BRIE

          I'm starting to think I might have made a mistake by jumping in headfirst.

          I know that nothing good ever comes from trusting boys, especially if those boys just so happen to be Rhett Price.

          In theory, I know that, which is why silly little me was expecting my brain to have the decency to not ignore the warning signs blaring in my head, yet this is where I've ended up. He's all tinted in shades of light-pink, in spite of my gut feeling insisting my perception of him is distorted by how I want him to be and how I want to see him, and there's not a trace of red.

          This is wrong, and I'm headed off towards dangerous territory. I should be trusting my instincts the way I've chosen to trust him, simply because the alternative option was far too painful to consider, but the optimistic part of me pats me on the back for deciding to move forward. I'm moving forward with my life even after Cole coldly broke my heart and my spirit, even after I almost lost everything I've worked so hard to accomplish, and I moved forward even after Rhett shattered my entire existence years ago.

          It's not this that will ruin me for good. I want to believe it with every fiber of strength remaining in me, which means I have to come up with a way to make my pride and self-respect overpower my fear of betrayal. It's only now that I've properly started to process the breakup and everything it entails, but there's been plenty of crying involved, more than I initially expected. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as the aftermath of the Dark Days—nothing beats your first big heartbreak—but it's both embarrassing and surprising how many tears and sobs have come out of my body since then.

          Even once we're well into September and I should have my shit together (newsflash: I don't; far from it, if we're being honest), I'm grieving the loss of a relationship with someone who, in retrospect, probably never cared that much about me to begin with. The memories and the illusions remain, though, carved into the walls of my brain like they've been branded by burning iron a la Angels & Demons. It's that version of Cole that hurts to have lost—both physically and figuratively.

          When I'm not busy finding ways to somehow blame Rhett for everything that has gone wrong in my life since senior year started, I'm a less smart iteration of Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde. I binge watch romantic comedies in my free time while I still can, curled up in bed with a large tub of ice cream for a companion, and call the men on my laptop screen liars. It's what all of them are—big evil liars I can't help but love.

          At least the men I'm watching on a screen are fictional and can't hurt or lie to me, but they also can't give me a love story that changes my life, sweeps me off my feet, and turns my world upside down. I have to live vicariously through the female protagonists, longing for the day all those storylines will happen to me, even the roughest parts; after all, not everything in life is smooth sailing. Love hurts sometimes, but it's always worth it in the end.

          Isn't it? Or is that exclusive to fictional romance? Have I been chasing comets this entire time, deluding myself into believing my time will come?

          Believing in love has been my main personality trait ever since I can remember. Romantic love, familiar love, platonic love, self-love—I love all its dimensions, and I don't need to always be in a relationship to feel like that part of my identity has been validated. The internal validation will always matter a million times more than me, but the perceived external invalidation and the judgmental looks people throw at me, along with the naivety accusations, are blows to my self-esteem I can't always shake off.

          Enter Rhett Price, who's willing to fake an entire relationship with me and who admits straight to my face one of his goals is to make up for what he put me through. Placing the crystals of my heart on rough hands that only know how to hold a hockey stick has been a risky gamble I never would have taken if I wasn't desperate, but maybe I really am naive by refusing to leave him hanging when we're both going through something similar. He would have done the same thing for me and is doing it right now, so maybe there is some hope left for the male population out there.

          (Women and non-binary people, I've always believed in your potential, and fully trust you to rule the world.)

          We have rules now, teaching us how we're expected, supposed, and allowed to interact with each other, which feels unnatural. Probably because all of it is fake and normal people don't need to have these things written down; they talk about their expectations and boundaries, and they respect each other.

          It's astounding to me how we've gone from friends to something, from something to heartbreaker and heartbroken, then to strangers, to annoyances, then back to strangers with two decades of shared memories who barely spoke, and now this is all that's left to us. Fake boyfriend and girlfriend trying to save their futures and reputations while trying to rekindle whatever remnants of a friendship the universe hasn't wiped out.

          If I fall in love with him all over again, if I get hurt over misplaced feelings and expectations, it won't be his fault. Not exclusively. I'm a willing participant in our destruction.

          The PDA should be kept to the bare minimum when there are no people around, just enough for the relationship to appear believable. If we're not alone, hand-holding is fine, wrapping arms around each other is encouraged, and he's allowed to tuck his hand inside the back pocket of my jeans. He has yet to do this, and maybe it's for the best.

          We haven't gotten to the kissing part yet, at least not on the lips, but it follows the same guidelines as the PDA rule. The less I think about kissing Rhett, the better, but sometimes I can't help myself. It's utterly humiliating.

          If people ask, we're supposed to say we're working on working things out, taking it slow, taking it day by day. It's why the PDA is minimal, as we get reacquainted with each other's more frequent presence in our lives, and I don't think either of us is that great at pretending to make a honeymoon phase appear realistic right now.

