Crazy Girl

by B. N. Toler

  I snorted a laugh. I was thirty-four years old and he still played big brother to me as if I was fifteen. He really was the best.

  “I will,” I promised.

  “And I was instructed to inform you that Laney wants full deets tomorrow.” He shook his head. “She actually used the word ‘deets.’ I don’t even know who I’m married to anymore,” he joked. Laney, his awesome wife, was the champion of women in my brother’s book. He’d hit the jackpot with her, and what made it better was he knew it. He was her biggest supporter; always so proud she was a successful woman with ambitions. They were a powerhouse couple—a couple I envied. What little hope I still held on to that there might be someone out there for me—my team player, my person—was very much powered by them. I wanted what they had.

  “I’ll give her a shout tomorrow. Y’all have a good night. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  As soon as I got home around 5:30, I went into a panicked prep resembling DEFCON 5. By seven, I was smooth, my hair sleek and straight, and I’d decided to go for dressy casual, wearing my best jeans with a black, flowy top and a hot pink scarf to add a little pop to my ensemble. Looking at myself in the mirror, I gave my reflection a final nod. I looked good. The eyeliner gods were generous tonight because my wings were even and on point, making my brown eyes flare. My outfit was super cute, my makeup perfect, everything was lined up except for one thing.

  I hadn’t heard from Wren.

  Last we spoke, he’d said he had to work that day and wasn’t sure what time he’d get off. It was seven. My stomach knotted as my anxiety flared—what if he was standing me up? Screw it. I texted him.

  Me: So…are we still on for tonight?

  Fifteen minutes later…

  Wren: Yeah, just about to leave work.

  Me: So what time are you thinking?

  Wren: I’ll text you when I get off.

  I pressed my lips together, an uneasiness settling over me. I didn’t like it being left open-ended. Things seemed to be “whatever” for this guy. Tossing my phone on the bed, I decided to paint my nails, his text nagging at me in the back of my mind. Was it really that hard to narrow a time down? As my nails dried, I checked my phone.

  Still no word.

  Anticipation was not a good look on me. I was getting angry. I felt stupid. Here I was, ready to go, and he hadn’t even gotten home yet, which meant he still had to get ready and drive an hour to get here. This was bullshit.

  Me: Hey. Can you give me just an idea of what time you are thinking?

  Wren: Just got off. Heading home now. I still have to shower and change.

  Rolling my eyes so hard it almost hurt, I let out a frustrated growl. Was I really asking that much? I mean, seriously? Was he incapable of even giving me an idea of time? Could he not mentally add up how long it would take to go home, shower and change, and head my way? I was starting to regret going all out for this date. If this wasn’t a slow blow off, I didn’t know what was.

  Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t texted back. I was done. It was Friday night, I was looking good, and I wasn’t going to waste it sitting around waiting for some guy I didn’t even know to grace me with the courtesy of telling me what time he’d like to meet. I tried to be understanding, be casual, but I felt jaded. Here I was waiting around for someone that clearly didn’t really care if we met up or not. I was better than this. I deserved better than this and maybe he didn’t really know me, but I did.

  Me: Okay. Let’s just forget it. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s Friday and I can’t sit here and wait forever for you to just give me a time for when you think you will be here. I’m trying to be understanding. I’m just asking what time. And that appears to be a question you can’t answer so I’ll let you off the hook. No hard feelings.

  Five minutes later.

  Wren: Actually that was pretty rude, I was driving home and just pulled in the driveway and saw your last text. I live on back roads and find it not safe to text while I’m driving so no I was not looking at my phone when the text came in.

  I stared at my phone, wanting to scream at it. To scream at him. I had asked multiple times what time he thought he’d be available before he even left from work. This was ridiculous. He’s not interested, Hannah, I told myself. If he was, he would have made a clear-cut plan.

  “Get on this app,” I muttered to myself, imitating Courtney. “It’ll be easy,” I went on. I had officially lost my mind.

  Me: I understand, but I asked you several times and you couldn’t or rather wouldn’t answer. That seemed rude to me.

