BRIE

          Waking up is a strange concept in itself.

          To be fair, the act of sleeping is also really weird in theory. You're telling me you lie there, close your eyes, pretend to be unconscious until you actually fall unconscious, and let your brain take you on an all expenses paid trip to the unconscious side of your mind? And there's no catch? Sounds fake and way too good to be true, but okay. Sometimes, I lie awake in bed and try to think about what the first human being to ever fall asleep was thinking before and after. Did it freak them out?

          This one time, when my insomnia was at its worst during freshman year of college, I started studying the history of sleep in hopes it would tire my brain, as it doesn't strike me as too interesting of a topic and the power of suggestion can be quite influential—just like yawning, but in text form. It didn't work, not according to its intended goal, but I'm now the proud detainer of encyclopedic yet useless knowledge regarding the full history of sleep, complete with Greek theories on Philosophy.

          This is relevant to my present situation because my nights of sleep following hours on end of drinking are either hell on earth, waking me up at the crack of dawn with a debilitating migraine, or I sleep like a baby and it's the best sleep I've gotten in weeks—or since the last time I got spectacularly drunk.

          Today, I wake up feeling particularly well-rested. When compared to the last time, the morning following that charity gala, I feel refreshed and ready to face a new day, but it takes me a while to piece all the memory fragments together. They come to me broken like that, slowly, and I know I have to be patient with myself; after all, I've never been one to hold my liquor and, when it comes to tequila, I know I tend to be a disgrace.

          Therefore, I'm suspicious about why I'm waking up in a relatively good mood.

          Though the hangover is still here and my nose is clogged—I was once convinced I was allergic to alcohol because of how many times I was waking up with a runny nose and a sore throat the morning after drinking my weight in colorful cocktails—not to mention the dull ache right behind my eyes making it hard to keep them open, I feel okay. I feel okay, I feel warm, I feel safe.

          I'm not in my dorm room.

          I know my mattress like I know the back of my hand, as it has molded perfectly to match the shape of my body, and my shoulder is still sore from hitting a wall last night. Having it pressed against this mattress, stuck under the full weight of my body, is doing it no wonders, and I whimper as I attempt—and fail—to find a more comfortable sleeping position.

          Then, something—or someone—stirs beside me. My heartbeat jumps like it's been kickstarted back to life with a defibrillator, jolts of electricity sparking across my nerves, and my eyes don't flutter away in the soft, delicate way it happens in the movies.

          There's an arm wrapped around my waist—an arm that I initially thought was mine, so I didn't pay it as much as a second thought. I don't dare move a muscle, both because my whole body is screaming in silent pain (thanks a fucking lot, Cole) and because I'm still struggling to figure out where I am, who I'm sleeping next to, and what the hell happened last night that landed me in this bed.

          Think, Brie. Who in that party would you go to a dorm room with?

          Oh, God. It was Jeff Jefferson, wasn't it?

          "It's still really fucking early." Rhett's sleepy, bleary voice fully jolts me awake now. Though I still can't move—and don't want to, because I'm as selfish as I am warm, even if all the comfort from earlier was tossed out of the window—there's no way I'm going back to sleep. "Is it your shoulder?"

          "Did—I mean, did we sleep together?"

          The question rolls out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and it's strangely nice to realize my motormouth doesn't let futile things like hangovers, migraines, or bruised shoulders—and egos—ruin things. It's still going strong, maybe stronger than ever before, and it should serve as a reminder for the next time I decide to drink too much.

          "Define sleep," Rhett continues, stifling a yawn. He doesn't remove his arm from around my waist and I, like the goddamn idiot that I am, I snuggle closer to him, searching for extra body heat. I can even feel his heart pounding against my back—or maybe it's my own. I can't tell the difference anymore. "We did sleep. We slept next to each other. By the technical, literal definition of the words, we slept together. Now, if you ask me whether we had sex—"

          I'm pretty sure I could cook us two a three-course meal with how scorching my cheeks are, so I'm secretly thankful I have my back turned to him and he can't see my face right now. Part of me wishes I could see the look on his face, but, with how casual his tone has been during this brief morning after conversation, it's probably safe to assume he's not nearly as freaked out about our current predicament as I am.

          That's a new one, anyway. Imagine a world where I'm the one so unbelievably stressed about whether or not I had sex the previous night when Rhett was the one sleeping with a different girl pretty much every other night not that long ago.

          It's then, with the brutal sinking of my stomach, that I realize where all this stress is coming from. It stems from being a woman, from knowing your consent isn't always respected, from the heartbreaking realization that, even if it wasn't my fault, people would still find a way of blaming me for having my dignity and privacy stolen and invaded in such a cruel way.

