Crazy Girl(68)

Before I knew it, I was charging into Henry’s office. He jumped when the door swung and hit the wall from me opening it with such force, but quickly settled when he realized it was me. Apparently, he’d anticipated me showing up. Settling back at his desk, he held his pen over the paper he was examining, seemingly not fazed by me. Ever since he’d tattled to Van, he felt brave.

“What can I do for you, Marner?”

Keep your shit together, Wren, I told myself. Don’t give him what he wants. “I just took a look at the schedule.”

“Is that so?” he mumbled still staring at his paperwork, his glasses slid halfway down the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve contracted here for years, and I’ve never been taken off the schedule,” I fumed. “Any reason why that’s changed, Henry?”

Dropping his pen, he shot his eyes in my direction as he tugged off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. “I don’t know that I see you here, Marner,” he started. “Not sure if you…fit.”

I let out a condescending laugh. I couldn’t help it. I was here long before he was, but now I didn’t fit? What the fuck? “And why is it all of a sudden, after years, that I don’t fit, Henry-boy?” His lips dropped into a flat line.

“I think you’re just a little too…salt and vinegar for what we’re trying for here.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I snapped.

“You seem to struggle with authority, bud.”

“No, I struggle with you,” I clarified. “You micromanage and use your position to settle personal scores. Don’t you find that to be a bit of a bitch move? You think everyone doesn’t know you don’t like me? Cool. I’m fine with that. Well guess what, I don’t like you either. But I show up, and I do a good job. I don’t let personal bullshit stop me from working.”

“Listen, Marner, I just see you as more of a security overseas type, or somewhere downrange.”

I bobbed my head a few times. “Got it. Well, I’ll discuss this with Van, but you and I both know this is bullshit.” With that, I barged out of his office. I had three days of work until the first, so I couldn’t leave even though I wanted to. I’d have to suck it up. That’s what real men did.





“Writing is cutting into your own soul and bleeding

out all the things that consume you. If it keeps you

up at night and/or infuriates you, it’ll probably

make a wonderful book.”

-Seth King





He’d been quiet for two days now. No calls and we’d barely texted. I thought we’d moved past these silent breaks. I was trying to play it cool, but I was freaking out a little. Okay, this was me we were talking about. I was freaking out a lot. Our last morning together had been amazing, so why was he going quiet on me now? Had I missed something? Was I not paying attention?

And these were the questions that led to a million other questions. I loathed myself sometimes. I did not want to think like this, playing every word spoken at our last encounter over and over in my head trying to understand.

What’s it like to live inside your head?

Well, it’s part paradise, but mostly hell. However hindering my anxiety and imagination could be, it was the foundation for my writing. Not so great for real life. I could not create without it. It’s not always a bad thing, but most of the time it was. Living inside your head—it’s a place where you could either ruin a moment by overthinking it, overanalyzing it to death; or go the opposite direction and completely romanticize it, making it more than it was. It’s where there’s either too much, or not enough. And what makes it really fun is you’re aware of it, of this thing that is wrong with you, but you can never seem to find that in between where all the normal people seem to function and exist. There was no in between for people like me.

Looking at my palm, I could just make out the faint lettering of my last inspirational reminder. Black Sharpie always lasted through a few hand washes.

Patience is a virtue.

I was trying to patient and not overthink it, but two days? Really?

Opening my cell, I checked it once more.

No messages.

Just text him, Hannah, I told myself. I had this conversation with myself often. But that’s when I’d remind myself that I couldn’t lose for trying.

Hope everything is okay. You’ve been quiet.

I hit send and cringed as I read the message to myself again. Did it sound like I was just trying to be caring, or did I sound insecure? Maybe both. Could our brief romantic encounter be fizzling out already? That ate at me for several reasons. For starters, I liked him. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, and I’d told myself it was all business, but I liked him anyway. I just refused to hope for anything. Secondly, he was my muse. I needed him. After days of nothing but a few-word texts, my optimism was dwindling. And because of that, I hadn’t written all day.

When my phone vibrated, my heart jumped. I thought he’d text me back. But he hadn’t. It was Brigham. He’d sent a photo of him with a beautiful Latino woman probably half his age and text:

My date.

Shaking my head, I closed out of my messages. Why send that to me? He was so weird.

“You okay, hooker?” Kate asked as she approached the counter where I was standing. Hooker was one of her more endearing pet names for me. Her hair was braided down her shoulder and she looked like she was sixteen. I hated her. Not really. But kind of. We were at Deanna’s, and I’d come in the kitchen to refill my wine glass. Deanna was on the phone with Allen, and Courtney was on her way over.