Page 155 of The Incredible Ordinary

I take a deep breath, clench my jaw, and square my shoulders. I will fucking do my crying in the rain.

Lesson learned, a-ha.

Either I do at least a passable job at faking it or Aiden is still too drunk to notice that the only thing holding me upright is my stubborn pride.

You can handle this. You did it once. You can do it again.

It doesn’t feel like it right now. This wound is fresh. It’s bleeding and new and not the faint scar from more than a decade ago, and what the fuck was I thinking putting myself in this situation again?

“My ass is freezing,” Aiden says. “We should get back inside.”

I manage a nod.

“Yeah,” I say. “Umm. You go. I… I have to make a quick call. Check on the boys.”

He gets up and claps me on the shoulder.

The door falls shut behind him, and I try to breathe, but something is squeezing my throat.

Go back inside.

Be normal.

Hold your head up high.

You can do it.

No amount of pep talking I give myself seems to cut through the numbness. Once again, I tell myself to get up. Go inside. Fake it.

I can’t make myself.

I replay our conversations and try to find something to reassure me. Any hint that I’m not the only one that wants more.

Because I thought we were building something.

Then again, neither of us has said anything out loud. We haven’t talked about a future or called it a relationship. I sometimes thought about bringing it up. Vaguely. But I always dismissed the idea because I was happy. I figured he was all in. I never asked.

This is what assuming gets me. My ass on cold concrete. Numb. Feeling like an idiot. Because while I was in a relationship, he was… doing me a favor, I guess?

Try anything with me. Explore. This will be between you and me.Those were his words. He never made me any promises. I’m the idiot here.

I close my eyes and exhale.

I’m the idiot.

And I need to get my shit together, because whatever happens, this isn’t just about me. I’m not a teenager. I can’t hide away from my problems or burn bridges.

So I square my shoulders and get up. I force down everything I’m feeling, lock it away. I’ll deal with it later.

I will fucking do my fucking crying in the fucking rain.

The cacophony of music and voices and the stuffy air is too much the moment I step through the door. I’m grateful. It allows me to concentrate on the grating feeling of sensory discomfort instead of the emotional turmoil. I give myself another moment and really concentrate on how much none of this is for me right now. The too-loud music. The sweaty bodies. The smell of alcohol. I didn’t mind before, but I hate it now. All of it.

“Hey,” Milán says once I make it back to our table. “You were gone a long time.”

The worst thing is that he looks relieved, and the part of me that wants to matter to him so much stirs, because, oh, he cares!

I might do my crying in the rain, but I will panic in full view of everybody.