Crazy Girl(10)

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 of 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.”

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.