The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

But I want companionship, the security of knowing someone has my back, the ability to comfort and be comforted. Friendship. Vacations. Maybe even kids one day. Someone solid. Predictable. A person who doesn’t need passion and sparks to build a lasting relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever find that individual—and that makes me extraordinarily sad.

If I’d been a stronger person, I would have stormed out and never looked back. But as I stood there watching him make someone else feel special, my insides squeezing my heart until I thought it would pop out of my chest, I was overwhelmed by profound sadness. Not eat-my-weight-in-chocolate sadness. Or even lie-in-bed-and-stare-at-the-ceiling sadness. No, this was far worse. It was I-can’t-contain-any-of-this-inside-me sadness. So I crumbled. Made accusations as tears ran down my face. Wailed. Dropped to my knees like a melodramatic actress auditioning for a part as an extra in a B movie. It was ugly. And awkward. Painfully awkward. And when I looked up at the faces of my schoolmates, all I saw was pity. A loss of respect I’d never regain. And all because I couldn’t control my emotions. I vowed in that moment that I’d never let anyone or anything reduce me to that embarrassing state again.

“I’m going to be honest here and tell you I fucking hate that Andrew knows your secrets. He doesn’t deserve to.” Okay, then. I guess we’re talking about this whether I want to or not. “So, what? You think you do?” “I’d take better care of them,” he says softly.

“Thing is,” he says, his chin resting on my head, “there’s no single way to be a badass.

There’s room for different kinds of greatness. Even if you cry doing it. Hell, especially if you cry doing it.”

I certainly dodged a dickhead with that one.