BRIE

          Rhett and I have gone out before, including on dates, so there's no plausible reason for me to be feeling this nervous, but, the second I close the door to my dorm room behind me and find him standing right outside, I forget how to breathe properly. I forget how to process a single thought like a normal person.

          In fact, I forget how to find any other subject for those thoughts that isn't him. There are tiny Rhetts floating around my brain, taunting me about the fact that I, like him, cannot stop thinking about him.

          This is a problem in more ways than one.

          For starters, it makes me look vapid and stupid, the two worst things I can possibly be, as those two adjectives are a fantastic way of ruining someone's reputation and credibility.

          I'm nothing without my obsession with feeling like I belong in every circle I'm inserted in (or force my way into, which is a more accurate way of describing my approach to social situations) and in every context under the sun, so, if there's anything about me that turns me into an outcast, my first instinct is to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

          Even though it's hard to admit, both because of my pride and because it sounds like I'm using him, being with Rhett opens doors that would have remained blocked by a massive security guard if I was trying to get in by myself. Those blockages are much worse than locked doors, as those still give me a small chance of finding a key to break the lock or are a clear hard no, whereas these stay open as a reminder there will always be something standing in my way.

          It's worse when I'm my own saboteur, sure, but that means I can overcome it by improving myself or my way of approaching the situation. External blockages are much harder to break through, especially when it's not up to me to fix them, and they serve as a reminder I've always been at a disadvantage when compared to the great majority of my peers—the rich ones, at least. There are other areas where I've always been privileged, and I can't ignore those, not even with money making the world go round and all.

          "You look incredible," Rhett compliments, the moment I close the door. "You always look beautiful, but you're steps above it right now."

          With Cole and most of the boys before him, every compliment felt backhanded, like there was always something to invalidate whatever good thing I had going on for me, not to mention the times I had to go out of my way to pretty much beg them to say something nice.

          I don't need Golden Retrievers or yes men to make me happy, but it's always been an area in which I've found every boy I've been with has been lacking. There's never been a compliment given just for the sake of it; it has always been transactional or conditional. Sometimes, a girl just needs to be unpromptedly hyped and that will make her day a million times brighter; unfortunately, trying to explain this to boys just made me sound desperate for male approval and validation, which is apparently incredibly frowned upon.

          God forbid I want to feel appreciated in my relationships.

          "Thank you," I reply. "I tried. I hope I'm not too overdressed; I've never been to that pub, so I wasn't sure about the dress code."

          "You succeeded, as far as I'm concerned. If anything, you might get cold with just that jacket to keep you warm, but we won't have to walk outside much." He raises his car keys, his tabby cat keychain dangling from the metal ring. "I have another jacket in the car if you need it."

          "Are you sure? I can go back and grab something else."

          "Nah." He takes a tentative step forward to fix the lapels of my jacket and gently lets his thumb brush against my collarbone. My breath gets hitched in my throat with the shock of his touch. "You'll be okay. I'll bring you back in one piece, lungs and all."

          I wrinkle my nose. "You sound awfully confident about how well this 'date' is supposed to go." I draw the air quotes with my fingers, but he just takes my hand instead. "Hey."

          "Hey. No air quotes needed. It is a date. It might not be our official first date, but it's the first for this version of us. The first of many, I'm hoping."

          "Many fake dates? Or real ones?"

          He eyes me carefully before fully lowering our hands, fingers laced with mine. "Ideally both. If you'll have me."

          I grit my teeth. If he's playing me, he really is good at it.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I'll always be the first to complain about Rhett Price, but even I am able to give him credit where and when it's due, so here I am, admitting he's pulling all the stops.

          Though he does chase girls whenever he's particularly interested and knows he'll have to do more than the bare minimum, more often than not I'll see him stand all aloof in a corner and still have flocks of girls gravitate towards him. It's the hockey player effect, I'm guessing, as it happens to all the straight guys on the team, even the chauvinistic ones a la Jeff Jefferson, but I guess I understand. There's a certain appeal about athletes.

          I thought I was above that. Apparently, I'm not. Nancy would be disappointed.

