Crazy Girl(32)

“Well…” I fumbled for what to say next, or how to get the hell off the phone without sounding like a dick. “Have a good afternoon.”

She chuckled. Why, I wasn’t sure. “You too, Wren. Bye.”

“Bye.”

After hitting end on the call, I let out a deep breath. All and all, the call had gone well. She was coming to my place. I blinked a few times at that thought. Shit. Was this a good idea?





“A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it.”

-Ernest Hemingway





Yanking my shirt a few times, I attempted to fan air to my body, specifically my armpits that were sweating profusely. God, I was nervous. Glancing at my phone where I had it clipped on my dashboard, I noted the GPS app said I had ten minutes until I arrived at my destination. Was I crazy for doing this?

Yes.

Yes, I was.

I’d agreed to spend the night at Wren’s house.

Why in the hell had I done that?

We barely knew each other, and one out of the two times we had spent time together was awful. If tonight went poorly, then that would be two out of three leaning toward this whole thing being a huge waste of time. Not to mention, really stupid when it came to my safety. I didn’t know why I trusted him, but I did, was my only conclusion.

I’d been shocked, in a good way, when he called and asked me to come down. But even with the excitement of having an opportunity to find out more about this enigma of a man, there was reservation. Not only was he talking about another date, but also seeing a property with him, staying at his house, and going to work with him. Our budding relationship—if that’s even what I could call it—was fragile. Would this much time together be too much too soon? I worried it might be. However, my curiosity outweighed my concerns. Seeing Wren in his own element, in his home and on the job, would no doubt offer me a lot of insight about him, something I desired greatly.

Then there was the big elephant in the room…the stay overnight and the possibilities that came with it. I wasn’t a mutant. Wren was the kind of man no woman could resist, and I was a flesh and bone woman with needs like any other, but I wasn’t easy either. Just “hooking up” wasn’t me. In my younger days, there had been a casual encounter or two, not one-night stands, but short relationships that fizzled when the chemistry ebbed. But that felt like eons ago, and I was a different woman now. I knew something like that would only be a temporary balm and afterward I’d regret it. My body wasn’t some precious, innocent vessel and I wasn’t a saint, but sex was different for me now. I needed it to feel all-consuming, like a mind and body experience. I was a changed kind of lover now—a better one. The insecurities about my body I’d once possessed were gone, I was comfortable in my own skin, and it was liberating. When a woman sheds that kind of negative thinking, it gives her a freedom that makes sex go from good to incredible. I also knew how to ask for what I wanted—what felt good and to never fake my pleasure. Okay, sometimes a woman has to fake…sometimes. But I wasn’t a fan. And I also knew pleasing my lover was just as important as him pleasing me. Openness was key.

I released my lower lip from between my teeth and yanked at my shirt, fanning myself again. Ugh. I was nervous. Why was I thinking about this? It felt like an eternity since the last time I was intimate with a man, and I couldn’t deny that there was an ache there—that itch that had been left unscratched for quite some time. Having such deep ideals about sex while in my early thirties didn’t do me any favors. The world today moved fast, a blur of options. It seemed if a woman wasn’t up for a hookup right out of the gate, there was always another woman, or ten, behind her that would be. I had no judgement for women like this; I was all about female power. If a woman wants it, she should have it. But again, it made it hard for a woman like myself. I wasn’t as free. And these promiscuous women weren’t at all to blame. It was men—a lot of them seemed so one-minded. They weren’t interested in the chase. It was heartbreaking to see sometimes. It seemed the novelty of dating in the past had changed. It used to be two people dated, invested time, and built toward intimacy, now it seemed intimacy came first and then time invested if you were lucky.

My stomach knotted with those thoughts. I wanted a relationship. I wanted someone to give all the good I had in me to, but God, I was terrified. After being burned so badly, now I was in a constant state of feeling like I needed to flee the thing I wanted most. Then I hated myself for even wanting it. I didn’t need a man, obviously. I wanted one. I wanted the comfort of love; companionship. Feminists would probably scoff at me, but it was true. I missed being part of something with someone I cared for and loved. Because who didn’t want to be loved?

As I pulled in Wren’s driveway, I inhaled deeply and tried to release all my worries with my exhale. His house was nice, a little bigger than mine. He had several vehicles in his driveway; his huge truck, which I’d seen, a BMW, and a tricked-out SUV with roof lights. When I parked my car—or should I say my brother’s ancient beater car that he was letting me drive because my financial life was shit—I gripped my steering wheel. Seeing Wren’s house and the automobiles didn’t scream wealth, but it said he was doing well for himself. Leaps and bounds ahead of me. A feeling of inferiority set in. I wasn’t jealous of him, or what it appeared he had; obviously he worked hard and had earned it, I just hated the knowledge I was not on somewhat equal footing. I used to be. But no longer. Life could be funny that way. Moments before I had been thinking about how I was more secure sexually because I was older and wiser. It was in all other aspects of my life I was a fucking wreck.