BRIE

          My blood turns to ice in my veins.

          Modesty aside, I've been doing a fantastic job when it comes to avoiding Cole around campus. I've been smart to not frequent the places where I know he'll be and, on the rare occasions I need to be there at the same time he is, I keep my distance like the emotionally mature person that I am.

          I don't keep up with our old friends, the few ones that he has (I'm not being mean; it's just an objective fact), as I've never liked them much and can't imagine they'd want to stay in touch. God knows how much bullshit Cole has fed them about me, but I can picture some of it—I'm too clingy, too emotional, too dramatic, I can't take a joke. It doesn't take a genius to come up with these things; he's simply that predictable.

          With all of that in mind, along with the student body's tendency to not like him, at least generally speaking, I can't fathom what he's doing here tonight. I know next to nothing about Paige, but the little I know doesn't make her look like the type of person who would voluntarily spend time with him, not even on an outer circle basis, so they might have friends in common. Either way, he's the last person I expected to run into tonight.

          Though I loathe giving him this much power to ruin my night, he's responsible for multiple meltdowns and hours on end of ugly sobbing in my room, not to mention everything I've had to go through with my senior project because of him and his refusal to face the consequences of his decisions and his actions.

          The mere sight of him is enough to make my insides threaten to combust and explode into flames, consuming this entire manor, and I don't anticipate it getting any better in that regard. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to see him. I don't want to be around him or be in the same room as him. I sure as hell don't want to hear whatever he has to say, now that he has probably heard about my relationship status and who I'm dating.

          I hate that I even care about him having an opinion about it. I hate that I want to rub it in his face how much better I've been feeling now that we don't talk and aren't together, how much better than him I can do—not that it's particularly hard. The bar is set so low it has fused with the ground.

          "Hey, Brie," he greets.

          Even after stepping back, the overwhelming stench of alcohol coating his breath hits me square in the face, so I attempt to widen the distance between us even further. It gives me an excuse to reach out for other snacks, such as the minuscule toasties I found so adorable the minute I saw someone else fill up a paper plate with them.

          I do my best to ignore him and rush to fill my plate with everything I can find that won't leave me bloated, since I'm unfortunately vain enough to let things like that bother me, but it's hard to pretend someone this tall isn't standing right next to me, following my every move. He tries to get my attention like the seagulls from Finding Nemo, possessive as ever, but he lost every right to call me his the second he stabbed me in the back.

          In public.

          Cole had me wrapped around his finger for years, drawing me in with pretty words and poetry readings in the campus library, but I'm smarter now. Even if I don't learn from most of my mistakes when I move from one romantic entanglement to the next, my tolerance for narcissistic and manipulative behavior tends to steadily decrease.

          Even if I'm sometimes a victim of subtler displays and don't always expect it, (frankly, can you ever see a betrayal coming after years of trusting someone like I trusted him?), I can spot the obvious manifestations coming from a mile away. This is why people get trapped in abusive relationships, sometimes from years on end; if it starts off slow and they make you blindly trust them and defend them, if the water is lukewarm at first instead of boiling hot from the start, it's easier for them to make you want to stay. You get comfortable.

          But it's a lie.

          "Aren't you going to talk to me?" he insists, clearly not getting the hint, and I grit my teeth. It's taking every ounce of courage in me to keep my mouth shut, highly aware anything I say will trigger an argument, and I refuse to ruin this party. It's not even just because of Ripley; this is Paige's birthday party, everyone is here to celebrate her, and she doesn't need to be put through drama that doesn't even concern her. "Dude, come on, Brie. You can't ignore me forever. I apologized."

          "Wow, great job. You're capable of doing the bare minimum," I mutter, though it comes out sounding more like a groan. "You apologized. We both know you only apologized just so you could rub it in my face and pretend like you hold the higher moral ground over me. It's easier to feel better about yourself, what you did, and what you put me through if you make me out to be the villain in this story."

          I've never been good at hiding my animosity while talking to people who have wronged me and, most importantly, while talking to people who have squished my soul under the sole of their shoe like it was just an insignificant insect. It was how I spoke to Rhett that afternoon, too, but it's different. Both of them hurt me in similar ways, but they're fundamentally different at the same time.

          I'm no heroine or rom-com protagonist by any means, where every heartbreaking mistake gets forgiven under the excuse of being so love-struck I couldn't see or think straight, but I'm far from being the villain when it comes to this failed relationship. I wasn't perfect there and I'm not perfect now, but hurting me the way Cole did is unjustifiable.

          It was calculated cruelty. No matter how he wants to spin the narrative. He and his friends can paint me as a villain all they want, furthering a version of events in which my clinginess was the catalyst for everything that went down, in which I went completely chaotic and dramatic and that's why I can't make any men stay with me.

          "That's not fair," he complains. The neon lights hit him and his sharp facial structure perfectly, but I'm not letting him lure me in with his looks. I've already fallen for those puppy dog eyes one too many times, and I always get burned. Badly. "You're using my feelings against me."

