RHETT

          I have to do a double take as I stare down at my phone, still finding it hard to believe what I'm reading.

          There are many things I appreciate about Brie, but one of them is how straight to the point she is; even if she's able to keep a conversation going for hours on end, which is an amazing feat by itself, she doesn't beat around the bush in the situations that matter. The fact that she's plain and simply agreeing to our deal when it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the charity gala throws my world off its axis so easily it feels like it's never been well grounded in the first place.

          I don't know how she does it, especially without trying. Even though I've been praying to every God and saint I can think of for her to say yes, part of me still felt like it was an even bigger shot in the dark than I initially thought, and I'd gotten in way over my head.

          The walls separating us are still stronger than steel, fortified just enough so I can't break through them, not even through some sort of loophole, and she still found a way to surprise me by letting me in through the front door. It's a level of trust I'm not certain I deserve—all evidence points to the exact opposite, in fact—and, by bracing myself for a refusal, I've failed to account for the possibility of that refusal never happening.

          Something between us shifts, or maybe it's just my wishful thinking leading me down a path of heartbreaking delusion.

          I don't want to be the type of arrogant, entitled guy who assumes what a girl is trying to convey without actually verbalizing it, but something changed in the way she was looking at me last night. I don't mean it in a 'wow, she's suddenly glancing at my lips quite often, I wonder what that could possibly mean' kind of way, even though I did catch her staring at my mouth, but the hostility I grew used to seeing splashed all over her face was barely there the longer we spent in that conversation, oblivious to the presence of all those other people in the ballroom.

          Even if I imagined the whole thing, even if she was still shooting daggers at me with her stupidly beautiful eyes, it has to mean something that my mind was fully willing to block that out and fool me into thinking I was the only person in that entire manor that mattered to her.

          She could have been speaking to anyone else she wanted to talk to, drained social battery or not (or was it Nancy Huang, her roommate? I can't remember), and she still stayed to talk to me—not out of politeness, no. She's graceful and she's nice, but she won't pretend to like me or to enjoy sharing a pleasant moment with me if she doesn't want to. It had to have meant something to her too, right? Or am I just trying to convince myself of it?

          My fingers hover above my phone, drawing circles in the air while I struggle to come up with both oxygen to keep my organs functioning—my brain has fully turned into mush while trying to understand what's going on in Brie's head—and with the right words to say. Now more than ever, I need to be careful with what I say and how I say it; I can't run the risk of antagonizing her, as it would ruin everything, including the microscopic level of trust in me she has managed to rebuild.

          This nervousness is so foreign to me, only comparable to the rumbling in my chest immediately preceding an important match. It's not up there with all the anxiety crises I've fallen victim to throughout the years and it's certainly not akin to the negative feelings that nearly put me out of commission during the summer, but it's here, and it's bothersome.

          It's not like this with other girls. When I chase one, I go in with a defined plan and a set goal, and I succeed. Like I told Brie, I don't like losing, and that extends to my hookups, which take more effort than they appear at first glance. It's all about looking a certain way, looking at the girls a certain way, and the body language. All of that comes before the first verbal interaction of the night, even before any kind of physical contact has been made, and I always know what I'm doing. They know what they want, and they want me just for the night. That's a service I'm gladly willing to provide and, in the morning, I'm out of the door before dawn rises.

          With Brie, I'm sitting at my desk, weighing my options like I'm writing the most important essay of my life, and I care about the effect my words will have on her. Not just because I don't want to scare her off before anything happens, not because it will mean I likely won't have anyone to take home to my parents and prove them wrong; it's because I'm terrified of hurting her.

          Look, I'm not heartless. I don't go after girls who are interested in pursuing something longer and more serious than a one night stand, not even casual hookup arrangements or proposals to be their friend with benefits. That always goes sour and people catch feelings; I don't have the availability to be the guy they want me to be and give them what I need. That was the initial issue with Brie all those years ago, and I ruined the whole thing just because I tried to force myself to fit a mold that has never been made for me.

          It's different now.

          There might be my sponsors, career, reputation, and relationship with my family at stake—I want to believe there's a way out of this that doesn't involve playing Brie and stringing her along—not to mention her senior project and her own career, but it's different. Her reputation will also inevitably be affected by what we'll be doing, regardless of the reason or the results, and I don't want to make things more difficult for her than they already are.

