Page 1 of The Incredible Ordinary

MILÀN

THREE MONTHS AGO

I’d liketo think I’m not a cliché.

It’s one of those things that I, and a lot of other people, keep lying to themselves about. That we’re original. That our existence is more than just a trite and banal series of actions and events that have been done to death a billion times already. That our ordeals and heartaches, our experiences and reactions are somehow brand new.

They’re not.

If I weren’t a cliché, I wouldn’t be sitting in this crappy airport bar, trying to avoid the inevitable.

The bar itself is a typical, generic establishment. The kind you can find in any airport in any city in the world, with views of the planes taking off in the distance. The only people in here are two weary-looking suits. Neither of them pays any attention to me, too invested in their phones.

Nor does the bartender, for that matter. I study the man to pass the time, waiting until he deems me worthy of his attention. It doesn’t look like it’s going to happen any time soon. He does his job with the nonexistent enthusiasm of somebody who doesn’t give a shit about being good at what he does and is too bored to care.

After what feels like an eternity, he lumbers toward me and pours me another drink. My throat is already numb, so it goes down smoothly. I quickly point to the glass again. Who knows how long it’ll take me to get a refill otherwise.

“Just leave the bottle,” I say.

The bartender squints. “Not that it’s any of my business, but they won’t let you on board if you’re too hammered.” He doesn’t seem to be too worried about the possibility since he pours me another scotch and pushes it in front of me.

“I wish,” I scoff. “No, my friend, this here is just a little liquid courage. See, I’m?—”

But the bartender raises his hand. “I’m gonna stop you right here. I’m not that kind of bartender.” And with that he walks away. He doesn’t leave the bottle.

I watch as the man moves to the other end of the bar and starts wiping it down with a towel. Every now and then, he sends me a suspicious look, as if checking that I’m not about to force him to give me an impromptu therapy session.

I finish my drink and weigh the empty glass in my hands. It’s too bad I’ve spent the last few years marinating my brain and liver in alcohol, so my tolerance levels are through the roof.

“My father’s dead,” I tell the empty glass.

No reaction.

Good.

The tripfrom London to New York is long and turbulent. Bellies drop, drinks slosh, and people unlucky enough to wander the aisle stumble and lurch against seats.

The man sitting next to me is a nervous flier, alternately praying and mumbling curses under his breath, unable to decidewhich direction he should turn for help.God, if you’re there, help me. Satan, I will sell you my soul if you just make it stop.

“It’s rough air,” I tell him. I do my best to sound reassuring instead of annoyed, but I’m not sure I’m pulling it off. “Happens all the time. Air forms waves. Like water in the ocean.”

The man just stares at me for a second before he goes back to his cursing and praying ritual. I leave him alone. I dislike turbulence just as much as the next person, but losing your shit over it will hardly make a difference.

Things finally calm down, and the rest of the flight passes without any notable disruptions.

Once I’m off the plane, I throw my backpack over my shoulder. Most of what I traveled with is still in London. I paid the hotel an obscene amount of money to take care of it for me and send it to New York.

It’ll be a pointless journey, but I needed to do something with it, and Aiden’s address was the first that popped into my head when I was arranging my departure, so whether he likes it or not, my stuff will eventually land on his doorstep.

I rent a car and yawn my way through Pennsylvania and Maryland. It’s been a long thirty-six hours since I last saw a bed, but I’m determined to get this over with, so I’ll drown myself in caffeine before I stop for sleep. The hour of shut-eye I got on the plane before that dude lost his shit next to me is gonna have to tide me over for now.

Seven delightful hours and approximately twelve coffee breaks later, I park in front of Gerard’s house and get out of the car.

The willows are gone.

I stare at the spot where the trees once stood. I’m so sleep deprived and overcaffeinated that my first thought is that I’m imagining it. For whatever reason, the weeping willows always felt permanent. I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things.

I’m being ridiculous. No amount of sleep deprivation can make trees disappear, so I suppose I have to face the facts. The willows are gone. In their place, somebody has planted a row of new trees. Ugly ones. A few of the trees have dried, so the neat row has gaps in it, like missing teeth in a preschooler’s mouth.