  I stared at the text and noticed how whiny it was. A few minutes passed by when my phone started ringing. He was calling. I stared at the screen, wide-eyed and freaking out. Dealing with confrontation was easier via text, I wasn’t sure I’d fare well on the phone.

  “Just answer it,” I said out loud. Inhaling a deep breath, I answered, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Hannah,” his deep voice replied. It was the first time we’d spoken outside of texting and his deep baritone surprised me.

  “Wren.” I said his name plainly, stoic. I didn’t know what else to say, because this was awkward. He’d basically put me off all evening, and I’d just told him not to bother. So why was he calling? And why did I care? I danced on the line of soaking in his voice and hanging up on him.

  “Are you done acting like an asshole?” he asked next.

  My mouth fell open in shock, but for some reason I couldn’t explain, I wanted to laugh. He didn’t say it cruelly, more like he was speaking with an emotional child, asking if I was ready to act like a big girl now. I was so shocked, I had to laugh.

  “I’m an asshole?” I chuckled.

  “You’re acting like one.”

  I laughed again. Was this really happening? I mean, seriously? Whiny or not, he’d flaked on me all night, and he was calling me an asshole?

  Working hard, I managed to hide any hint of humor in my voice when I asked, “How do you figure that?”

  “I told you I had to work, and I’d text you when I left work letting you know I was heading home but you beat me to it,” he explained patronizingly. “I get home and find this text telling me to just forget it.”

  “A window of time, Wren. It’s not that hard.”

  “And like I already told you, I was driving and couldn’t read your texts. It’s dangerous to text and drive.” He sounded like an afterschool special. He was calm. Really calm. And that frustrated me even more. He was trying to act like the voice of reason making me out to be some kind of mad woman. One thing was to acknowledge it to yourself, another was to have a perfect stranger using it against you.

  “It’s just…common courtesy,” I stammered.

  “Hannah,” he spoke my name in that irritatingly calm tone, his voice deepening. “I’m sorry I did not get you a time sooner. It’s been a hectic day for me. I’m home now and need to shower and change. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and would still like to. Would you?”

  My pride clutched my hand like a dear friend offering me strength; encouraging me to stand my ground. What woman would go out with him after he’d acted like such a flake?

  “Please, Hannah,” he added, his voice filled with sincerity.

  Oh. While pride held tightly to one hand, empathy took my free one and gave it a squeeze. He sounded sorry. Now I was torn. Maybe he was genuinely remorseful or maybe he was an asshole looking to get his way. The pessimistic side of me leaned more toward the latter. I saw myself as being the kind of woman to call a person on their bullshit. I believed myself to be powerful that way, but I was also a firm believer in second chances. We’ve all messed up at some point; made mistakes—deserved a second chance. While a fierce woman, I also wanted to believe I was soft, forgiving. Though, this way of thinking had exploded in my face before. Trying to be both was probably one of the reasons I was half mad—sometimes I wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to stay true to one side. Ah, but those sec
ond chances got me. They were the stuff romance novels were made of—they were filled with hope. And I was a sucker for a man that tried after he messed up. I knew this was all romanticized in my head, that Wren didn’t know me nor I him, but it was always the what-if that got me. What if I gave him a second chance and he turned out to be the love of my life? What a beautiful tale of love that would be. I wanted to say no, that he’d missed his chance, but something told me despite how inconsiderate and rude he’d been, I shouldn’t cancel. Something told me I needed to meet this man. Connect the strong voice to its owner. My mind ran wild with ideas about him. I enjoyed riddles, enigmas. I loved trying to dissect people and figure out what made them tick. Why had he been so unwilling to commit to a time, yet when I canceled he’d called and tried to smooth it over? Was he about the chase? Did he only want women that played hard to get? My biggest fear was he’d show up to dinner and we’d have an awful time, but maybe…just maybe…the experience would spawn an idea that would lead to something bigger. Like a novel…and a paycheck from said novel. Mysterious men were a big hit with the book community. My pride squeezed hard, whispering he had left me hanging all evening and he didn’t deserve a second chance. That thought made me cringe when I took into account how much time I’d spent preparing for meeting him. Not to mention waiting to meet him. But there was always the chance he’d surprise me. This is ultimately what I hoped for. I loved when people surprised me.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? You still want to meet with me even though you hate me?”

