The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

I wrestle with my tears and body slam them back into their ducts.

Andrew’s like a perfect résumé—there’s either a ton of embellishing going on or a bunch of unflattering stuff never made it onto the page.

I wish she’d give me a peek inside her brain. It’s where all the action happens, and it must be fascinating in there.

Lina’s luminous as it is, but that smile transforms her face, as though she’s suddenly glowing from the inside. It’s not just breathtaking, it’s breath snatching. I inhale deeply—because I want my fucking air back.

She’s always in control. Detached. Not mean, exactly, just reserved. Face blank, voice even. Everything and everyone has a place. That’s the planner in her, I suppose. But God, I want to disorganize her to within an inch of her life. Disorient her so thoroughly she throws on her clothes inside out afterward. Extra points if I can get her to a state where she’s incapable of telling the difference between a button and a boutonniere.

Bad sex is easy to dismiss; good sex is hard to forget.

Protecting yourself from hurt doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re human.

Love means breaking down your walls for the person who’s willing to scale them.

I’m certain that you’re my safe space. That I can be exactly who I am with you, and you won’t judge me for it. You’ll actually love me for it.