Crazy Girl(2)

Leaning forward, he patted my hand where it rested on the table. “Moving there is the smart thing to do, Hannah. You need to put your house on the market. Now.”

I fought the tears burning my eyes and swallowed back the lump in my throat. I’d lost everything. My career was tanked, my money, my marriage, and now I had to lose my home. I had to give it up. I had no choice, and out of everything I had lost, that felt the worst—losing choices. I felt like the twelve-year-old me again, losing everything.

“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”





“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”

-Franz Kafka





The church had an elegance to it with its marble floors and exquisite stained-glass windows. Britney Caston, soon-to-be Britney Lake, donned in her brilliantly white gown, the train draped over the steps elegantly, stared up at her husband Kyle as he spoke his vows, his voice thick with emotion.

“And I promise you, and only you, my heart forever and always.”

I closed my eyes to stop myself from rolling them.

“You are my everything,” he went on, his voice cracking.

Not moving my head, I opened my eyes and darted my gaze around noting several other guests dabbing their eyes with tissues as they quietly sniffled.

Ugh! Why did I agree to come to this? Why is everyone crying?

Sitting next to me, my best friend Courtney lifted her glasses and wiped under her eyes.

Turning my head toward her, I scowled, saying everything with my stare that I couldn’t say out loud because we were in a church at a wedding.

Are you seriously crying?

She scowled back. What? Weddings make me cry. Bite me.

I smirked, returning my focus to the couple at the altar as I let out a quiet exhale. She might’ve been getting a little teary-eyed, something I didn’t understand, but she was still my sassy asshole friend. My sasshole.

As I forced myself to watch them, my stare landed on the best man. He was definitely easy on the eyes, but that’s not why I let my stare linger on him. No, there was something else. Something about him spoke to me. Maybe because he looked as pained as I felt listening to the nuptials. His gaze flicked to mine, almost as if he had sensed someone watching him, and I jerked my eyes away. That was awkward—he’d just caught me staring at him. Looking down at my left hand, I read the reminder I’d written on my palm in small lettering—Don’t be awkward. I wrote little reminders to myself like this often. It had started years before as more of a don’t forget to buy milk or don’t forget to call your insurance company about your policy type of thing, but over time it rolled into inspirational and motivational reminders. Words were my life. How many of them had I typed and written on paper? I was a woman down on her luck and down on herself. I hated that about me. So I wrote words on my skin, words that told me to do better and try harder, absorbing them, making them part of myself. Fisting my hand closed, I shook my head. Focus on the bride and groom, Hannah. I didn’t know the betrothed. Courtney and Britney were cousins and when Court’s husband woke up with a stomach bug that morning, she begged me to go as her plus one so she wouldn’t have to go stag.

Go with me, Hannah? Please.

No.

There will probably be a few single guys there. Maybe you’ll meet someone.

Hell no.

We can dance and pretend we’re having a girl’s night out.

Courtney. The answer is NO.

There’ll be free booze.

What time are you picking me up?

By the time the ceremony ended, I felt like I would combust if I didn’t escape the mass of weepy guests. Two hours later, the reception was in full swing and I was three glasses of champagne deep, my fourth glass in hand as I watched Courtney do the Macarena with her grandmother while her mother asked me every single question I didn’t want to answer.

“Hannah, honey, are you dating anyone? A woman your age has to be aggressive. Time is running out. Don’t you want children?”

On the outside, I maintained an appearance of calm and cool, but on the inside, I was banging my head against a wall. Courtney’s mother Queenie meant well. I knew as forward as her questions were they came from genuine care and concern. Be that as it may, that didn’t stop me from wanting to strangle her. Was she trying to kill my buzz?

“I’m just taking some time,” I explained politely. “I’m not in any rush. You know, playing the field.” The last part was a lie. I wasn’t playing anything. Hell, I couldn’t even find the field. Nor did I want to.

She pursed her lips. “That Ross sure did a number on you, didn’t he?”

I gulped my drink and grabbed another flute from a tray as a waiter passed us, trading him my empty glass. Did she really have to bring up my ex-husband? Really?

“Well,” she went on, “we just had this young man move in a few doors down, and I happen to know for a fact he’s single.”

Don’t wince Hannah, I thought to myself. Focus. Control your facial features. “Really?” I chirped.

“Maybe I’ll give him your number and you two can chat.”

It took all of my strength not to let my thoughts leak out through my expression. The last thing in the entire world I wanted was for Queenie to start playing match maker for me. “Uh—”