RHETT

          I think I can safely say I've never had a girl cry on their first date with me, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

          I don't make a habit out of going on dates, in part because I don't have time to dedicate to such frivolous things—hockey keeps me busy enough as is, not just because of practice on and off the ice, and then there's my college work—and also because it involves a level of commitment and long term plans and dreams I'm not particularly interested in.

          It's different with Brie, of course, both thanks to the nature of our . . . arrangement, but also because of our history. Our first date happened years ago, back when we were young and naive and, in my case, didn't know what we had until we lost it, so I should know what to expect.

          I thought I was doing the right thing by bringing her to my home away from my house, a place where Andy and I eat often because the comfort food Mona's team serves us is both homely and nutritionally adequate to our meal plans. I figured it would be best to not take any chances, as I didn't want her to feel out of place in some place filled with rich snobs, but I didn't think about the possibility of this making her erupt into sobs instead.

          I never know what to do when people randomly start crying in front of me, which hasn't helped my reputation in the slightest. It makes me come off as insensitive, like I can't possibly care any less about other people's feelings, but in reality it's purely thanks to awkwardness.

          Most of the time, there's nothing to be done or said about what's making people upset, so all I can do is sit or stand there and let them do their thing instead of turning into yet another factor that intensifies their already heightened emotions. My tendency for inaction and passiveness can be valuable sometimes, especially during situations where I definitely shouldn't get involved (see: arguments that don't concern me, as rare as they are), but, for some reason, it's always the crying that finds a way of haunting me.

          I don't even know why Brie is crying, as she was fine just a minute ago, but I wrapped my arms around her like a protective cocoon purely out of instinct.

          I fear this will be another of those automatic gestures that don't have to mean anything but then end up being a much bigger deal that they need to be, like my keeping my hand on her thigh long after the guys from the team left, but it feels strangely right. Her body molds against mine like it's meant to fit there, just perfectly, her delicate curves pressing against the sharper edges of my torso and hips, and she's so warm.

          "I'm okay," Brie weakly states, convincing a grand total of zero people. Her fingers dig into my waist as she holds on to me for dear life, never hard enough to actually hurt me or even leave a bruise behind, but with just enough pressure to dent my soul. "I'm just strangely emotional today. It's been a long day and nice people make me feel a bit overwhelmed. I mean that in a good way! It's like . . . those people who are nice just because, not with ulterior motives, you know? You're very nice and welcoming. I'm not used to that."

          Mona looks at me, confusion twisting her features. "I thought you said she was a local?"

          "She is," I confirm, "but not everyone in this town is as nice as you are. Brie means it as a compliment."

          "Brie knows what Brie meant," Brie mutters, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes with the heel of her free hand. I'd offer to help, knowing how enthusiastic she is about the state of her makeup, but my arms are frozen in place, locked around her. She even tucks her head right under my chin, snuggling closer, and a violent jolt of electricity courses through me. "It was a compliment. I'm sorry. I ramble when I'm nervous."

          Mona points us back to our table before Brie can drown in a puddle of her own tears, and I rue the moment I let her go. She returns to her chair like a kicked kitten, hands folded over the table like this has turned into an awkward blind date that's going terribly, and can't even look me in the eye. My saliva has dried up in my mouth, hard to swallow now.

          Realistically, I know it's not my fault. She was laughing and smiling up until the moment she suddenly went quiet, retreating into her own mind, and something happened in there—a realization, a jump, something. My brain has me replay everything I said and everything I did, attempting to find something that will justify this big of a reaction or emotional outburst, as it's become a routine process at this point. Things that go sour are usually my fault, anyway.

          Unfortunately, I can't find a damn thing. The search results come out blank. Null. I don't like not having the answers I need, and it feels like defeat. The bitter aftertaste in my tongue nearly triggers my gag reflex, so I hide behind my menu so Brie won't catch me grimacing and think I'm annoyed at her.

          I could never feel that way about her. These negative thoughts and feelings are purely self-directed, though most people would argue things are the way that they are because I'm too self-absorbed to ever feel anything about anyone else.

          "Do I have to order beer?" Brie asks. Her voice is still queasy, weaker and more hesitant than her usual tone, but at least she's not crying anymore.

          The relief that brings me is both over her feeling better—and feeling comfortable enough to cry in front of me, as she's always been one to not want to show any signs of vulnerability, according to her—and over not having to think about what to say to make her feel better and risk failing miserably.

          "Valid question, but no. You can order whatever is on the menu." I risk glancing at her above my menu, even though I've known what I'm getting since before we walked through the front door. Her eyes are still puffy and red rimmed, just like her nose, which makes her look like an adorable human version of Rudolph the Reindeer (not that I'd be stupid to the point of making any verbal comments about that), but her makeup remains intact. She hasn't excused herself to check it out, so I'm assuming she knows. "Do you . . . not drink—"

          Her dark eyes widen. "No, no, I drink. I love drinking. I mean, I drink responsibly, of course, and I'm twenty-one. You saw me drink loads of champagne at the fundraiser."