          "Yes, I'm so evil for making pretty little Cole's ego have a breakdown." I push him aside with my hip, struggling to balance two plates of snacks (Rhett will have to forgive me for the damage I'm about to inflict to his strict diet and stupidly perfect body) and two plastic water bottles. "Dude, I swear."

          He takes advantage of my hindered movements to block my path and it's easy to say which of us is more unsteady while standing on two feet. It's Drunk Bambi on Heels Vs Beer Drunk Narcissist. "I'm not leaving until we have a proper conversation, Brooke. You know I had to step away from your project, and I know you would've done the same thing if the roles were reversed. I never pegged you for being a hypocrite."

          I huff, shaking my head to move my hair away from my face, but it sticks to the sweatier parts of my temples and neck. "Cole, let me through. In case you haven't noticed, we're at someone's birthday party, and, even if we weren't, I still wouldn't want to talk to you. Stay away from me."

          I try to make my way away from this demon for the millionth time, something I didn't picture myself doing a few hours ago in the comfort of my dorm room, but tequila shots do fun things to you and to your critical thinking skills. I'm almost relieved to think I'm finally out of the woods when his fingers curl around my arm to pull me back.

         He doesn't know how strong he can be. Not when he drinks. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of my arm hard enough to bruise and, in the rush to break free from his grip, I jerk my elbow forward, then backward to make him drop his hand. One of my plates slips out of my hand, spilling all my snacks around my feet.

          However, I'm also hardly sober at this point and I'm furious and eager to get back to Rhett, so, in the chaos, I don't measure my own strength appropriately, and my elbow hits him square in the nose.

          I feel it before I hear it, a dull thud instead of a crunch that accompanies a broken nose, and I'm about to turn around to apologize when he grabs me even harder. As I try to sidestep everything I dropped and his feet, engulfed in darkness as his tall frames blocks the little help the lights were giving me, my boot slips on something I don't want to know what it is. Panicked and overwhelmed, my bony elbow hits him again.

          Wrong move.

          "You could have broken my nose!" Cole protests, clutching his face with his free hand, while the other is wrapped so tight around me I fear it might cut off my circulation. Tiny droplets of blood slip from in between his fingers, and people start to notice things aren't right. I search for Rhett in the crowd, but fail to find him. "You bitch—"

          "Cole, just let me—"

          "You're staying, and we're fucking talking until you apologize for nearly disfigurating me!"

          I draw back my arm, he pulls me in, and, when I throw my water bottle's contents at him to startle him, I'm flying towards a wall before I know it. My shoulder hits the wall first, not my face, but it's sure to leave a bruise when I whimper, already so sore I can barely move it. This is what attracts an even bigger crowd, the last thing I wanted, and I'm a shaking mess on the floor, protecting my shoulder from further harm.

          I'm too exposed, especially physically—there's too much of my skin on display, and I feel so weak and vulnerable I might as well be naked.

          Meanwhile, Cole is livid, hyperventilating, but he's surrounded now. The hockey team, my saviors, aren't treating me like a damsel in distress—if anything, I caused more harm than the regular frail princess—but they force him away from me, belting out reminders that you do not hit a girl, under any circumstances, and what the fuck are you doing, and who the fuck are you, dude. It doesn't stop him from trying to break through a wall of massive ice hockey players, though; not even Paige, crouching next to me and yelling profanities I've never heard such a pretty mouth utter before, is having any effect on his blind fury.

          "Brie?"

          My head jerks up at the sound of his voice. Somehow, I still see him through the crowd, past Cole and his anger, and my heart is beating so fast when he starts pushing everyone aside to get to me I fear it will abruptly stop. Even like this, he still looks like a god, the higher points of his face illuminated by the brightest flashes of the neon lights, all knight in shining armor (the reality: he's wearing dark clothes and Converse sneakers).

          Paige helps me up, never breaking a sweat or taking a moment to breathe between insults directed at Cole's mother, and I'm the idiotic protagonist running straight to Rhett's arms. He's the only thing holding me steady on my feet when my legs threaten to give out beneath me, and my hands cling to him for dear life, fingers grasping at the fabric of his t-shirt. The muscles of his back tighten with my touch, his heartbeat pounding wildly against my chest, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck.

          I can feel every inch of him against me and I'm not sure which of us is shaking. I'm assuming it's me, suddenly aware that I am a victim and I hate it, suddenly aware I could have gotten seriously hurt. Not even the knowledge that I stood up for myself is comforting, as men don't take rejection well and don't want you to fight back when they make a move on you; they're entitled and want you to be submissive. Being assertive while rejecting them and knowing your worth will only infuriate them.

          "Are you okay?" he asks, backing away just enough to cup my face with his hand, so gently I wonder why I ever thought I deserved anything less. Nothing in his eyes—that concern and affection—screams fake. This is real, isn't it? It has to be. "Are you hurt?"