  “Yeah, I still want to meet you even though I hate you,” I said dryly, though I wanted to laugh again. He had a good personality when he wanted.

  He snorted out a laugh. “Good. I know it’s late, but can we meet at 10 p.m.?”

  I was already dressed and ready to go and 10 p.m. was two hours away, but I was nervous now that I’d said yes, so I told myself I could go earlier and have a drink or two before he arrived, cool my jets more or less.

  “Yeah. Ten sounds good.” After we hung up, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, a sort of “buyer’s remorse” settling in the pit of my stomach. “This is a terrible idea,” I told my reflection.

  “The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.”

  -Jack London

  Before I left the house, I grabbed my purse and checked for the essentials: lip gloss, ID, debit card, a pack of gum, and my cell phone. Then I threw in my mace. The tiny keychain mace was given to me by my grandmother years ago and I doubted it was still effective, but I felt like taking it was the responsible thing to do. I didn’t know this Wren and needed to err on the side of caution as much as possible. I’d also just binge-watched copious amounts of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and was convinced my life would end after a parking lot abduction. My mind was my own worst enemy. Before getting out of my car to walk inside the bar where we’d agreed to meet, I took a pen from my purse.

  Be chill.

  Definitely needed to remind myself of this because I wasn’t feeling chill at all.

  Taking a seat at the bar, I ordered a Jack and Ginger and an order of fries. Already on edge from the entire When are we meeting? debacle, I wagered drinking on an empty stomach wouldn’t prove beneficial for me. Ten to meet for dinner seemed so late to me.

  It was late, wasn’t it?

  Or was I old?

  When the bartender slid me my drink, I gave him a friendly smile in thanks before taking a long sip.

  “That good, huh?” the man sitting on the barstool beside me asked.

  Cutting my eyes to him, I tilted my head in question. He was watching me, intently, his bloodshot eyes fixed on me, his mouth turned up in a crooked smile. Totally not creepy. NOT. “I’m sorry?”

  “You made a little moan when you took that sip,” he explained.

  I stared at him blankly for a moment. Had I moaned? That was embarrassing. “Oh, yeah. It is,” I mumbled after a moment.

  “Name’s Billy,” he informed me as he held a hand out. I took it, not wanting to be rude.

  “Hannah.”

  “That’s a pretty name. You here alone?”

  I tensed. He was hitting on me.

  “Actually, I’m meeting someone,” I confessed earning an aha expression from him. And just to make sure he’d leave me in peace, I added, “I barely made it out tonight. Four kids…” I sighed in fake exhaustion. “It’s hard to get a sitter.”

  His brows furrowed. “You have four kids?”

  “Yep,” I lied. “One, three, seven, and eleven.”

  “Oh.”

  I almost blew my cover by rolling my eyes, but luckily stopped myself in time. He was stunned. Good. Suddenly my pretty name and face weren’t as appealing. “Well, good for you.”

  Swiveling on his stool, he turned away from me and began speaking with the person sitting next to him. I shook my head and sipped my drink again. Predictable. I hadn’t wanted to speak with him anyway. My trick had worked. And though I knew it would play out like it did, it was still disappointing and took a little more of my faith in the male sex away, which was frightening since I didn’t have much left at this point anyway.

  As I sipped my drink and nibbled at my fries, my paranoia took over, and I could feel the stares of the other bar patrons upon me, judging me, wondering why a woman was sitting at a bar by herself on a Friday night. I was wondering that as well. Three Jack and Gingers later, I was buzzed and more anxious—not the best combo. I’d hoped alcohol would ease my frustrations and reservations, but that plan had failed. Usually I was a happy drinker, alcohol seemed to help melt away my inhibitions, my insecurities, and made me…fun, easy going. But I was still on edge. It was as if the harder I tried to relax the tenser I got. My phone chimed with a text from Wren. So he did know how to use a phone…

  Wren: GPS says I’m twenty minutes away.

