Crazy Girl(3)

“Queenie,” a tiny lady called from across the way. “We need you for a picture.”

Squeezing my arm, Queenie kissed my cheek. “You keep your head up, hon. Mr. Right is out there, and Mama Queenie’s gonna help you find him.”

I plastered on an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Queenie.” She scurried off, and I silently thanked the Lord for the tiny lady that called Queenie away and interrupted that conversation.

Returning my attention to the dance floor, I found Courtney and her grandmother still dancing and laughing. I had to give it to Granny Mae, her dancing skills were pretty impressive for eighty. Shifting a little, I winced. My normally flip-flop-clad feet were killing me, sore from being jammed into heels I rarely wore, but the free champagne was worth the discomfort, and watching my bestie boogie with her granny was pretty entertaining as well.

When the spunky Granny Mae wiggled her ass a little, I had just taken a sip from my glass and nearly spit it out, but managed to stop myself—mostly. A little dribbled out of my mouth and down my chin before dripping into my cleavage. Damn, I was a mess. After I swallowed, I touched at my mouth to dab away the liquid when a hand appeared in front of me with a handkerchief.

Glancing up, I realized it was the best man—the one that caught me staring at him during the ceremony. What was his name again? The D.J. had announced the names of the wedding party at the beginning of the reception. Why didn’t I pay attention?

“I’ve only blown my nose in it once,” the groomsman said with a smirk, letting me know he was kidding. The way he carried himself, shoulders back, yet somehow still relaxed, I guessed he was late thirties, maybe early forties, though his face didn’t show his age. Time had been kind to him, even with his salt-and-pepper hair. He had a stellar smile, the kind that made you struggle to tear your eyes away.

Taking the folded cloth, I dabbed at my face then my chest before I handed it back to him. “Thanks,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. There’s nothing like a good-looking man coming to your rescue because you’ve dribbled your drink on yourself like a toddler. Nice, Hannah.

“No problem.” Shoving it in his pocket, he bobbed his head once as he stared at the newlyweds on the dance floor. “You enjoy the wedding?”

“Umm…yeah,” I lied, my voice raising an octave. “It was great.” I’d never been good at deception.

His mouth turned into the kind of frown that looked more like he was trying to stop himself from laughing. “Don’t you think it’s silly to spend all this money? I mean…why? To impress your friends and family? They spent forty-large on this shin-dig for one day knowing, statistically speaking, they’re more likely to end up divorced than living happily-ever-after.”

I tilted my head side-to-side, digesting what he’d said. I couldn’t say I didn’t see his point. I, too, had spent a fortune on my wedding day, and look how that ended. I was skeptical, just like him, but I didn’t want to be. So I tried my hand at optimism. “You never know. Maybe they’ll make it.” There. Well done, Hannah. Way to be positive. “And maybe they spent a fortune, but it’s an important day. The wedding was beautiful.”

He cut his eyes to me without fully turning his head, his mouth tugged up on one side as if he didn’t believe me. Okay, so he knew I was forcing myself to see the bright side.

“It was a nice wedding,” I reiterated.

“You said that already.”

“Well, it was. Not just the décor and food. It was a very touching and heart felt ceremony.” Okay, maybe parts of it had made me want to gag, but that wasn’t the real me. That was bitter Hannah. Bitter Hannah was a crotchety old hag that moped around grimacing and mumbling bah humbug. The real Hannah was a romantic at heart. She loved love and pretty words, and wrote tales of beauty. Sadly, she had been MIA for a while and bitter Hannah had taken the lead. But the real Hannah would’ve loved it.

He kept his stare fixed on me, the same you’re-full-of-it look on his face.

“I’m just a little cynical these days.”

He didn’t look away.

“I’m recently divorced,” I explained as I pushed some hair behind my ear, unable to stop myself from filling the silence between us. “Well, not recently. It’s been a while, but…” I fumbled for what to say next. I was babbling. “Like I said…cynical,” I finished with a curt nod.

“As you should be,” he chuckled. “This,” he motioned around with his bottled beer, “is all bullshit.”

“The concept of marriage?” I queried, my buzz taking hold and letting out the sad writer in me. “Or love itself?” Were we about to have a deep conversation? My belly fluttered a little at the thought. I hated small talk. It was the worst. But a conversation with depth…I craved it.

“Both.” He sipped his beer.

Maybe it was that little part of me that hadn’t given up hope yet, or maybe it was the alcohol, but I decided, even as doubtful as I felt, to give optimism one more try. “They look happy,” I observed with a small shrug. “That’s a good sign.”

After taking a long swig of his beer, he lowered it and gazed at the bride and groom again, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Nah. I give it a year, maybe two.”

I frowned deeply as I watched Britney and her husband smile for a photo as they danced. “You really think so?”