Crazy Girl

by B. N. Toler

  Brigham eyed me suspiciously as if he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push. “That’s good then.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Just means if you were dating the kind of guy we just talked about, a guy like me,” he pointed to himself, “I wouldn’t want you getting your hopes up.”

  His words slammed into me, knocking the wind right out of me. Moving numbly, I followed behind him to the parking lot, wondering if I’d even be able to make it through the game tonight. He didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already told myself. So then why did I feel so…hurt? Why did hearing him say what I’d already told myself a million times affect me this way? Because I had started to let my guard down. I’d started to believe again.

  “What makes you think I would date this type of man?” I queried, my voice weak.

  He smirked. “Because women are always trying to make a man into what they want. Rarely do they want him for what he really is. Add that to the fact no matter how pretty you are, how funny or smart or any other amazing quality you may have, you can’t keep a man that doesn’t want to be kept and… Well… It’s as simple as that.”

  I kept walking, my heart breaking as I moved. I hadn’t liked hearing that either.

  Somehow, I pushed it all down and made it through the game, though I wasn’t fully engaged. Afterward, while Brigham was occupied with our coach, whose name I now knew was Womboye, I almost managed to sneak out of the gym without having to have a goodbye chat with him, but I wasn’t quite so lucky.

  “Hannah, wait up!” he shouted to me just as I reached the double doors that led outside.

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself before plastering on a smile and spinning around to wait for him.

  He jogged to me with that knee-weakening grin on his face, his gym bag hung on one shoulder, his forehead still glistening with the slightest sheen of sweat. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, which showcased his defined, muscular arms and upper body. Yes, Brigham was a looker. But even as I admired him, I couldn’t help thinking he’s no Wren. “You trying to sneak out without saying goodbye?”

  “No,” I lied, shaking my head. “I just didn’t want to interrupt you and Womboye.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you out to your car.”

  I followed him out, wondering if the way he seemed to move past certain things was intentional, or if maybe he had ADD. There had been several times I’d say something and he’d just skate right by it, as if he’d never even heard me.

  When we got to my car, the passenger side door creaked loudly as I opened it to toss in my bag.

  “This is what you drive?” It was dark out, and I couldn’t make out his expression well in the limited lighting, but by the tone of his voice I could tell he was judging me. “Writing must not be paying well, I see.”

  The dim lighting also meant he couldn’t see me glare at him, but once again, he kept moving, not even giving his shitty statement a second thought. Hopping up on the hood of my car, he shimmied back, making himself comfortable.

  “What are you doing?” My tone indicated every bit of my annoyance. I was tired and wanted to go home. Plus, as hard as I tried, Brigham’s words about men being players was still poking at me. I needed to go home and hide in my room so I could dissect it to death.

  Digging in his bag, he mumbled, “Looking for…ah-ha,” he announced proudly. “There it is.” Pulling out a pint of Jack Daniels, he twisted the top off, the seal cracking indicating it was a new bottle. “Let’s have a little night cap, shall we?”

  I looked around, noting there were only a few cars left in the lot, but I wasn’t sure if they had any kind of security cameras that might see us. “Brigham, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Hannah,” he groaned. “Sit down beside me and take a few sips. Be chill.”

  Inhaling deeply, I looked away as I battled myself. I wanted to go home and hide. That’s what I wanted more than anything. I’d stayed for the game, even though I hadn’t wanted to. If I’d gone home and skipped the game, then he’d know he was right and that the characters were based off of real people. Still, I wasn’t sure hanging out with Brigham in a dark parking lot was the best idea for several reasons. But I also knew I was committed to fighting my own hindrances. If I went home, I’d be up all night, overthinking and worrying about things I really didn’t have any control over. Though I was used to it, and it was my go-to, I didn’t want to be that way anymore.

  Awkwardly, I scooted up on the hood and took the bottle Brigham was holding out for me. I had no worry of finding myself in the same way last time I was drunk in a parking lot. Taking a long swig, I closed my eyes as the burn slid down, pooling warmth in my belly. Brigham took the bottle and leaned back on my windshield, resting one arm behind his head. Over my shoulder, I glanced back at him as he stared up at the sky.

