I was surprised when she mentioned the trip, Elizabeth wouldn’t be seen dead without a blow dry, let alone going camping in the wilderness where there’s no power outlets. Maybe she was trying to impress—what’s his face? —there’s been so many almost “husbands” that I’ve lost count.
After her divorce with my dad when I was five, there was a continuous cycle of different men, those I didn’t care to remember because they came in like a breeze and disappeared just as quickly…but I still rememberedhim, and the way he touched me, and it makes skin still crawl at just the thought.
“The kids and I were playing, it was getting dark, and I remember this huge moth flying straight at me,” I’d never been scared of moths before then, but that fucker was larger than my hand. “It got tangled in my hair and I freaked out because I couldn’t get it out. I just kept screaming, crying…and then I fell over a huge log and ended up breaking my arm.”
“Shit.”
Sighing, I lean back into the booth. “And apparently it was my fault that Liam, Greg? Whatever his name was. Apparently, it was my fault he broke things off with Elizabeth.”
“But you were a kid…”
Yeah, a kid. And she didn’t even take me to the ER. It wasn’t until I was at my dad’s three days later and complained to him about how painful and swollen my arm was that I ended up finding out it was broken in two places. All Elizabeth cared about was the fact I ruined my “blowout” because God forbid your daughter falls over, breaks her arm, and all you care about is a stupid fucking blowout.
I think that might’ve been the moment she started hating me, because whatever his name was, he owned his own law firm, which meant he had money to satisfy her needs. But yeah, I had to go and ruin it, like always. How fucked up is that, blaming your kid for your failed relationship?
I feel Greyson’s hand suddenly curling around mine, and when I look down, I could see why. I’d self-consciously started picking at my nail bed again. Peeking at him through my lashes, I could see myself through his eyes making me pout.
I look vulnerable, and I fucking hate that.
“I don’t like frogs.” He admits, breaking the silence.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “What?”
“Frogs,” he shivers, squeezing at my hands. “I hate them. They’re slimy, they’re gross and have you ever heard the noise they make when they think they’re in danger? It’s like the highest squeak I’ve ever heard.”
“Frogs are cute.”
“Dogs are cute, babies are cute. Hell, even old people are cute. But frogs? Fuck no,” he shakes his head, his face twisting in disgust. “I’m sure they were put on earth to torture me.”
“You’re being dramatic.” I laugh.
He smiles, and I’m taken away by it. His smile is so bright that it lights up his whole face, it’s a smile that reaches deep into his soul, reflecting a kind of happiness that seems genuine and pure. I wish I could smile like that, smile like I haven’t a care in the world. I wish I could let go of all the worries and insecurities that always seem to weigh me down and just be in the moment like Greyson seems to be right now.
Sometimes I do catch myself practicing in the mirror, trying to mimic that effortless smile. But it never seems quite right. It feels fake. Like I’m trying too hard. There’s always a hint of hesitation, a shadow of doubt that lingers. Seeing Greyson smile like this, it’s a reminder of what I long for. To be genuinely happy. And maybe one day I will be. But for now, I’ve got no other choice but to continue painting on the fake smile and pretending that everything is okay.
We sit here—hand in hand—just staring at each other, almost like we’re caught in a trance. Is he judging all my insecurities? Is he criticizing the way I look?—Are my eyebrows too thin? My lips not plump enough? Is my nose too crooked?
Stop!I scowl at myself.Stop putting yourself down.
I hate myself sometimes for always thinking negatively. But truthfully, I care too much about what others think of me. I think I’m just insecure. With everything I’ve been through this last year or two with my ex, my confidence was knocked right off me. And I’m slowly gaining it back, piece by piece. But it’s difficult trying to love yourself again when you don’t even know who you are anymore.
We’re knocked out of our staring by Greyson’s phone ringing on the table. Quickly letting go off his hand like it burns me, I grab my mocha from the table, which is now lukewarm, and take small sips.
I could feel my chest tightening, and I hated it. I just want to leave. I want to go home, lock myself in my bedroom and forget about all my insecurities. I could feel Greyson’s eyes on me, and I look up to see his phone now on the table. He’s talking to me, but I can’t register what he is saying. His eyes are searching my face, and I hate it.Stop looking at me!I want to shout that, scream it in his face.
The walls of Leon’s seem to close in on me, the voices of the other people in here seem to blend into a cacophony that drowns out my thoughts. My heart races, pounding so loudly that I’m sure everyone in Riverside could hear it. I try to focus on the way Greyson’s lips move, trying to gauge what he’s saying, but I can’t.
I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.
I can’t breathe…
The 5-4-3-2-1 rule my old therapist told me about repeats in my head like a mantra.
Five things I can see…coffee, blue eyes staring at me with worry, napkins with blood stains on them, a plant, and Greyson’s backpack.
Four things I can touch…Greyson, the table, the mug my mocha came in, and the potted plant.
Three things I can hear…my heart pounding against my chest, the high-pitched sizzling from the coffee machine, and a billion people talking at the same time.
