Crazy Girl(60)

Love.

It was all over her; radiating from her; leaking out of every pore. And while a wistful smile captured her features, something else pooled in her eyes.

Fear.

She was somehow equally ecstatic and terrified all at once. Love was kind of an asshole that way—we all pined for it in its numerous variations, yet it scared the hell out of us, too.

“You’re amazing, Deanna,” Allen spoke softly, drawing me from my thoughts. “Look at what you’re doing. Look at you, creating that little piece of you and me.”

The ultrasound tech and I met eyes, both of us silently asking the other the same question: Did your heart just melt, too?

At that moment, Deanna’s eyes fixed on the cell screen as her features softened. “I love you,” she told him.

Seeing them and their bond always obliterated my cynical view that real love didn’t exist. Clearly it did. But what did that mean—did it mean maybe it just didn’t exist for me? Deanna and Allen would end up old and gray, covered in grandchildren, and I’d most likely still be sleeping on a mattress on the floor in my crappy house. I rolled my eyes at myself. I was pulling a stool up to the bar in Pity Town. I needed to stop that right away.

After her appointment, Deanna and I went for Mexican because she was craving it. As soon as we were seated, she rushed off to the restroom. While I waited, I opened my phone and went into my photos, smiling at the pictures of Wren I’d taken a few nights before. I’d stood with my arms crossed as I watched Wren fire his .308 rifle into the water. Not necessarily something crazy, but he had the gun set up on the bed at his new house and was firing through the balcony doors into the river.

Inhaling through his nose, he closed his eyes as if pleased. “I love that smell.” The room smelled of gunpowder, a sourish odor that was somehow offensive but oddly enjoyable as well.

When the first shot rang out, he’d grinned, his dimples showing through his coarse beard, and something about it made me feel so happy. He looked like a kid with a toy, amazed by what he was doing. I couldn’t remember the last time something made me smile that way, and I envied him, in a good way.

“You see where it hit?” He’d pointed at the river where ringlets were forming around where the bullet contacted the water. We were a good five hundred feet away, but I could still see them. Firing a gun was a big deal for obvious reasons. You had to know what you were doing and all of the safety measures, but to Wren, it was a passion. He loved his guns. When he’d readied the rifle to fire again, I’d snapped a few photos of him on my cell phone.

He’d been busy with work, so I hadn’t seen him since the last day I helped him move, but he’d texted and we’d spoken twice. We’d made plans to see each other the following day, and I hated myself for it, but I was way more excited to see him than I cared to admit. My cell started vibrating in my hand, an unknown number calling.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my friend,” a deep voice answered. Tilting my head, I paused for a moment. It couldn’t be… “It’s Brigham.”

“How’d you get my number?” I half laughed.

“I know people,” he replied simply. Closing my eyes, I realized it must’ve been our coach that gave it to him. Wasn’t that some kind of privacy violation?

“Nice of her to check with me first.”

“What are you doing?” He went on, ignoring my comment. I noticed he did this often—would simply drop or ignore something without batting a lash.

“Uh…” I stammered. Why was he calling me? I didn’t want to answer that question after his last interrogation. He thought he knew me, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, even when he had hit on a few sore points. “Having lunch with my friend.”

“Well I’m assuming a female friend since you answered the phone.”

“Brigham, why are you calling me?”

“Because we’re friends.”

Our waiter placed two glasses of water on the table, and I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him. “Yeah, but don’t you think asking me for my number might have been more appropriate than getting it from someone else who clearly violated privacy laws giving it to you?”

“Oh, Hannah,” he groaned. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what?”

“Like you’re being,” he explained. “It’s a volleyball league, not a gynecologist’s office. Geez.”

Why did he always have to be so extreme? To show that you exaggerate, I thought, my mouth in a flat line. He did know me…a little.

“I’m not hitting on you, so if your Beamer boyfriend is around or something, tell him he has nothing to worry about from me. I’m simply calling because I like to talk to my friends when I’m bored. It’s not a crime, you know. Lighten up, Hannah.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I gritted.

“Good. I hope that’s true because we’re all lying assholes.”

Rubbing my temple, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. This was weird…right? I mean, we’d chatted a couple of times, and he’d imparted some unwanted advice about men on me, but him pulling strings to get my number…this was odd. And we were certainly not friends. Before I responded, Deanna returned, and I decided I would have to deal with Brigham later.