  “Did you bring the whiskey tonight knowing you’d share it with me?”

  “Yep,” he answered simply.

  “Really?”

  He snorted. “Hannah. I saw you at the wedding, your drink dribbling down your face as you leered at the dance floor, and I knew there was no chance I’d ever sleep with you.”

  I closed my eyes, humiliated as I remembered spilling my drink down myself. “Don’t remind me,” I groaned.

  “Then that first night at our first game, one of the first things I told you was I had no desire to sleep with you, remember? We’re friends. And I like to take care of my hot-mess friends.”

  I chuckled. He said the worst things sometimes. “I don’t know if I should feel lucky, or offended.”

  Bringing his eyes to focus on me, the soft yellow lighting from the parking lot cascading over his face just right added a sharpness to the cuts of his face, showcasing his best feature—his eyes. He looked like a model; a man you’d see on some dark and sultry cologne ad. “You remind me of someone.”

  “I do?”

  “Someone that needed me, and I let them down.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t need you, Brigham.”

  “Yeah, you do,” he argued softly before taking a swig then handing me the bottle. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, my eyes narrowed. Was he nuts or something? He couldn’t possibly be drunk already. “Who do I remind you of?”

  Sitting up, he pushed my hand holding the bottle toward me, encouraging me to sip. “That’s a story for another night. Tonight, we drink.”

  We slowed the drinking, took smaller sips, and lay on the hood of my car for hours that night, and Brigham shared a variety of stories with me that had my emotions all over the place. He told me about his travels and adventures. He spoke a lot about women…mostly bragging about the ladies he had conquered. He spoke about his family and his daughter. The thing that was so fascinating about him was how he tallied right and wrong in his life. He prided himself on being a good father and a hard worker, yet he proudly boasted about how he played women. He considered himself a Christian. Some things he told me made me smile, made me envy him. Others, those broke my heart. But I didn’t comment, and I didn’t judge. I realized in a way Brigham was using me. I was his confessional. For some reason, he had chosen me to purge his tales of life upon. He and I were nothing alike. Not really. But I let him speak freely because I knew what it was like to carry around so much. I did it every day. And talking to others about it was hard because they didn’t understand. I told myself that maybe, subconsciously, Brigham saw that in me and he felt safe.

  On the drive home, I thought about what he’d said in the coffee shop, not just thought about it—turned it over and over in my head. I battled internally, one foot fully planted in the Brigham-Knows-All Camp, and my other planted with He’s Wrong Town. He didn’t know Wren and couldn’t have concluded so much about the character Alex from what he’d read. I reminded myself Brigham was also a proud playboy, with eccentric tastes when it came to women. This was most likely a projection on his part. But even
with my stellar reasoning skills, I couldn’t deny he’d gotten to me. My thoughts rolled over to the story Duke had shared with me—monkey fisting he’d called it. Duke was a colorful storyteller, and the tale had stuck with me in the back of my mind, burrowing down and getting comfy until I pulled it back out and tried to apply it somewhere.

  I’d researched it and found there were different versions of this method being used. Trappers would put bananas in bottles to capture monkeys. The monkey would reach its thin arm inside and grab the banana but wouldn’t be able to get it out. Instead of letting the banana go, it risked its own life trying to get it out. The monkey was hungry. It liked bananas. It saw this banana and went for it. But that banana wasn’t coming. The monkey could’ve let it go, saved its life, and searched for another banana. There are plenty of bananas out there. But it fought for this one. It, for some reason and against all logic, had to have this banana. The metaphor was so profound. In the end, I wanted love. I wanted to be with someone. And if I was being honest, I wanted Wren. But was Wren really that guy? Could he be that guy? Or was I the monkey refusing to let go of my banana?

  My anxiety flared as I turned it over and over until finally I told myself, “Stop it, Hannah.” Gripping the steering wheel, I inhaled and exhaled slowly, easing the anxiety that was building inside of me. “Just relax and see what happens.”

