Crazy Girl(7)

Twisting my mouth, I scowled at her. She had a point; I had no argument for that. Stories came from experiences, and my life was greatly lacking in experiences unless I could somehow curtail digging in my car seats for spare change and eating SpaghettiOs every night for dinner into a romance novel.

Holding my hands out, I asked, “How? How am I supposed to meet anyone? Where do people my age go to meet?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Bars?”

“Your age? You act like you’re eighty.”

“I feel like I’m eighty,” I quickly quipped.

“Well you’ve got a pretty banging body for eighty,” she jested. Tapping my cell phone where it sat on the table, she ordered me, “Put your password in.”

Grudgingly, I uncrossed my arms. Placing my thumb over the ON button, I unlocked the screen. As she took the phone and started thumbing at the screen, I started to panic. Her thumbs were moving a mile a minute. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting you on a dating app,” she answered as if it was no big deal, not even bothering to glance up at me. She was doing what?

“What?” I whisper-hissed. “No, don’t do that.” I flung my hand out, attempting to snatch my phone back from her, but she jerked away from me.

“This is happening,” she informed me, her expression firm.

My stomach knotted with dread. “Aren’t those like hookup sites? I’m way too old for that.”

This time, she darted her gaze up to mine. “Some people use them for that, yes, but not all. There really are good guys out here that are looking for something real. This will be good for you,” she assured me, waving a dismissive hand. “You can chat with anyone you’re interested in from the safety of your home, and then decide if you want to meet up with them or not.”

I glowered and she huffed, her shoulders sagging. “Just try it,” she pleaded.

“I don’t even know how I would talk to anyone,” I admitted. “Hi, I’m Hannah, and I’m divorced and in debt up to my chin. Sounds really sexy.”

She snickered. “How about, I’m Hannah Motherfucking Bircham, best-selling author, hot as fuck, and give wicked head.” I wanted to spit my drink out. But chose to remain calm. Leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table she said, “That might be a little over the top. Maybe take the part about head out. Makes you sound slutty.”

“Courtney,” I scoffed with humor. “It was all over the top.”

“I just want you to see what we see.”

Letting my laughter ebb, I smiled at her. “You’re my friends, of course you think I’m great.”

“And any man, any real man,” she emphasized, “will think that, too. But if you want to find the right man,” and she paused as she leaned back in her seat. “Well, you gotta get out there.” She shrugged, flashing me a sympathetic smile. She knew I wouldn’t like hearing that, but I needed to. “Try the app, Hannah.”

I loved her. I believed that she believed I was as great as she described, but I couldn’t see it myself. And that bothered me. Was I just being one of those women? The ones that felt sorry for themselves and hid from the world? Ugh, I sooooo didn’t want to be that woman. “Fine,” I mumbled before taking the last gulp of my drink and standing.

“You never know what could happen, Hannah. Maybe you won’t meet your forever, but maybe you’ll meet your muse.”

Widening my eyes, I smiled faintly, proud of myself for containing the eye roll I so badly wanted to let out. My muse? All of it felt too…complicated and overwhelming and horrible, but I nodded and smiled politely to ease my friend’s worries. Standing, she hugged me and we walked to the parking lot together. I’d had enough talking for one night.

By the time I started driving home, I was feeling more accepting of the idea. I just needed time alone to let it sink in. Courtney was right. Maybe I wouldn’t meet Mr. Forever, but maybe getting out there, doing something outside of my comfort zone would spark my creativity. At this point, did I really have a choice? Inspiration wasn’t just going to knock on my door and invite itself in. Which meant, as hesitant as I felt about it, I’d have to go out and find it myself.





“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged

by policemen or one living in perfect

freedom who has nothing more to say?”

-Kurt Vonnegut





I was back at it again. The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked. It taunted me. Are you kidding me? I’d squeezed out 124 words in two hours and it was all utter nonsense. I glared at the screen. The cursor showed no mercy. Highlighting it all, I hit backspace and deleted the idle babble I’d typed with a defeated sigh. Closing my laptop, I slid it beside me and checked my phone.

8:55 p.m.

This was the hardest part of my day—those hours of the evening where I was left with only my thoughts. Most nights I’d binge watch something on Netflix until I passed out. Other nights, I’d lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, torturing myself with my failures. And on the really heavy nights, in the late-night hours where I couldn’t calm my restless mind, I’d pray. I wasn’t a religious woman and I rarely went to church, but I did believe in something bigger—something higher. I made sure to give thanks for the things I did have. I knew, even as hopeless as I felt, I was blessed in so many ways. But I also prayed for more.