          There's a certain sexist stigma attached to women and their love lives while I get a free pass to do whatever I want with whoever I want; they'll see her jump from one relationship to another—with a hockey player, which is yet another can of worms—and I know what people will be saying. There's only so much I can do to help fight it, but there are issues that run deeper than my reach. No one gets to disrespect her around me—or even when I'm not present. She can take care of herself and doesn't need me to do it for her, but we'd be naive to ignore that layer.

          A fake relationship also requires effort, a different kind of effort, and I know we'll both have to thread carefully moving forward if we want to keep things chill and actually fix the broken parts of our existing relationship.

          It's no use trying to push a fake relationship when the real one has been ignored and shattered. I will do the right thing this time.

RHETT
Cool. Meet me for coffee in 15 minutes?

          'Cool'. Jesus fucking Christ, Rhett.

          BRIE
          Are you buying?

RHETT
Affirmative.

          BRIE
          Cool.

          I slide out of my gamer chair—not because I'm a gamer, but it's ergonomic and I can't risk harming my muscles right before the start of the season—to quickly hop in the shower instead of meeting Brie while reeking of last night's heavy drinking. As I gather a fresh change of clothes, glad that early September is still reasonably warm, I catch an accidental glimpse of my reflection in my floor length mirror.

          I'm smiling like a goddamn idiot.

          "Knock it off," I tell Mirror!Rhett. It doesn't erase his taunting grin, like I'm a high school freshman feeling all giddy inside because he has just landed a date with his crush. This being my own reflection only makes me feel more pathetic. "You're acting like an idiot."

          Hell, maybe I am an idiot. So be it, then, if that's what it takes.

          At least I'll be an idiot with a successful career. At least I'll hopefully be an idiot with Brie by my side, even just as a friend.

          Do people's hearts get all jumpy when they're about to meet up with a potential friend for coffee, though?

ᓚᘏᗢ

          The universe has it out for me, I'm sure of it.

          Every shower stall on my floor was occupied and it wasn't like I could forcibly pull guys out just because I'm on a tight schedule, so I had to run all the way towards the ice rink and shower there, which cost me valuable time. Having to sprint from the rink back to the dorm to handle the dirty laundry, grab my personal belongings, and then make my way towards the coffee shop completely undoes the purpose of the shower.

          By the time I get to the café, I'm a sweaty, disheveled mess. I run my fingers through my hair in a feeble attempt to fix it the best that I can, which attracts the attention of a group of sophomore girls standing nearby. In turn, this distracts me from the task at hand and I almost pivot to strike up a quick conversation, but the characteristic spicy scent of chai lattes coming from inside the café is like a slap on the face.

         Brie, you idiot. You're here to meet Brie, not some random sophomore girls.

          I rush inside, being immediately blasted by the fall decorations and offers of pumpkin-spiced beverages even though it's still technically summer (Vermont and its fascination with the fall season, I swear), and make a quick lap around the coffee shop in search of a certain auburn-haired, dark-eyed menace. I don't find her.

          Looking at the time on my phone, with a knot forming in my throat and slowly descending towards my heart, I find some comfort in knowing I'm still on time, so she must be the one running late. She wouldn't chicken out, I'm certain of it; she came back inside this very café immediately after Cole broke up with her, and it won't be little old me scaring her off. Besides, she adores fall; teasing her with pumpkin spice flavored goods is a sure-fire way of convincing her to do anything.

          Since there's nothing else I can do but wait, I get myself an iced chai latte and a cold foam pumpkin spice latte for her, pull up a chair, and wait like the gentleman that I am.

          It turns out she is, in fact, running late, and storms inside even more out of breath than I was when I had to stop outside to regain some composure. Even so, she looks like an angel on earth, like she wasn't drinking her weight in alcohol just a few hours earlier, and I force myself to be decent enough to not start objectifying her right away.

          Only a fool would look at her and say she's not attractive. My main gripe is that she's attractive in all the right ways for me specifically, and I'm trying to keep my cool here. I'm trying to do the right thing, and I can't do the right thing if I immediately let my feral hormones take charge.

          "Brie," I greet, pushing the pumpkin spice latte towards her side of the booth.

          "Massive pain in my ass," she replies, falling onto her chair with a huff. It's no surprise to anyone to see her immediately reach out for the latte and take a large swig from it like she's shotgunning a beer. "All the shower stalls were busy. Sorry I'm late."