  The problem was, I never listened to myself.

  Boom

  I couldn’t believe the woman came back again and spent more of her free time helping me pack my stuff. Two days had passed since she’d helped me start packing. Helping me twice in one week was unheard of. She really was crazy. But I was starting to see the better parts of her, not just the parts that scared the hell out of me. Hannah was sitting on the floor, tying up some wooden blinds I’d taken down, her dark hair twisted over her shoulder and the slightest hint of her hot pink thong peeking out the top of her cutoff jean shorts.

  I was labeling boxes with a Sharpie and every time I walked by her, my eyes honed in on them. She’d been quiet since she’d arrived, almost standoffish, but she’d arrived early to help, so I told myself she was just tired. I was also wiped. As if the move wasn’t already draining, I’d been up most of the night trying to finish up my course layout before Henry had an aneurysm. Damn, I couldn’t stand that man. The stress of it all was weighing on me, but at least I had help today. Hannah was a diligent worker and resourceful too. When I ran out of tape she started tearing apart trash bags to tie the blinds up—pretty clever. Kegs and Duke had helped me pack some the night before, but Hannah had ultimately helped the most, and I was grateful to her.

  “I really appreciate all your help, Hannah,” I told her sincerely.

  When she glanced up at me, her expression changed and a soft smile lit across her face, her dark eyes bright, and it hit me—hard. A strange feeling—something that hurt and felt good all at once. Dropping to my knees, I took her wrist and used my teeth to pull the cap off of my Sharpie. Her expression was unsure, but she didn’t try to pull away as I wrote on her palm.

  I am stunning.

  If she needed to remind herself of things, I knew that was one of them. She was beautiful. Her lip was tugged between her teeth when I moved my gaze to hers again, her dark eyes soft. I’d hit something—she was touched. I didn’t even think about what I was doing—I was just pulled to her, I had to do it. I cupped her face in my hand and kissed her.

  She kissed me back, a soft whimper escaping her.

  Pushing me away, her stare remained fixed on mine as she moved to her knees and tugged her shirt over her head. My blood pumped hard, my muscles tightening, watching her long hair fan out, brushing over her smooth shoulders. Leaning in, I pressed my lips to hers again, moving my tongue gently along the seam of her mouth, while reaching around her and unhooking her bra. Pulling away, I watched as she let the lacy garment drift down her arms and fall to the floor between us, revealing her full and heavy breasts. Her head fell back, her eyelids fluttering closed, when I took one of her pert nipples and rolled it gently between my fingers. Hannah was a beautiful woman, but here, her openness, her presence in the moment—she was breathtaking. After a moment, she raised her head and met my gaze again, slipping her delicate hand under my shirt, skating over my abs up to my chest. I’d sold my bedroom set to a guy I’d met on Craigslist since the house I was moving into had one in the master bedroom already. My current room was mostly empty except for a few boxes stacked against the wall. I had no bed to take her to. The floor would have to do. In the next heated moments, we were naked, me on my back, Hannah straddling me, riding me as she began her song. Gripping her hips, I assisted her in her movement, allowing her to relax more and focus on reaching her orgasm. Her breasts bounced as she moved, her lips parted, her head thrown back as that first beautiful curse word slipped from her perfect little mouth.

  I was so turned on I knew I wouldn’t last much longer, but if I slowed down she wouldn’t come. “Are you close, baby?” I gritted, my body tense as I fought my own release.

  “So close,” she rasped smacking her hand against my chest. “Don’t stop, baby. You feel so good.”

  “Fuck,” I grunted as I moved her faster, hoping it would help get her to her orgasm before I fucking exploded. I was so close, hating myself because I was going to finish and she didn’t when it happened. She cried out, her fingers digging into my chest and I was done. Letting out a roar, I held her down, as I throbbed inside of her, both of us panting as we gulped in air. After a moment, she fell to my chest, letting her body settle against mine, neither of us speaking as I lazily ran my fingers through her hair.

