Crazy Girl(75)

The question took me aback. Her gaze was firm; purposeful. If she’d meant to sound like an asshole, she’d nailed it. I clenched my teeth. There I was thinking after the previous night we’d agreed to this, agreed to being together without having to say it out loud, and she was clueless to it. We’d never officially spoke the words, but more like we…felt it. I did, anyway. And she did, too. I knew she did. But now she wanted to act oblivious to it because I dared question her about something personal. Shit. I was acting like a woman. What the fuck? My mind rolled quickly through thoughts. I was worried about her. Hell, I was falling for her. Not something that came easy to me, and she was throwing it back in my face.

She was still and tense as she watched me digest her question. Quickly, I shook off my thoughts and moved on. Clearly, she wasn’t wanting a serious relationship with me, or rather she wasn’t ready for one. I knew coming into this the woman was a thousand shades of crazy and had some baggage, but that didn’t give her the right to treat me like shit. Glancing down at my mug, I nodded a few times. Hannah wasn’t mine, and I wasn’t hers; therefore, her empty home was none of my business. If all we were was casually dating, then that’s all our conversation should be. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

When I moved my eyes to look at her, her expression had slightly turned, a worry in her gaze. She’d regretted asking me that question, and as I looked at her, I realized she probably felt every bit of what I felt. But I wasn’t a man that played games. The fact I’d even broached that we were in a relationship was a huge step for me. I didn’t like feelings. But I had feelings for her, and at that moment it didn’t matter to me whether she felt the same as me or not. She’d just shat over mine to punish me for daring to care about why she felt the need to hide in an empty house. I mean for fuck’s sake, it was an argument over simple shit like a sofa, or a chair.

“I’m going to get dressed and head home,” I informed her, bobbing my head once before heading to the kitchen.

“Wren,” she called. “Don’t leave.”

After setting my mug in her kitchen sink, the leaky, dripping faucet pissing me off even more—I mean did her minimalism include not spending money on home repairs—I went to dress. She was waiting for me by the stairs. She knew she’d messed up and she wanted to take it back. I could see it by the pained look in her eyes.

Nope.

Maybe I was being irrational, but I needed to get away from her. The last thing I needed was to continue falling for a woman that couldn’t own her own feelings when I struggled to allow myself to have any. I also didn’t believe she was upset about what she’d said, it was more about my reaction to it. She didn’t want me to be pissed about her snide comment. Too late. “I need my shirt,” I told her. Passing by her, I went upstairs and began tugging my pants on while she slipped out of my shirt and pulled on a robe.

She watched me dress, and I knew, while her body was still, her mind was racing. She wanted to fix it, but how? Then her pride stepped in, hushing her from doing anything that might make her seem weak or vulnerable. Once I was fully dressed, I approached her and she tilted her chin up to meet for a kiss. Yeah, not happening. People didn’t always feel the need to say goodbye to their booty calls. That’s what suckers in relationships did. I turned my head and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. She was leaving the following day for a signing. She’d told me this days ago, and I’d seen the updates on her Facebook page. Maybe there she would pull her head out of her ass. “Have a good trip.”

As I descended her stairs, I thought maybe she’d come after me. Maybe she’d call for me, but she didn’t. I didn’t know why I expected anything else. I’d never met a more stubborn person, and I’d dealt with some real head scratchers. She took the cake.

Driving home, I decided it wasn’t going to work. She was too…much. She wasn’t just crazy, she was fucked up. And I was done.





“It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing.

The only tolerable state is having just written.”

-Robert Hass





The signing had gone well. My current situation in life left me feeling less than most days, but seeing my readers always made my heart happy. It was still surreal to me that anyone would want my signature. The signing and lovely people I met had refueled me somewhat, motivating me to try harder on my manuscript. Even if I was close to losing my muse. I also got to hang with my peers, fellow writers I respected. That was always inspiring. And I tried to feed off of that.

I’d been back two days and hadn’t heard from Wren. My eyes felt heavy from lack of sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I couldn’t stop replaying the look on his face before he left. It haunted me and kept me up at night, staring at my ceiling, hating myself. Pulling him up on Facebook, I scrolled through his page, but he hadn’t posted anything in days. Glancing at my phone, I huffed. I should call him. I wanted to. But what could I say? I’d hurt him and somehow saying sorry didn’t seem like enough.

I missed him.

I missed his stupid beard, and the way he made his coffee in a French press and made it way too strong, but had somehow made me like my coffee that way, too. I missed how he teased me and kissed me, and the way my body fit against his.

Ugh, I missed him.