          I chuckle. "Brie, relax. I meant beer. Do you not drink beer?"

          "Oh." Her shoulders sag. "No, not really. The smell makes me nauseous, and I don't understand why people like it so much." She pauses, staring down at the salt shaker she's been fidgeting with, spinning it around with her slender fingers. "Cole tried to get me into it. Every time we went to a campus party, he'd try to push me towards the kegs, and he wanted me to be impressed by how quickly he and his friends went through the biggest ones. He said not liking beer made me boring."

          I have to stifle a groan by digging my fingers into the wooden menu so hard I fear it will shatter in my hands. Everything I've learned about this Cole guy so far has been against my will and, the more I know about him, the more I wonder what Brie ever saw in him. The guy sounds like a grade A asshole—maybe that's what the A stands for—and is completely delusional to let a girl like Brie go.

          It's bad enough that he never appreciated her to begin with, but learning about every instance of him upsetting her and making her doubt herself just to feed his own ego infuriates me endlessly. The breakup might have felt like a loss to her, but she needs to realize it's a victory; she can do so much better than that piece of shit she called a boyfriend.

          I know I'm not the ideal candidate to fill in for him, as made obvious by all the mistakes I made years ago that I'm still trying to atone for, but at least I'm better. We might not be the same people we used to be and those old occurrences might not apply to the present, but humans are supposed to learn, aren't they? She's done more than I deserve by giving me a second chance, an opportunity to prove I can be a better friend than I was a boyfriend years ago, but she's tugging at the little voice in the back of my brain that urges me to at least try and give this relationship a chance.

          She's making me want to try and give this fake relationship a real chance. I don't know what it is about her or what mystical power or hold she has on me, but it's been shockingly easy to wrap myself around her little finger. She does it so effortlessly, even with all the fixing there's left to do, and I don't want to rush anything.

          "You're not boring," I tell her, tentatively brushing my fingers over her knuckles. I stop, look at her, silently asking 'is this okay?', and she nods, so I let my palm slowly cover her fist. She relaxes. "Not liking beer is an indicator of good taste—but don't tell Mona I said that." Brie cracks the ghost of a smile. Though I hate it, I catch myself wishing I could wring Cole's neck between my hands for having ever done this to her—he convinced her she's not enough, she's not adequate. He's so, so wrong, and I'm willing to do everything in my power to prove it to her. "You're incredible, Brooke, and it's not some useless, bench warming loser that's going to change that about you. You've always been too good for him."

          "I guess, but I think . . . I think I just want to feel like I'm good enough for myself sometimes, you know?" She shakes her head, like she thinks it's a foreign concept for me or like she's not making any sense, but she's wrong. I know the feeling all too well. "I know I can come off as quite . . . standoffish sometimes, and I'm not saying it's a defense mechanism or anything of the sort, but I hate that I have to pretend to be much cooler than I actually am just to try and fit in and still be kept at arm's length. Sometimes I want to be boring and not go to parties every Friday night."

          There's no worse or bigger pressure than the one we place upon ourselves to be perfect, to always be the best version of ourselves, and no one ever tells you that it's okay to not be perfect and that our best sometimes is just about the fact that we're even trying. I had to be that person for myself and, even if Brie wants to pretend she's above appreciating the value of external reassurance, it gets lonely and isolating when you convince yourself you don't need other people.

          I don't want her to go through that. Not when I learned first hand how stealthy that type of destruction can be, creeping up on you when you least expect it, and proceeding to wreck you before you can put a stop to it.

          I gulp, guilt tossing and turning in my stomach like a hurricane. "I'm sorry, Brie. I never . . . I never thought you were going through a rough time. Not to this extent, at least."

          She shrugs. "You would have had to be thinking about me for that to even cross your mind."

          "I haven't ever stopped thinking about you." Her head jerks up. My hand is still holding hers. "Even when I wanted to stop, I couldn't. So I stopped fighting it. If you were going to live rent free in my head, I figured I'd just . . . learn to live with it."

          "Rhett . . ." Her fingers twitch under mine, but she doesn't draw back her hand. "You're making it extremely hard to believe this is supposed to be all for show. You're getting in my head, and I'm not sure I like it. It's dangerous. You're dangerous."

          "Just because some of it is for show, it doesn't mean all of it is. Sometimes it can serve more than just one purpose. It's real to me."

          The look she throws at me in return is the dangerous thing here, so charged with desire I almost collapse right here and now. It's the mindless chatter of the patrons and the clinking of plates and cutlery that reminds me we're in public and I can't simply bend her over the table.

          I wouldn't do that. Unless she asked.

          "Like I said . . ." She straightens herself. It's only then that I realize we've both been leaning forward towards each other, pulled together by an invisible string. "It's dangerous. We wouldn't want to jeopardize our goals, right? Your career, my senior project. Eyes on the prize."