          He'd like me to attend his matches and wear his letterman jacket. He calls it a good luck charm, which I'm somewhat skeptical about, but I still agree to it. The jacket is, as expected, too big on me, but Bennington's colors—bronze, silver, and green, along with the occasional black and gray—look good on me, and it makes me feel somewhat comforted by knowing Rhett is more than happy to be seen with me. He even walks next to me instead of several steps ahead as Cole used to, like he was always in a rush to get rid of me.

          It's new, but it's a good kind of novelty.

          I'm not sure what to think of it, but fear rumbles in the back of my brain whenever I remember this is all fake. Maybe Rhett does enjoy my company, but not in that way.

          That's cool. Really, it is. I don't have the emotional availability to be open to an alternate way of being wanted by Rhett, not right now, and I want to keep that door closed for the time being. I'm still covered in wounds that have barely healed thanks to Cole, who's been poking at them purely out of enjoyment, and I don't know how to be around someone who appears to genuinely like having me around.

          No one prepares you for the day you'll be broken up with because your partner felt suffocated by you, because you were doing too much, being way too much. I was shattered when I heard those words come out of his mouth, something I never thought would happen, and it nearly destroyed everything I've worked so goddamn hard to build and rebuild countless times.

          Even with all these doubts, fears, and insecurities fogging up my thoughts, I don't think I'm ready to give up just yet. I want to be able to walk with my head held high and hold out hope that the love I want is still out there waiting for me. Love stories come in so many shapes and forms, sometimes breaking through dark clouds when you least expect it, and it's not just because I haven't found it yet that it's not in the cards for me or that it doesn't exist.

          People call it hopeless romanticism. Cole called it being in love with the idea of love. I find that extremely reductive, especially since it comes from people who only care about romantic love and fail to see how it's present in so many other contexts. They don't see the love in checking up on a friend, in preparing a meal for your family, in waking up to a sunny day after it's been raining all week.

          And maybe, just maybe, the greatest love story of all time will be mine. Maybe it will be the greatest love story of all time simply because it will be my own, not anyone else's. I'm tired of apologizing for knowing what I want, for chasing my dreams—my career, my love life, my personal improvement, my financial stability—and maybe choosing myself is that great love story.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          We haven't told our families yet.

          There's no one I've told besides Nancy, who knows the full scope of my deal with Rhett and is still hesitant about it all, and I'm not out here to push him into telling his family when they're one of the main reasons we're doing this. Besides, I can't tell the truth to my family, as it would be even more awkward to explain it's all fake and I'm running the risk of undoing years of healing over something that's not even real.

          That's not the worst part. The worst part is knowing I'll have to admit to my brothers I'm still following Rhett around like a lovesick teenager even after all this time. It's one thing to look in my parents' eyes and find nothing but disappointment staring back at me, knowing it's mostly powered by concern, but my brothers were the ones who saw me at my absolute lowest thanks to Rhett. The Dark Days were brutal, not just for me, and I've been fearing their reaction ever since I agreed to the proposal, as they've never been shy regarding how they feel about Rhett.

          They're not bad guys. Not even in the slightest. They're just protective of me, and, growing up, it was always the three of us against the world. I was a sheltered young girl, but it comforted me knowing I had two older brothers unconditionally on my side, through the good and the bad times.

          So, we decide to wait until he breaks the news to his parents and to Lorelai for me to speak to my own family. It makes sense, as his family's belief in the relationship is critical to make the plan work as it's supposed to, and I just know my big, fat mouth will ruin the whole thing if I'm the one who has to speak up first. I need to be prepared beforehand, holding all the information I need just to be sure of where I stand, and I need to be focused on the task at hand so I don't risk having anything slip out.

          Case in point: we come to this decision sitting on an outdoors bench as the early autumn leaves fall from the trees, covering the gravel and cobblestone pathways in a thin layer of orange and yellow, and his hand is on my thigh. This simple gesture, prompted by the sudden arrival—and subsequent departure, almost as swift—of some of Rhett's teammates, has sent my brain into overdrive, heart rate into disarray, and I'm unable to come up with a single coherent thought.

          I'm the very definition of no thoughts, head empty, all because Rhett's hand is gently squeezing my thigh. We're alone now—as long as we ignore the random people walking past us, most of them not even glancing our way or batting an eye in the rare times that they do—and his hand is still there, like he, too, isn't thinking much. It's for a different reason, though.

          It hurts to remember this is automatic, second nature for him, knowing exactly where to place his hands to get my attention, while I'm the only one of us giving this way too much importance than it requires. While he's trying to talk to me about something that concerns us both, I'm far more preoccupied with finding explanations behind a single gesture. It's nothing to him, but it means more to me than he'll ever know.