  “So, uh…I’ve been down here for about five minutes, guys,” a voice called from downstairs. Hannah practically hit the ceiling she popped up so fast, her eyes wide in panic.

  “Who is that?” she whispered, frantically searching for her clothes like we were teenagers whose parents were about to walk in and catch us.

  “You guys doing some heavy lifting up there, or what?” Kegs yelled up. I laughed. Caught up in the moment, I’d completely forgotten he was coming over to help today. As soon as Hannah had taken her shirt off, I forgot everything.

  “It’s just Kegs,” I chuckled as I sat up and Hannah tossed my shorts at me.

  “He was down there practically the whole time,” she stated more than questioned, squeezing her eyes shut in embarrassment.

  “Actually, I came in at the are you close, baby part, so more toward the end,” Kegs answered her. Holding her shorts, she let her head drop in defeat. Standing in her tank and tiny panties, her skin illuminated by the light leaking in through the window, I couldn’t look away. Even while mad or embarrassed, she blew me away, she was so damn beautiful.

  Sliding on my boxers and shorts before I stood, I told her, “You’re crazy beautiful, crazy girl. You know that?”

  Her gaze flicked to mine, a softness pooled in them. I knew how to bring her back to me.

  “So are you guys going for round two, or what?” Kegs hollered from downstairs. “Should I step outside?”

  “Shut your pie hole, Kegs,” I yelled back. Giving Hannah a chaste kiss, I told her, “I better get down there. Take your time,” then headed downstairs to kick my friend’s ass.

  Hannah met us outside, her features contorted in uncertainty as she scanned what sat in the back of Kegs’s truck. Noticing her perplexed expression, Kegs and I laughed.

  “What is that?” She pointed to the back of Kegs’ truck.

  “That,” Kegs boasted proudly, “is fifty-five pounds of A.N.A.L. with two quart bags of water directional blast wave.”

  “A.N.A.L.?”

  “Ammonium, Nitrate, Aluminum, and Powder,” I explained. “Fun play on words.”

  “Nice.” Hannah eyed our ball of beauty, and her brow creased. “It’s a bomb?”

  “Huh, huh, huh,” I grunted excitedly as I crushed her to my side with one arm. “It’s going to make a big boom.”

  Smirking up at
me, one brow quirked again, she asked, “Thought we were finishing packing and starting to move your stuff out?”

  “We got a little distracted,” Kegs pointed out. “Apparently you know a thing or two about getting distracted. Yuk, yuk, yuk,” he laughed.

  Hannah closed her eyes and burrowed her head into my side with a groan as Kegs and I chuckled. Squeezing her again, I asked, “You ready to go blow something up?”

  Standing straight, she put her hands on her hips and sighed. “I feel like I should be the adult here and remind you we have a ton of stuff to move.”

  “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,” Kegs said dramatically. “There is a big bomb,” he paused for dramatic effect, “in the back of my truck.” He pointed to it.

  Looking to me for backup, I frowned, giving my best puppy dog eyes. “Pwease can we go pway for just a few minutes, muddah?” Kegs and I both started whining like dogs, crowding her and bumping our chests against her.

  Hannah raised her arms to block us and tried to shy away, but once we were both towering over her she laugh-yelled, “Ugh! Okay! Let’s go blow up your bomb, but then it’s time for work.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we replied in unison before sprinting for the truck doors.

  “A good writer is always a people watcher.”

  -Judy Blume

  Four days later, in a tiny little room, I watched Deanna’s face light up as she stared at her baby on the ultrasound screen. Allen was still out of town for work, and she’d asked if I’d like to go with her for her ultrasound. I was also the designated cell phone holder so Allen could be present via FaceTime.

  “Look at our little guy,” Allen cooed.

  Deanna rolled her eyes. “We don’t know it’s a boy, Allen.”

  “I have a feeling,” he replied.

  “It’s too soon to know the sex for sure,” the perky tech chirped in.

  “We don’t want to know the sex.” Deanna held up a hand as if it affirmed her statement. “We want it to be a surprise.”