Free My Kind Of Crazy by Nadene Seiters Page A

was.
    “Oh?” I prompt her as I scrape my chair back and stand.
Anastasia turns around with the crease between her brows still prevalent and
straight lips.
    “You kissed me, and you said Jonah was just too
chicken shit to take advantage of a good thing when he saw it. So, I take it
that wasn’t this side of you, but the side that’s not so nice and called
me a bitch.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and taps one of her feet
nervously on the linoleum floor as I advance.
    “I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, but apparently
it’s sufficient because Anastasia nods once.
    “It’s not that big of a deal. I just didn’t expect two sides
of one person to have such different opinions. I just didn’t want you to
remember that detail and be upset with me later for not sharing it with you.” I
sidestep at the last second to pull open the refrigerator, and then I fill up
my water glass with tea instead. I’m in trouble because that is not at all the
case here. It’s just that side of me that doesn’t remember what happened is a
lot more cautious around women and relationships.
    I’ve avoided them like they’re the damned plague since I
found out at my mental illness because what type of woman would want to date a
man like me?
    “Well, thanks for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. Is
that lasagna almost done?” My stomach clenches and gurgles as I look at the
oven. Anastasia mumbles something about men and their primitive behavior, and
then she checks the timer on the oven display.
    “No, another half an hour and it’ll be done. But I’ll tell
you what you can do in the meantime.” She points out the kitchen window and
doesn’t say a word until I move up beside her to see what she’s pointing at.
The poor dog is sitting outside with her head hanging. It seems May got the
bright idea of rolling in wet ashes.
    I get the hint, pull on my shoes by the front door, and
attempt to tackle a wet, stinky German Shepherd.
    Half an hour later I’m a little more worse for the wear, May
smells a lot better, and I have a massive hunk of lasagna on a plate in front
of me at the kitchen table. What kind of man can resist a woman that can cook? I
can , I remind myself as I pile in the meat, cheese, pasta, and sauce. But
for how long? The darker side of my mind whispers to me. At least this
woman knows of my condition up front.
    Neither one of us speak of the incident for the rest of the
evening. Instead, I busy myself with trying to organize the damage from the
barn so that it will be easy to put all the debris into a dumpster when I get
one. It’s funny; I don’t feel any different about this property now that I know
it’s mine.
    The sun is starting to set when I finally stumble back
inside and lock the door behind me. A corny show is playing on the television
in the living room, but Anastasia is not sitting on the couch. That’s my first
hint that something is wrong, but I ignore my instincts and calmly go to my
bedroom. I furrow my brows when I hear May whining, and cock my head to listen
for the sound.
    Frustrated by the level of noise from the television, I grab
the remote and turn it off. The sound is coming from the kitchen. “Anastasia?
May?” I call out to the both of them, hoping that Anastasia is just clipping
the dog’s toenails or something.
    I get into the kitchen and find the dog lying underneath the
table with severely dilated eyes. Her tail doesn’t thump when I get closer to
her, but she does lift one lip up in warning. A small piece of beef is laying
in front of her with something white crumble over it. I don’t touch the meat,
grab May around the middle and pull her out from under the table. My first
instinct is to look for Anastasia on my own, but it looks as though May has
been out for a while.
    The phone line has been cut, and when I hear beeping in my
ear my skin grows cold all over. I take in several deep breaths as the panic
threatens to override me, and I manage to get to