          "I'm okay," I blurt out. "I—"

          "Rhett Price? Are you fucking kidding me, Brooke?" Cole chimes in, somehow shoving the hockey team aside, and advances towards us like a raging bull. Rhett stands in front of me to shield me, while the hockey team rushes to stop the situation from escalating. "Is this the best you can do? Really? A hockey player? A nepo baby?"

          "You need to back off," Rhett warns him, with a hand hanging in the air between them. When Cole has his mind set to something, he won't quit. "Go away, man. You've done enough."

          I try to pull Rhett away before anything bad happens and, with Paige flagging the security team, I almost think we'll be okay. Then, Cole's fist collides with Rhett's face, smacking him on the jaw, and all hell breaks loose.

          The hockey team collapses on Cole, dragging him far away from Rhett after the latter stumbles to the side with the force of the impact, especially after being caught by surprise. He's still standing, though, making no move to retaliate, but his nostrils flare, wildfires burning in his eyes.

          "I'm not saying this again," Rhett continues, in a hiss, and returns to my side like nothing happened. His face is already flushed red where Cole's fist hit him, and we might leave the party with matching Cole-inflicted bruises, but he's fine. "Stay away from my girlfriend. I'll make sure you regret landing a hand on her."

          "Girlfriend—"

          "Yes, girlfriend," I confirm. This isn't how I pictured making it official-official, but nothing about tonight went as planned. "If you have an issue with it, take it up with security."

          That wasn't the hard launch I was expecting by any means, yet here we are.

          There's something weird about making the relationship more official than ever in front of the entire hockey team and a large group of strangers, not to mention my ex-boyfriend, and it gets even weirder when I remember they're hearing the news before my own family has. I'm certain they suspect something, even if they haven't tried to approach the subject, and they must know we're, at least, back on speaking terms and spending time together, as evidenced by how many photos of him I post on Instagram and on my Instagram stories—on both my personal and professional accounts.

          Look, that wasn't my initial plan. It's honestly not my fault he's so photogenic and that we need to practice and prepare both ourselves and the audience for my exhibit at the end of the school year. Technically, I'm holding a taste test that's lasting for months, and I'm doing all of this to build up interest.

          I've done nothing wrong. If anything, it's his fault for being so painfully beautiful; I'm just taking advantage of something that's already there. It's a win-win situation, especially with me pulling higher engagement levels than ever before (thank you eternally, hockey team).

          I guess that was our soft launch. I'm present in his Instagram posts and stories as well, impromptu photos taken when I least expected it, and I'm used to being behind the camera, not facing the lens. It's not an uncomfortable feeling by any means, but it still feels a bit odd to be the subject of someone's art, to see myself through someone else's eyes.

          The frightening thing is that I like what I see.

          Even when he catches me off guard, about to sip my coffee, looking off into the distance, or merely turning around to face him, he catches my best angles, turning a skill I've been attempting to perfect for nearly a decade into a natural talent. As infuriating as it is, it's still flattering.

          So, I think we've been doing a great job when it comes to convincing people around us that we're actually together. In fact, maybe we've been doing such a fantastic job that I even manage to fool myself into believing the lie sometimes when the lines get blurred, and it astounds me how easy it is. All it takes is one lingering touch, one lingering look from across the room, and I'm mentally swooning.

          "Actually, I don't buy that," Cole snarls. I had almost forgotten he was still here, with how busy I've been staring lovingly at Rhett, though I can't understand how an entire ice hockey team and a private security team haven't managed to kick him out yet.

          Nevertheless, I'm not surprised by his comment, as he as no reason to believe us; he knows a little bit about my history with Rhett, much like he knows how little I thought of him before we fully returned to each other's lives, not to mention how big of a blow this must be to his ego. The ex-girlfriend whose image and reputation he wanted to spoil is absolutely thriving and moving on, while he's still stuck with his pathetic little life.

          I'm not mean, I swear. I'm just ravishing on the fact that I get to be happy for once while all he can be is miserable.

          "Frankly, we don't care about what you think," I continue. "You lost any right to make any comments about my dating life when you dumped me."

          Cole rolls his eyes, just as the gigantic security guards start marching towards us. "Dude, please. Save me the trouble of even trying to expose you for the fraud that you are. You two hate each other. You just can't handle being single for once and will throw yourself to the first guy that shows you the slightest bit of attention."

          "Don't talk to her like that," Rhett warns, stepping forward. I pull him back the second I notice people pulling out their phones and pointing them at us, as a fighting scandal could easily ruin everything for him. "Better yet, don't talk to her at all. Don't even look at her."

          "You talk a lot of shit for someone who's so whipped for a chick who's treated like a revolving door."

          Rhett's arm slips out of my hands and, even though Cole's words are hitting me right where it hurts—SLUT! SLUT! SLUT!—I still can't let him ruin his life and sports career over this. Over me. So, I try to regain his attention the best way that I know how to.

          I plant my hands on his shoulders, force him to stop charging at Cole for a second, just long enough to look at me, then crash my lips against his.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

brie: i'm not kissing him

also brie: on second thought,