Crazy Girl(4)

“I know so. He was balls deep in a hooker in Vegas three months ago. And today,” he snorted. “He was weeping as he said his vowels.” Turning toward me, he fixed his piercing blue eyes on me and added, “Like I said. It’s all bullshit.”

My eyes widened slightly as he walked away. Did he really just say that to me? Wasn’t the groom his friend? How could he just tell a stranger something not only so secretive, but something that would be so devastating if discovered by the bride?

I stared after him as he disappeared into the crowd, a heavy feeling settling in my gut. I’d hoped for a meaningful conversation—something with depth. Instead I felt like hanky-guy had kicked me in the teeth. There had been a little hope…miniscule at best, but it existed. Hope that I was wrong and just feeling down about love and life; that one day it would all turn around. But here, yet again, was another example of why I wasn’t sure real love existed. I felt ill thinking about Britney marrying this man completely blind to his deceit. I hurt for her. Here she was being spun around the dance floor by the love of her life, and he’d cheated on her.

“You okay?” Courtney asked as she grabbed my arm.

I blinked a few times attempting to collect my thoughts. “Yeah.” I jabbed my thumb in the direction the groomsman went. “Just this guy—”

“The silver fox,” she interrupted. “Yeah, I saw him. I had to force myself to stop staring at him during the wedding. Please tell me he asked for your number.”

I sighed. Courtney, much like her mother, desperately wanted me to find a guy. I couldn’t tell her the only reason he started speaking with me was because he probably felt sorry for the lonely woman staring drunkenly at the dance floor while dribbling champagne down her chin.

“No,” I answered. “We only chatted for a second. Just small talk.” I couldn’t tell Courtney what he’d said. Britney was her cousin, telling her that her new cousin-in-law was an asshole wouldn’t go over well. It would only create a shit storm.

“Well what do you say to one more drink and then we head home? I’m beat.”

“Um, yeah,” I murmured, still a little thrown by the unexpected conversation I’d just had. And a little more heartbroken.

“Hannah,” Courtney nudged me. “What’s up with you? Daydreaming about a book?”

Shaking my head and forcing myself to clear my thoughts, I linked my arm with her. “Granny Mae wore you out, eh?” I laughed, attempting to change the subject as we made our way toward the bar.

“My grandma is a beast. I hope I can move like that at eighty.”

“Me too.”





“If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.”

-Mo Willems





The cursor blinked at me, vehemently, as I stared harder at it, panic tickling its way up my spine. With each flicker, it was as if it was mocking me in a hushed whisper, You suck, you suck, you fucking suck.

Curling my lip, I wanted to argue with it; tell it how wrong it was, but I lacked the true belief and conviction that it was, in fact, wrong. The cursor, once a beloved sight, was now terrifying to me. I’d self-published three novels in my short career, my first two bringing me unexpected success. It was a whirlwind, one I had gotten lost in as I’d let it lift my feet off the ground. Lost in the float, I focused on books and readers and social media and didn’t notice my husband Ross was spending away my income. By the time I realized he’d spent almost everything, and had racked up a substantial amount of debt, it was too late. What made matters worse, my husband, who had ridden the high wave of my good fortune with me, decided he didn’t want to be married anymore. Just like that. I’d sold off everything I could with the exception of a poor real estate investment he had made, a house that was falling apart. Now I was living in it. The entire thing nearly killed me. I was destitute and alone. I’d spent weeks in bed until the mountain of financial trouble I was in threatened to crush and bury me before I got up and started writing again. I had to. It was my only way out. I could do it; write another amazing book and save my ass. I’d done it twice before, right?

Unfortunately, my less than stellar year, with its emotional ups and downs, had made me cynical, slithering its way like a snake in the grass into my work. I’d lost my mojo, my flow. And the cursor knew it better than anyone as it waited impatiently for me to make it dance across the screen along the seam of beautiful words and sentences. We were partners, the cursor and me, the two of us engaged in an intimate tango, and I was failing as the lead.

Cutting my eyes to the bottom right corner of the screen, I chewed at my thumbnail. It was 12:45, which meant I only had fifteen minutes until my lunch break was over. My office mate Maybell would be back at any moment. Shoving the last bite of my protein bar in my mouth, I washed it down with a few gulps of water. I’d sacrificed my lunch break to the writing gods, and apparently, they hadn’t been in a blessing mood. I hadn’t even written one word, and now I’d have to survive the remainder of the day on the protein bar I’d scarfed down.

Closing out my blank document with a heavy sigh, I grabbed a Sharpie from the pen cup on my desk and wrote: Don’t give up on the palm of my hand. After staring at the black lettering for a moment, I capped the Sharpie and decided to get back to work early. Just as I was pulling out the files from my desk drawer, my brother Taz moseyed in and plopped in the chair in front of my desk. His nickname was given to him as a child because he was as wild and hungry as the Tasmanian Devil.