The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

In truth, I regularly monitor my daily emotional output the way some people track their daily caloric intake, and since my mother and I just shared a few teary-eyed minutes together, I’m either fresh out of feelings or close to exceeding today’s quota.

We must never let our emotions get the better of us; doing so is either a sign of weakness, one that diminishes our well-earned respect, or a mark of combativeness, which will cause people to say we’re irrational. And as women—women of color, more specifically—we simply can’t afford to be perceived in those terms.

Strength is a state of mind, and I’m willing it into existence, dammit.

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.

“this is the last thing, but it’s an important one. I wish you would see the potential in us. I know it’s hard to see me with new eyes, especially given our history, but there’s something here. I don’t know what it is exactly, but it’s strong enough that I don’t want to shut the door on it. It’s a big ask, I know. And it’s complicated. There are probably a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t even try. And maybe you can’t see yourself being with me. But I want you to know that if there’s any chance for us, I’ll take it.”

“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.”