usual small talk before he asked the question o
f all questions.

  Wren: Would you like to meet?

  I inhaled deeply as I stared at my phone. That was the whole point of this, right? For me to meet guys? But even the thought felt so daunting. Messaging and texting had already been enough to give me an anxiety attack, but at least I had been behind the safe walls of my home and cell screen. Meeting a man, face to face…that was different. I didn’t know if I was ready for that. What if he thought I was hideous, or had a weird smile, or noticed one of my eyebrows was just a tad higher than the other? I had the tendency to babble when nervous—what if he found me annoying? What if he never contacted me after the first date? I’d tear myself apart wondering why. I thought about texting Courtney for counsel, but I already knew she’d tell me to stop being a baby and go on the date. Plus, I still had a bit of fading liquid courage to help.

  Biting my lip, I typed back.

  Me: Yes.

  “A writer is someone who has taught their mind to misbehave.”

  -Oscar Wilde

  It was Friday.

  Date day.

  Ugh.

  Why was I dreading this?

  I was overthinking it. I knew this, yet I couldn’t stop myself. It had been a long time since I’d actively dated and now there were all these rules. It was as if this was a new game and I had no idea how to play. Other things I loathed? The timing between texts and calls, and what you do and don’t say. I simply hated it. I resented the idea of having to abide by these trivial bullshit ways. Why couldn’t people just be up-front? Why couldn’t we just sit down and say, “Hi, my name is this or that, and I’m hoping to find this? Am I what you might be looking for?” Was that really so bad?

  “I’m heading out,” I announced to my brother after popping my head in his office.

  “Text me when you get home.” Taz swiveled in his desk chair to face me. “And don’t drink too much.”