“Shhh. It’s okay, kiddo. You can let it out,” he says in a tone that would match my mom’s if she were here, only softer—he was always the quieter one.
“I think I messed up, like … really, really bad.” I sob, replaying every word of the conversation I had on the balcony with Holly. “Have you ever let someone just push you into a corner? Everything is spinning, and you feel so terrible and lonely, and nothing makes sense, so you do what you think is right, but then you think you might have made the biggest mistake of your life?” I say, at least,I tryto say. Every other word is a muffled sob. Uncle Doug, bless his heart, tries so hard to comfort me with a series ofuh huhsandmmms.
By the time the tears run dry, he’s picked up that this is all about a breakup and we’re eating giant slices of gluten-free coffee cake with his signature hot cocoa. The mouthful of coconut whipped cream should taste like nostalgic heaven. Instead, the lump in my stomach twists even tighter. Still, the coffee cake disappears from my plate the longer we sit at the kitchen table.
I take my time recapping the story, editing all the parts about traveling to a literal fae realm and murdery family members, although I’m positive he’d be obsessed with Queen Plume’s clock collection.
“So, let me get this straight. You went off your medicine for three days, binged every piece of bread in sight, overworked yourself without asking for help, and … left your boyfriend without talking to him.” He lets out a large exhale. To his credit, he doesn’t sound judgy—confused, but not judgy,neverjudgy.
“There was a letter… he wanted to break upwith me.”
“ButHeather—”
“I know, I know! I don’t know… it just it felt like I didn’t have a choice. Everything was just screaming at me like, of course it was all too good to be true, right? How couldheloveme?”
“From what your mom says, he’s crazy about you.”
“Mom has actively planned a wedding for every person I’ve ever dated.” I sigh, taking a large gulp of cocoa, wishing the chocolate and cinnamon could act as a balm for the scratches onmy heart.
“This was your first time meeting his family, and it was a big reunion, right?” His fingers fiddle acrossthe table.
“Something like that.” It’s as close to the truth as we’re going to get.
“Did you feel a lot of pressure to impress them?”
“Well, yeah, if they don’t like me, he’s not going to staywith me.”
“You know the best way to get them to like you?” He leans across the table, his light eyebrows raised high on hisforehead.
“How?” I ask, genuinely curious to hear a scrap of whatever wisdom he’s going to throw at me.
“By beingyourself.”
Suddenly, I’m not a 23-year-old running home after a breakup—I feel 17, overwhelmed with life, my mother, my following, facetiming my favorite uncle only to havehim say…
Just beyourself.
Ugh, leave it to him to make this a wholesome life lesson. The trouble is, I am being myself. The overthinking, the self-doubt, the people pleasing—that’s all classicHeather.
“It makes sense. I mean, in a giant room full of people, why wouldn’t he want someone with more followers—”
That’s not what I meant to say. More important, more beautiful, yes, but the old anxiety slips out before I cancatch it.
“I thought Moth didn’t do the whole internet thing?” He leans back in his seat, eyeing me suspiciously.
I cringe. This week has muddled old anxieties with new ones, creating a cocktail of worries I’m still trying to digest. Moth has never cared about what the public thinks of him, online oroffline.
“Oh my god, he doesn’t.” I groan. “What is wrongwith me?”
“Do you think I’m a people pleaser?” I ask from across the kitchen table.
“You’ve spent most of your life trying to make other people happy.”
“So that’s a yeah?” I frown. Worrying that my favorite uncle is disappointed in this less than desirable personality trait only confirms the sad truth that I’m still obsessed with likes.
“It’s a yeah, kid.”
“Ughhh,” I groan, resting my forehead on the kitchen table. “This is the worst. I’m the worst.”
