Crazy Girl(12)

“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.