          Right. Eyes on the prize, except she's the one that I want.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          During the drive back to campus, I feel like I'm floating.

          It's not the safest state of mind to find myself in, especially considering I'm sitting behind a wheel and I'm not alone in the car, even though all I've had to drink were several rounds of ginger ale, but it could be worse. I keep both hands on the steering wheel, gripping it so hard it hurts my arm muscles, and Brie even cracks a joke about how I'm following the 9 and 3 guidelines.

          It's not out of habit, I can say that much, but at least she's in a good mood. I'm a good enough driver to feel confident in my ability to stay focused on the road ahead, even without keeping my hands on 9 and 3 all the time, and Lorelai has always been big on road safety, so the rules are drilled into my stubborn brain. However, Brie's mere presence is distracting, even when she's not trying to be, and I give her full control of the aux so it's one less thing I have to worry about.

          Imagine if I was feeling this nervous about having her this close to me and still had to be concerned about the music playing; would it be setting a particular mood in the car? Would she not like my selection of songs? Would she assume I'm trying to say something specific even though I'm just choosing a random playlist? This is why I love being a passenger seat princess; it takes away so much responsibility and weight away from my shoulders and it's much harder to endanger anyone as long as I don't do anything stupid and rash.

          It's not my M.O., not with my constant anxiety consuming everyone and everything it encounters amidst its rampage, so I purposefully go out of my way to avoid doing something stupid and rash to the best of my ability. Sometimes, they slip out of control by accident, but there are times when I can't afford the luxury of allowing these accidents to happen.

          Accidents on the ice can cost me my varsity career. Accidents during a match can cost me the championship. Accidents around potential sponsors can cost me my reputation and the respect brands and my family have for me, not to mention any chance I have at going pro. Accidents around Brie can cost me her.

          "You're extremely tense," she comments. I have to bite my tongue to prevent the sarcastic comment from coming out, as it's one of those avoidable accidents, but, at the same time, part of me is somewhat relieved she noticed there's something going on. I'm not actively trying to conceal it, but I've somehow managed to reel in the worst emotional responses to my current state of mind. "Are you feeling okay? Your veins look about to pop."

          "It's one of those days," I reply. "Practice was stressful. Some of the guys were getting on my nerves, and I was a bit on edge after our conversation, so I was only half present when I needed to devote my full mental energy to hockey when I'm on the ice. It's frustrating to want to be there, but not being able to overcome the mental blockades."

          "Yeah." Brie sighs. I risk glancing at her from the corner of my eye and notice she, too, is staring straight ahead. Before obnoxious feelings of regret over potentially making her feel guilty after I mentioned our conversation can settle in, I tighten the grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. It beats letting my hands be so terribly shaky all the time. "I know what that's like. It sucks knowing that the only person standing in your way is you and that you have every tool at your disposal to move forward, but you still can't. It's a kind of defeat that hurts a lot more than when there are other people involved."

          I lean the back of my head against the seat in a feeble attempt to ease the ache in my muscles. At least she understands that part, both from personal experience and from innate empathy, but that just reminds me normal guys don't need to worry about that kind of stuff.

          Most people are content with feeling heard and seen, but my brain takes it a thousand steps forward and is always preoccupied with how I'm perceived at a deeper level, in search of a more profound connection with someone who will miraculously understand the complex and confusing ways this stupid mind of mine works. I know all of that about myself, but then I'll pathologically run away from any and every relationship that comes close to demanding or providing that understanding and involvement. I go after what's comfortable and safe, but I don't know what I'm so terrified of.

          Is it because they might not like what they find? Is it because everything I've done with my life and everyone I've gotten involved with is also convinced I'm not good for anything more than a one night stand? Or have I been the one to talk them into believing that, creating a vicious cycle?

          When I park the car in the badly lit parking lot, I'm half expecting Brie to blurt out a goodbye and rush back to her dorm, but we both linger behind. I don't know why I stay and I know even less about her reasons. They must be important enough to make us both stay.

          I unbuckle my seat-belt once I hear hers click, and take a gamble by turning to face her. Just a little bit. Just enough to get a taste of how the little lighting we get—so unflattering orange on most people but perfectly warm on her—illuminates her. The street lamp is right in front of us, so the side of her face directly turned to me is as bright as a beacon, beckoning me to come closer.

          If she wasn't as tone deaf as I know her to be, I'd call her a siren, but there are other ways she can lure me in. Like a fool, I follow her.

          She looks up at me, biting down on her bottom lip, and then her eyes dart towards my mouth. She inches closer almost imperceptibly, but I feel the air shifting between us. All I need to do is to meet her halfway.

          It would be that easy.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

personally i'm a big fan of the whole he falls first and falls harder trope and i think it shows. no regrets in this little brain of mine. no regrets whatsoever