Page 76
Why didn’t I know how to do that?
“You okay?” Niall asked as he sat beside me.
“I should be asking you that,” I choked.
“Ha, well, it sucks. But I … I want to keep it together while we’re still here with everyone.”
God, that was so Niall. There was no way he wasn’t taking this hard. He probably thought it was all his fault, thinking about everything he could have done differently, what he needs to do next year. His mind was probably buzzing with twice as much panic as mine.
“That makes sense, but … is there anything I can do to, I dunno, cheer you up?” I fiddled with the menu, very conscious of how stupidly out of my element I was.
“You being here is enough.” He sighed and rested his head on my shoulder. “Though it does suck that the only game you’ve been to so far is the one we lost.”
“Maybe I’m bad luck,” I said with a dry laugh, not sure if it was a joke or a fear confessed.
“No way,” he said softly, turning his head to press a kiss on my shoulder. “It’s my fault. I didn’t balance things right.”
“Like balancing your time?” I asked, my throat closing in. Kodi could ask upfront if her social media plans had interrupted the team’s practice, but I couldn’t. I was afraid to hear the answer.
“Yeah. I should’ve done more research, more training. I don’t know.” His voice was far away, like his stress had turned to dissociation to cope. Was it better to leave him like that or should I try to pull him out of it? And if so, how? I was about to have a child with this man, but I didn’t even know how to cheer him up after a bad day.
“Why is the lemonade so colorful?” Ricci asked, squinting at the menu before turning it around to Niall and pointing at it.
“Because it’s purple flavored?” Niall said uncertainly, brows furrowing.
“American lemonade isn’t Sprite,” Gallagher cut in. “It’s lemon juice.”
“That’s …” Niall paused with an uncomfortable laugh. “That’s technically correct. But feels wrong to say.”
“But it’s made by juicing lemons, right?”
“So it’s like lemon water? But with food dye?” Ricci turned the menu back around, his frown turning to concern.
“No, it’s tart. So that’s like grape juice mixed with tart lemon juice,” Fuller explained. “Do y’all not make lemonade stands in Italy?”
“What’s that?”
“You know,” Taylor started. “You get a table set up in your lawn, make some lemonade, and sell it for a dollar or whatever.”
“I think it’s an American thing,” Niall said through a laugh. The guys continued talking about what was universal kid experiences versus what was just American. It was a simple conversation, but it seemed to cheer Niall up.
Anxiety is such a fun, cool thing. The minute I start getting over my "I can’t get into a relationship because I can’t take another person leaving my life too soon," I get a different brand of anxiety. Now I wanted Niall in my life but couldn’t for the life of me think why I should be in his life. I mean, the baby, yeah, but when I thought about right now, the long term, my brain just turned to TV static.
I couldn’t get over the fact that his first game after we became a real couple, he lost. And it’s not like it was any old game, it was the game. Why didn’t I have the foresight to really check on him? I made the assumption that he was stressed and selfishly distracted him with sex. What the fuck was I thinking?
Whispering that I had to go to the bathroom, I slid out of my chair. Once in the stall, I sat on the toilet, put my head in my hands, and dissociated the fuck out of this Red Robin.
After an indiscernible amount of minutes, there was a knock at the front door and a little, “Leah?”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. I could just picture Niall getting up after a few minutes and waiting outside the bathroom until he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Anxiety creating anxiety, a horrendous cycle.
“Leah?” Niall said as he opened the door. I hadn’t even closed the stall door, so when he stepped in, he immediately saw me in a mess of tears, sitting on the toilet fully clothed.
And without any hesitation, Niall moved into the stall and knelt in front of me.
“Cinn, what’s wrong?” he whispered.