          I've known Rhett for a long time and I've never seen him open the passenger's side door for a girl before. I've never witnessed him reach out a hand to help her out of the car, either, so, if he's trying to impress me by doing these things, it's an unfortunate time to admit that it's working. Somewhat. I'm not about to throw myself at him in the middle of a crowded street, but it's a good way to make me feel better and more at ease.

          No one is looking at us, so there's no one to witness this behavior, which means all of it must be genuine and following the 'I want to make it right by you' agenda. I'm not complaining, though, and a delicious shiver runs through my spine when he wraps an arm around my shoulder and tugs me close to shield me from a particularly nasty gust of wind.

          I am weak in the knees. I am nothing but an embarrassment to the entire female population.

          "I bet you do this to every girl you go out with," I stupidly comment, once we stop at the entrance to the pub. It's crowded enough that you can tell from the outside, so I'm hoping we have reservations, especially when the loud grumble that comes from my stomach at that exact moment is the least attractive sound I've ever heard in my life.

          "I don't go out with girls," Rhett retorts, pushing the door open and gesturing for me to step inside first, "so no, I don't do this to every girl. Sorry to disappoint you."

          "Do you do this with Andy, then?"

          "Of course. All the time. He's my ride or die. You can go ahead and sit down, if you'd like. It's that table"—he points me towards a table to the right, one of the few unoccupied ones, and there's a reserved sign resting on it—"over there. I need to greet the owners really quickly."

          The iceberg in my stomach resurfaces only to sink again, as my brain immediately jumps to the assumption that he does come here all the time, frequently enough to not need to announce his name to claim a reservation and to be acquainted with the owners. "You know the owners?"

          "I'll explain in a bit."

          He presses a quick kiss to my temple, hand resting on the curve of my waist, and I'm so disoriented by it that I wobble like a baby duck towards our designated table. Oh, I sure as hell am in danger, aren't I?

          I do as I'm asked, obedient as ever, and occupy the chair turned to face the pub in all its extension. It leaves me exposed, especially when I'm sitting by myself as opposed to all the groups and duos scattered around, but at least my hair mostly blends in with the walls—at least the areas that aren't covered in framed memorabilia and pictures of strangers who have eaten here in the past.

          I don't care much about the other patrons and what they're doing, as I'm certain everyone is trying to eat their meals and drink their beers in peace, but I'm also nosy and far too interested in what Rhett is doing while he's gone. It's not that I think he's off talking to some other girl or sticking his tongue down her throat in the back alley, but this isn't the type of restaurant I imagined he'd frequent this often, even if it's with Andy.

          Even after all these years, I'm still finding there are so many things I don't know about Rhett. Just because the version of him I've known until now has certain habits and preferences that I know like the back of my mind, it doesn't mean all of it has carried on to present times, especially with how much evidence there is to show there has been considerable change in him.

          College changes people, for better or for worse, and it has been three years since we first enrolled, but part of me suspects there might be something else at play. I don't know how sensible it is for me to try and figure out what happened, as there must be a good reason behind his avoidance of the subject, and I wouldn't want anyone prying into my secrets the same way I'm considering doing to him.

          Promises of honesty aside, I am curious, especially since I'm more involved in his personal life than I ever thought I'd be following the Dark Days, and it concerns me in some way, no matter how small.

          When Rhett reemerges into the main room, joined by a small woman sporting quite an impressive ginger pixie cut (my stomach lurches with envy, not jealousy; I wish my hair color was as vibrant as hers), I finally remember I need to catch my breath. As he makes his way towards me, ginger lady in tow, I realize this is the first time tonight I'm taking a good look at him. This time, the knot in my stomach has nothing to do with nerves or with someone else's hair color; this time, it's all because of him, because when isn't it all because of Rhett Price?

          I've seen him wearing a suit and I've seen him wearing his hockey uniform, not to mention his casual clothes, but this . . . this feels different. He's not overdressed for a pub by any means, but he's wearing his old Levi's and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and, when he's standing close enough, I can see a faint healed scar on the crook of his arm. It looks years old, so I'm assuming he got it through a sports accident, but I know better than to ask a boy about a sports-related injury. It doesn't help that said boy is a competitive athlete looking to go pro and be drafted in a matter of months.