          "Funny. The same thing happened to me—"

          "—and you got here on time, yadda, yadda." She rolls her eyes, lined to make them appear bigger and more awake than what I'm sure she's actually feeling. "My hair is longer than yours, you don't have long nails that get stuck on your clothes and pull out strings from the fabric, and you don't wear makeup. Save the condescending speech for some other time."

          I circle the plastic lid on my cup with my index finger, debating whether I should entertain her sour mood or not. If we're about to jump into a relationship with one another—a fake relationship, as the evil gremlin residing in my brain rushes to remind me before I can forget the kind of person that I am and the kind of person that she is—we need to be honest from the start to avoid any miscommunication issues later on. It's not rocket science and even I, someone who runs away from serious things that aren't hockey like it's my job, know that.

          Does it speak volumes or does it not matter at all?

          Brie is the one who claims to know all about romances and love, devouring romantic comedies and romance books like she's starving and headed towards an all you can eat buffet, so I trust her to be the expert here. All those tropes and genre conventions—I know next to nothing about them, and I don't want to pretend that I do. If she wants to, she can handle those aspects of the relationship to ensure we're selling the story.

          My instincts tell me I should speak up. Even if it pisses her off now, it beats pretending not to notice only to have it all blow up on my face later.

          "Do you want to talk about what's upsetting you?" I ask. She glares at me—the usual, really, but it lacks most of the energy I've grown used to. Now, it just seems forced and misdirected, and I'm not looking to be a scapegoat. "Did something happen this morning?"

          "I'm hungover, I have a debilitating addiction to caffeine, and these are the first drops of caffeine I've had in my body in, like, twenty hours."

          She takes another massive sip from her drink and, when she sets the cup aside, there's some cold foam stuck to her cupid's bow. My hand moves faster than my brain can process what's going on and, before either of us can say anything, my thumb is gently wiping away the foam and she's holding her breath.

          Once my hand drops back to where it was, resting limply next to my cup, and she's breathing again, albeit more shallowly than before. Good for her, because I feel like I'm about to start hyperventilating, mortified I might have crossed a line way too soon.

          Then, she clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice comes out slightly higher in pitch than usual.

          "I've also been speaking to my advisor," she continues, "and it turns out I either turn in my senior project the way it was initially suggested—theme, idea, description, all that—or I come up with an entirely new one and risk delaying my graduation for God knows how long, maybe a whole year, because there's no way of accommodating such big changes under such short notice thanks to the other exhibits. She thinks I'd be better off finding a new partner or convincing Cole to come back, which is obviously not an option for me, so . . ." She tugs at the straps of her camera, hung around her neck. "I figured it was easier to go ahead and rip the band-aid off. I told her I'd found a new partner and would be moving forward with the project as is, no changes needed. I never specified who the partner would be, just that it was a guy, so here we are. We're stuck with each other."

          I press my free hand, closed into a fist, against my thigh. My leg is so jittery it's shaking the table. "Wow. That's some morning you've been having."

          "You tell me." The camera quickly becomes a barrier between us when she brings it to her eyes, capturing a snapshot of me as I'm halfway through my own latte. She's thoughtful enough to not turn on the flash and not blind me. "I don't want to overwhelm either of us right now and maybe it's best if we figure things out as we go, but there are some ground rules we should probably discuss right away. Like, acceptable levels of PDA when there are people around, whether or not you want me there at your games—"

          "Matches."

          "—that. You know, the simple stuff. Get it out of the way before fully embracing a fake relationship we have no idea how to navigate."

          I nod. "Sounds reasonable. If we talk, will you tell me what that photo was for?"

          "Oh, don't pretend to go all modest on me." Brie lowers the camera, pressing the buttons to, presumably, check the pictures she has just taken. "You know you're photogenic. You have great genes. I need to check how you look under various types of lighting."

          I quirk an eyebrow, ignoring the way my heart feels about to jump out of my mouth. "Is that your covert way of admitting you're attracted to me?"

          She doesn't even look me in the eye to scowl. "I'm not answering that."

          She doesn't have to. I already know the answer.

          Somehow, I find that it makes this even harder.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

when i said no plot just vibes i really meant it huh. i love monologues i love rhett he's my bebi boi