  Me: Okay. I’m here, at the bar. Black top. Pink scarf.

  Wren: Are you going to be nice?

  I snorted a laugh earning a concerned look from the bartender. I enjoyed the banter and decided to reply with something snarky.

  Me: No. Now stop texting me. I heard it’s dangerous to text and drive.

  Apparently, it was safe for him to text now, just not earlier when I was asking him for a time.

  Wren: Be nice.

  Placing my phone on the bar, I sat back in my seat and polished off the remainder of my drink. Were we just flirting, or was he being a smartass? Personally, I was being a smartass…but I guess I was flirting, too. The bartender slid me another drink, a look of pity capturing his features. He thought I was being stood up. Or maybe he thought I was a loser, a lonesome woman at a bar drinking her woes away.

  “Thanks,” I told him as I raised my glass in toast.

  Twenty minutes turned into thirty, I got drunker and began reciting in my head the verbal thrashing I planned to give Wren whenever he finally did arrive, if he arrived, when…

  “Nice place you picked here.”

  My head snapped up and…there he was as I lived and breathed. Wren. His expression looked as grisly as I felt; apparently, I wasn’t the only one fearing this night was a huge waste of time. At least we had that in common. I had to chuckle a little with that thought. What in the hell were we doing?

  “What’s so funny?” He snorted as he pulled out the stool next to me and sat down, keeping his body facing me. I was still chuckling as I took a moment to inspect him. He was wearing glasses, Clark Kent style, and his dark hair was stylishly messy atop his head. It had that look of no effort put into it, though I knew it did. His beard was fuller than it had been in his photos on the app, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. Of course he had to be even more handsome than I’d expected.

  “Nothing,” I muttered, shaking my head, peeling my eyes away from him. Of course he didn’t like the place I picked. Why would he? That might have made the whole meeting-for-the-first-time somewhat easier. Rus’s wasn’t th
e finest establishment around, but the staff had always been friendly and it was close to my house so I liked it. The barstools were slightly worn and the floor was littered in broken peanut shells, but I liked low-key. Wren apparently did not. But I wasn’t going to push it with him. “If you don’t like this place we can go somewhere else.”

  “No,” he sighed dramatically. “That’s okay. If we stay here and it’s awful, I can just blame it on you.” He was staring at the bar when I moved my eyes to him. His mouth was half-quirked as he inspected the liquor bottles that lined the back of the bar trying to decide on his drink order. He was being facetious. Pressing my lips together, I fought a grin. I didn’t want to laugh at him—laughter releases tension and lowers anxiety. It’s a highly sophisticated social signaling system that helps people bond. I wasn’t sure I wanted to bond with Wren…I mean, I had just been mentally practicing the witty and cutthroat diatribe I was going to serve him when he arrived. Now I was laughing at him?

  When the handsome bartender jutted his chin to Wren, Wren said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  Turning his attention back to me, he tilted his head, his eyes seemingly scanning my face, reading me. I stared back at him, my whiskey infused buzz stiffening my backbone, refusing to look away. Was he assessing my beauty? Did he think I was beautiful? Was I enough? I told myself I wouldn’t care if he thought so or not, but deep down in that dark place where shallowness pools, I did. I was comfortable with my looks. I’d dare even call myself pretty. Not gorgeous, but pretty. However, I wagered my definition of “pretty” differed greatly from his.

  I waited, focusing my attention on controlling my breathing so as not to look jarred by his intense gaze. Yet I questioned everything. Was he going to say something? Anything?

  Nope.

  Not a word.

  Then…he reached one large hand toward me.

  I reared back slightly, surprised, causing him to hesitate for only the smallest fraction of a second before he continued. Gripping my pink scarf, he gently pulled at it, the fabric brushing softly against my skin as he unraveled it from my neck. It didn’t, for even the slightest moment, cross my mind to stop him, or ask him why he was doing this. I feared speaking, or even moving, would spook him; stop the moment, and I was enthralled with the idea of what would happen next. Once he’d removed it from my neck, he held it in both hands before raising it to his face and inhaling, his eyes closing briefly.