         It makes me wonder just how out of touch with reality, with my feelings he is. This is the type of PDA we agreed to and, from an outside perspective, it's nothing to lose sleep over, but we're not normal people sharing a normal relationship. Nothing about these gestures will ever have an innocent, platonic meaning when it comes to us, and I'm silently pleading for him to realize that.

          So, before I can make the mistake of going back to the old Brie, I make the full switch into the new me—a remixed version that learns from her mistakes involving Rhett Price—and force myself to stay grounded in reality. As nice as this feels, as much as the warmth of his hand seeps through the fabric of my jeans and spreads across my nerves like wildfire, I need to keep myself safe.

          For now.

          It's still too early for this, for the supposedly spontaneous caresses when no one is watching. I don't want to be his dirty little secret again, only worth his time whenever he's stressed out and needs to blow off some steam or when he needs a warm body in his bed. Most of the time, those situations overlap, and I'm not ready to partake in either of them. Even the mere thought of knowing I'll have to photograph him in a more intimate context than I ever imagined we'd find ourselves in, let alone together, let alone while pretending to be in a relationship, made me nearly combust. Why did I think actual physical contact wouldn't be an issue?

          Why did I ever think this would be easy as long as we followed simple rules? Everything is well laid out in front of us, a simple how-to list of steps we need to take to achieve our goals, but it turns out our biggest obstacle is ourselves.

          Well, it's me. I'm the obstacle here; it's me and my inability to properly move on from my old feelings for him and my ancient, painful memories of how it all went down.

          At first, being wanted was enough, and I was more than happy to settle for microscopic breadcrumbs because at least it was something—it was something more than he was giving all those other girls, and it made me feel special. It made me feel unique when I hadn't ever been chosen for anything by anyone.

          Then, there came the excuses, the long periods we'd go without talking even though we attended the same high school, frequented the same hangout spots, were friends with the same people. His family was my second family and he taught Dante and Flint the basics of ice hockey. Then, there came the lovebombing. Then, it all imploded, and he gave up. Said it was too hard, said we weren't a good match, said he couldn't ever be what I needed him to be.

          He was right, though. Even though it destroyed me, it would have been even worse if we had forced ourselves to act like we were meant to be. One of us would have to lose, and it could never be him.

          Rhett Price is a champion, after all, and he never loses at anything, including relationships. He's never the one to walk out of one with a broken heart.

          "I'm gonna need you to move your hand," I eventually croak out, in a voice so pathetically shaky it doesn't even sound like my own. His eyes dart down to his hand and I can almost hear the engines in his brain stirring awake as he realizes what I'm talking about, quickly drawing it back like he's the one who caught on fire. He can't even let me have that. "Thanks. Sorry, but it just . . . felt a bit too much. Since we're alone now, and all. I think you got distracted a little bit there."

          His eyes, looking greener than usual against all the warmer tones of September, drill into mine like he's staring right at my brain. "Yeah, I must have. I'm sorry. I wasn't—"

          "—thinking. I get it."

          "I don't think much. I mean, I do think. My brain is fully functional." His knee accidentally brushes against mine when he shifts on the wooden bench, sending jolts of electricity up my nerves, but it's something I can handle. I don't even flinch. "I need to head to practice anyway, so . . ."

          My heart drops. "Oh, okay."

          "Not that I'm not enjoying hanging out with you, of course," he rushes to say, behaving like a proper gentleman who has to force himself to care about not hurting my dumb feelings. Since, you know, he thinks he owes me the closure and a rehabilitation of the image of him that resides in my brain, like I'm a rehabilitation center for the dumb boys who break my heart and expect me to fix them. "It's just that the season is about to start, and I can't take any chances. If Coach Gonzalez catches me being late for practice, I'm fucked." Rhett grimaces and, even with his face all twisted like that, he's still so infuriatingly handsome it makes me want to vomit all over his white hoodie. "You can come watch, if you want? We can even grab something to eat after, and go on a proper date."

          I don't. I think ice hockey is a needlessly violent sport, especially with how prevalent those career-ending injuries appear to be and how often I see players getting their heads smashed against the plexiglass encasing the rink, and I don't want to witness him potentially getting hurt.

          However, it's just practice, right? How bad can it be?

          "Girlfriend duty calls," I reply, heart pounding like the drums in a marching band routine at the thought of a date—even if it's not real, even if it's just for appearances' sake, even if it's just to repair the real part of our broken relationship.

          His face breaks into a wide grin over my words, and it's that easy to send me spiraling down the Rhett Price rabbit hole.

          He smiles and I want to rip off his clothes.

          Lovely. I'm not fucked at all.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

i feel like this is a great time to let y'all know that i, much like our girl brie, don't like ice hockey. i don't like most sports. i like roller derby (duh), tolerate soccer, will read f1 and most team sports books, but writing about them and actually knowing what i'm talking about is something entirely different. i shall do my best, but PLEASE feel free to kindly educate me in the comments if i get anything wrong. thank you ily