Page 80 of When The Rain Falls

Aimee

I think both.

Hi,my name is Aimee. I have long, brown hair. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m playful. I have lots of energy. I love to go for runs and eat cookies.

I sit back and read what I’ve just typed. God. I sound like a puppy. Might as well add that I shed and love scratches behind the ear. Honestly, it’s not wrong. And people love puppies. I shrug and hitsubmiton my new profile for the friend-matching app I stumbled upon online. You know, when I was Googlingwhat to do when you’re lonely.

I can’t believe this. Who would have thought that I’d need the powers of the internet to find friends at my age? Why don’t I have more friends? I’m fun. So much fun. I’m amazing at karaoke. I know so many drinking games. And if you are looking for an adventure buddy, I’m your girl. See? So fun.

The bridge of my nose tickles and water creeps into my eyes. Last night I came home and screamed into my pillow for an hour. I screamed because I didn’t know what else to do with the crushing heartbreak that I felt. It didn’t make me feel better. It just made my throat hoarse and raw. And my soul hollow.

I can’t believe it. I did it again. Just threw myself at someone. To be enjoyed, and used, and then thrown away. The worst part, it actually felt like something. Something real. But it was all a lie. And this only highlights exactly how much of an absolute fool I am. Because I clearly don’t know the difference between a fling and forever. And I’m starting to think I never will.

Ugh. I just want someone to waltz into my life and stare at me the way Dom stares at Tate. Someone to whisper sexy things in my ear. Someone to ask me about my day. Someone to cookmeals with. And sit with on a porch. Which reminds me, I also need a porch.

For once, I just want someone to look at me and think,my life is better with her in it.

“Aimee, what is all over the kitchen table?” Greg’s voice disrupts my moment of soul-crushing pity. I look up from my laptop at the counter to see him, whisky glass in hand, staring angrily at the table behind me. I turn my head toward where he’s looking. Oh right. I did kind of leave a mess. The table is littered with white paper lunch bags. I decorated the outside of each bag with ribbon. And then I used Adobe Illustrator to design personalized stickers for each member of Vivian’s soccer team. The stickers are green and white soccer jerseys with each player’s jersey number. They turned out pretty cute, if you ask me.

Apparently, when life hands me Finn Hudson’s complete and utter rejection, I make lemonade. Or at least, I find productive ways to distract myself. And Istilldon’t like lemonade.

This morning, I tried to run the feelings away. But apparently eighteen miles is not enough miles to erase the memory of Finn Hudson’s touch from your skin. Honestly, I don’t think a thousand miles will be enough.

“I’m no longer Aimee,” I declare somberly. Because Aimee perished under the scalding rejection of the hot troll across the street. I want to be someone new. Someone other than someone else’s irresponsible sister or weird, single aunt. I glance up at Greg’s confused expression and try to cover up the depressing sentiment. “Iam Snack Mom,” I tease. Pain seems easiest to mask with humor.

“Snack Mom?” Greg groans. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” Geeeeez. Greg and Alicia really know how to make a girl feel competent and trustworthy. I’m surprised they haven’t triedto hide the scissors from me. You know, put them above the refrigerator where I can’t reach, just like Mom used to do.

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” I scold. I stand from my spot at the counter and place my hands on my hips defiantly. “It’s snacks. And if there’s anything I know in life, it’ssnacks!” I shout angrily. Ialsoknow that Finn doesn’t want me. That every time he touched me he was thinking ofher. When he held my hand and made me feel giddy and light headed, he was thinking abouther. I feel so, so used. So pathetic. So naïve. Everything Alicia has ever thought about me is true. I just rush into things carelessly. First my landlord. Then Jack. And now Finn. Damn it.

Greg walks over to the table and puts his nose in a paper bag to inspect my work. He does the same to another one. A look of disgust falls across his face.

“Wait. Is there a piece of cake in each one of these bags?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer him. “So? Kids love cake.”

“Parents don’t.” Greg raises his head and dresses me down with his eyes.

“I didn’t pack any for the parents, so it doesn’t matter what they think,” I retort. Then worry wrinkles my forehead. “Oh shit. Am I supposed to pack snacks for the parents, too? Like all of them?” I grab the stack of unused paper lunch bags and flip nervously through them. “Oh my God. And what about the little guy with the stripes?” I look at Greg in horror. “You know, the one that gets excited and throws the yellow flaggy thing when the kids make a good play? Does he need snacks, too?”

Greg looks at me like I’m a talking lizard.

Something inside me snaps. And it feels like a bucket of failure and criticism is dumped over my head. Soaking me to the core. And I know the truth of it. This has nothing to do with soccer snacks.

“Oh my God. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I toss the stack of paper bags into the air. They flutter down around me like giant pieces of confetti. “It’s not supposed to be this way. I don’t know how to fix my life.” I pull my hair and begin to walk rapidly in circles.

“Are you spiraling?” Greg asks. “Like, literally spiraling in a circle? Is this what spiraling looks like for an insane person? Because I don’t know your people very well.”

I pause mid-pace. “Greg, stop. I’m serious. I don’t know anything!” I’m shouting frantically. All the hot, sticky turmoil inside me finding a way to finally ooze out. “No matter how hard I try, I do everything wrong. It’s like there’s a rulebook for life and everyone knows it but me! And I’m just walking around in the dark, tripping over love… I mean,snacks.” I feel myself sobbing now as panic grips my chest. I’m acting crazy. I know I’m acting crazy. That’s a good sign, right? You can’t be crazy if you know you’re acting crazy.

“Aimee, what is going on? I’m trying to put Logan to bed.” A tired and frustrated Alicia appears in the kitchen entryway, Logan hiked up on her hip.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Leesh.”

“What are you doing?” She looks at me, the messy table, and the paper bags on the floor.

“She’s spiraling. But literally,” Greg says. “Walking in circles and muttering nonsense.” Having said his part, he takes his glass of whisky and walks back out of the kitchen. To the hell from whence he came. Or at least, to the study.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and try to collect myself.

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