Public Relations

Chapter 22: Brett

Watching her fall apart is one of the worst things I've had to witness in my life.

We stay there for over an hour. Mia fluctuates through her highs and lows, her tears and her breathing. I hum her a tune that my mom used to sing to me as a child and rock us gently, the only consolation I can think to provide. Times like these are tough for me. I know there's nothing I can say to make things right, but all I want to do is reach my hand into the threads of the universe and rearrange them to prevent her from enduring this.

But whatever this is eludes me. It feels like a breakdown more than a reaction to a single event. I can't bring myself to believe she's this heartbroken over this guy - especially if we were making out not even a couple days ago.

Maybe it's a terrible conclusion, but it's the one I've arrived at.

She starts to reel in her breathing with big, gasping breaths. I drag my fingers down her arms, elbows to fingernails, then back up, then back down. On and on, a rhythm meant to soothe her. She's warm in my grasp, but exceedingly fragile. I can feel her vibrating like a tiny dog.

It's hard to reconcile this version of her with the towering, powerful Mia I'm used to. It's hard, generally, to know she's hurting like this and I'm the idiot standing on the outskirts of her pain begging to be let in.

When she's ready, she croaks, "I need water."

"To restock your tears," I reply. When she stays in my lap, I whisper, "I'll grab that for you unless you want to do it yourself."

Her hair, clean and perfectly curled, tickles my lips. I brush it down with one hand and resist the urge to kiss her temple.

"Can you get it?"

I remove myself from her slowly, like she might bleed out if I jump up too fast. I find a glass in the cabinet beside the fridge and make her a cup of iced water with as much love as someone can pour into water. When I give it to her, she takes it with two trembling hands.

I sit back down with her on the floor, this time facing her, running my fingers over her crossed legs. My own legs stretch out on either side of her, boxing us in.

"What do you need from me, Mia bella?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

She laughs bitterly. "There's nothing you can do." She keeps her eyes glued to the floor, avoiding my gaze at all costs. "There's nothing anyone should do. I'll get over this and carry on as usual."

I blink, recalibrate. Am I hearing that right? "What? You can't carry on as usual. You're so miserable you just cried for an hour."

Her inhale is sharp like a hiss. "It was a mistake to let you see that," she says.

"Mia," I breathe. "Don't say that."

"It was."

"No, it wasn't. Who taught you that?"

I see this question take root in her mind, something she probably hasn't considered. This tough façade is a learned response - but from whom and why are not my main concerns. Unlearning it is.

When she doesn't respond, I rub my thumbs over her kneecaps and lean closer. "Don't shut me out, Mi. You've done that to enough people. You don't have to do this alone. If it can't be me, give me someone to call so you have a friend here with you."

The wall she'd been building between us starts to dissolve. "It can be you."

I smile, but she's still staring at the floor. I pull her closer to me by the backs of her knees. "So tell me what's going on with your career. You don't know if you like it?"