Page 85 of Trouble from Abroad
mia
What the fuckwas I thinking? Seriously,what?! I scream at myself internally—though, let’s be honest, I’m one minor inconvenience away from doing it out loud—while assaulting the poor, unsuspecting coffee machine in the waiting room.
I jab every button, and foam spews from somewhere it shouldn’t. Perfect. That’ll do. We’re both having breakdowns.
I curse myself under my breath and spiral further down the mentally unstable waterslide I’ve been on since he walked through his psychologist’s door.
Because of course he’s in there talking about his ex.
What else would he be doing? He’s unpacking the trauma of his dead relationship, obviously. Processing the fact that the last woman he loved cheated on him and left him emotionally wrecked with a kid to raise on his own, and a house full of memories.
And me? Ha-ha. I thought it would be cute—cute—to book a hotel room for sex straight after this.
Great job, Mia. Truly inspired. A+ for emotional sensitivity.
He’s inside, unearthing heartbreak, and I’m out here unwedging way-too-revealing lingerie from my ass, trying to pick between matte lipstick for visual impact, or creamy for a messy performance.
I drop in my chair, defeated, emotional support espresso denied. There’s no one besides me, but my insecurities are crowding me to the point where I’m feeling claustrophobic.
What if he’s still thinking about her when he’s with me?
What if I can’t make him forget?
What if I am not enough?
Oh, fuck. What if I don’t matter?
Maybe I’m just the first distraction. The forbidden nanny.
A post-breakup palate cleanser with big boobs and a passport.
And sure, that’s all this is supposed to be. I know it, my vagina knows it, my brain’s been preaching it nonstop. But there’s this one tiny, stupid part of me that keeps dreaming differently.
And it’s killing me.
The receptionist takes pity and shows me how to use the coffee machine. I show my appreciation by knocking back three espressos. Now I’m over-caffeinated and spiraling, digging myself a mental grave with every dumbwhat-ifI can think of. There are so many of them.
Insecurity and regret flood me, slow and steady, until I’m not even sure blood’s running through myveins anymore. Actually, all the blood is gone. I used every drop of it to paint all the terrible scenarios I could come up with.
Basically, I’m doing everything I shouldn’t do right before meeting the sexiest man who’s ever looked at me twice.
This is fine, I tell myself. Totally fine.
No red flags here. Just one emotionally constipated Brit who probably got more insight in fifty minutes than everyone else in this clinic combined.
And no, of course I’m not falling for him. That would be absurd.
Except… Something’s shifting. It’s not just about a list of the sexy things I want to learn anymore.
Not simply about feeling wanted or claiming back some confidence.
I want to be more than a warm body he gets to hold while he remembers what connection feels like.
I want to be the reason he never forgets ever again.
Of course I want to matter.
And that—fuck. That’s the terrifying part.