          Dark hair tousled to look effortlessly messy but in an attractive way, his characteristic half-smirk plastered on his lips, and eyes sparkling like brilliant emeralds, it's like he's been tailor-made for me. That's all very romantic in theory and, if this was a movie, there would be a bubblegum pop song playing in the background while he's walking my way in slow motion, but real life is a bit more complicated than that.

          Real life has strings attached and two decades of memories, some of them borderline traumatic, and physical attraction and occasional thoughtful gestures can't erase them from existence. Realistically, I know this. I don't have to talk my brain into remembering that, as it's been drilled into its walls for years at this point, and I'm not that dumb.

          "Brie, this is Mona," Rhett says, gesturing towards the woman. She appears older up close—younger than my parents, maybe in her mid-thirties—but also friendlier, with a round, kind face and a cheerful smile. "Mona, this is Brie. Mona owns the pub. Brie is my girlfriend. You're not the same, but your hair is similar and we'll probably be coming here quite often, so I figured I'd get introductions out of the way."

          "Rhett thinks all redheads are related," Mona adds, pulling me into an enthusiastic hug after I stand up, not wishing to be rude by not greeting her properly. I'm a hugger, too, so the gesture doesn't catch me by surprise. "It's nice to finally meet you."

          "Finally?" I cautiously ask, glancing up at Rhett. The traitor just shrugs.

          "He's been talking about you for like a month nonstop," Mona continues, stepping back with a small chuckle. She giggles and chuckles a lot, but it doesn't bother me; I can tell it's innate friendliness, not a façade you put on to attract regular patrons. "Brie this, Brie that; if he hadn't brought you here tonight, I would've gone on thinking you were just Andy with a wig, or something."

          "Like I said, Andy and I do come here a lot," Rhett admits. "He wouldn't look good with a red wig, I think. I'm sorry, Brie. I guess I do talk about you quite often."

          I don't want to stand there and blush like a lovesick idiot, but warmth still rises to my cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm air inside the pub. The whole place feels like a hug in the shape of a building, as homely as I expected a local family-owned business to look like, and Mona has been nothing but welcoming. All of that, coupled with the random displays of genuine kindness and appreciation coming from Rhett, is enough to make me tear up, which is a thousand times more humiliating than just blushing.

          I'm not used to this. Ironically, all the romanticism I've attempted to fill my life with has only been helpful when it comes to creating and holding seemingly impossibly high standards and expectations for how I want to be treated in a relationship, which makes me seem overbearing. Too demanding.

          Suffocating.

          I'm not far from my family, even with my brothers living out of state, and I have Nancy and my other friends, but I still feel so alone.

          I've never felt like I belong anywhere, not completely, and I'm the type of person whose presence is tolerated, not necessarily appreciated, and my absence might not be celebrated, but it's not felt, either. I'm the type of person who's just there, most of the time, and I'm way too involved in romantic relationships.

          I've always been too chaotic, lacking a sense of balance, and can't find contentment in my solitude without my brain turning into an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and isolation.

          Here, however, it's different. I haven't been sitting in this pub for long, but I haven't thought about not fitting in a single time. Hell, I was even thinking about how easily I blended in with the walls just a few moments ago.

          Cole was so eager to get rid of me after years of dating and, meanwhile, Rhett and I have been pretending to date for a measly month, following a years-long silent drought and a real relationship that ended terribly, but he's still enthusiastically talking about me to other adults in his life. It's not even to his parents or to Lorelai—it's to a woman who was a stranger to me until a few minutes ago, and she has welcomed me as lovingly as she did to him. He's showing me hidden sides of himself, trusting me to be a part of his personal life. I don't know why this makes me so emotional, but it does, and, before I can stop myself, I turn into a sobbing, blubbering mess.

          "No, honey, don't cry," Mona begs. People are staring, but Rhett has me wrapped in his strong arms, my head pressed against his shoulder, and all the faces blur into one. All of them but his. "We meant it in a good way. I hope you'll love being here as much as Rhett does."

          "It's been an emotional month," Rhett explains, leaning his cheek against the top of my head. I sniffle. "She's okay."

          "I'm okay," I echo.

          And I mean it.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

like i said on tumblr: men will really say the most vile things to you and then have the nerve to accuse you of being overly emotional and too sensitive when you get rightfully upset #boocole