          It comes from knowing I'm fated to constantly second-guess my nights and my actions and my words around men to ensure I'm not giving off the wrong impression, to ensure I won't do anything that will leave me in a dangerously vulnerable state. At least I was with Rhett the whole night, but not every guy out there would respect me. It's painful to admit that, but it's true.

          "Well? Did we have sex?"

           "No."

          The knots in my stomach loosen. The ache between my legs I was searching for isn't present, either, so it's yet another way to confirm he's telling the truth, but I don't know why I'm disappointed by these revelations. "Oh."

          "Sorry to disappoint, but you crashed out of nowhere, and I obviously wouldn't try to do anything when you were barely conscious or coherent. If we have sex, I'd like us both to consent to it and to remember it in the morning."

          "I don't remember any of that."

          Rhett shifts on the bed, still without fully removing his arm from around me, and I think he's assuming it's okay because I have yet to complain about it. If that's his train of thought, I commend him for being correct for once in his life, as it's been quite draining to be the only one in the fake relationship to a) be right all the time and b) have great tits.

           I don't fault him for the latter. I'm extremely glad to have been blessed in the genetic department when it comes to my boobs. And still, even with all that self-appreciation for my boobs swimming around in my brain like one of those relaxing videos of liquid soap being twirled into pretty spirals, there's some sort of resentment over not getting a single compliment about how great they looked in that blouse last night.

          I don't care about compliments from guys I'm not interested in, but I do care about the opinion of drunk girls in bathrooms (who, thankfully, jumped at the chance to be incredibly nice to me last night), and, unfortunately, I care about what Rhett thinks.

          I thought I was over being that pathetic, but apparently not. I still refuse to let it ruin my day, though, so I guess some progress hasn't been undone just because I slept next to him—in his hoodie, too.

           And because I kissed him, tongue and all, in front of a crowd of people, which just so happened to include my ex-boyfriend, the one who triggered this entire mess in the first place. Classy, Brie. Really classy.

          "I wouldn't lie to you about this," Rhett reminds me. "I wouldn't lie to you, period, but this is serious and I can tell you're freaked out." I take in a sharp breath and risk turning around to lie on my back so I can look up at him. I find him propped up on his free elbow, supporting his head on his hand, and already looking at me. He's beautiful even when he has just woken up—with a start, too, which is so unfair. "I promise nothing happened. We were talking, you asked me if you could kiss me again, and I said yes. Then you declared you were exhausted, crawled into bed, and asked me to hold you because you forgot to bring your weighted blanket."

          "I don't own a weighted blanket."

          "I was happy to provide my services, anyway." He cracks a playful smile. "But, yeah, that was it. All we did was sleep, I promise."

          I believe him. If that's not a massive display of trust, then I don't know what is. I even let him keep his arm swung protectively around me, his thumb drawing small lines over my hip bone, and try to not think about the surge of heat between my thighs this gesture unleashes. I exhale through my mouth, shakily, and crane my neck up to get some air before I overheat, but that only brings my face closer to his.

          He's still staring at me, silently, but I don't miss the way his eyes drop down to my mouth. His thumb stops moving, tightening the grip on my hip just a tentative bit at first, and I don't want to think about how much effort I'm putting into refusing to let my chest heave. I know he knows, with the intensity in his eyes deepening, and I know we're both thinking the same thing.

          "I haven't brushed my teeth yet," I murmur.

          "Neither have I."

          "Does that bother you?"

          "Hardly."

          "You're taking way too long to kiss me, then."

          I don't know what's gotten into me. I would've never dared to utter those words to him a few weeks ago, but then his lips meet mine and all my rational thoughts dissolve like cotton candy.

          There's a cruel, vile voice in the back of my head that wants me to consider he never does this—never spends the night, never lets his one-night stand puck bunnies spend the night, and he certainly doesn't kiss them when they're suffering from a drunken case of morning breath. I could obsess over being the exception to the rule and why that is, obsess over whether or not I'm being used, but I refuse to let my overthinking ruin this for me.

          I can sabotage it by myself. Still, I'm not letting it happen, at least not now; I think I've earned this little piece of heaven.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          "Dude, where the hell were you?" Nancy asks, jumping out of her bed as soon as I enter our room. I walked in on my tiptoes, praying to every God and saint and existence that she was still asleep so I wouldn't have to explain, but I should've known lightning never strikes twice and I can't luck out twice. Sleeping safe and sound was as much luck as I was allowed today, it seems. "I was worried sick about you, and no one knew where you were."

          "I'm sorry," I blurt out, throwing my purse to my bed. It doesn't fall off, thankfully, as my phone is still in there, and I'll probably die if it breaks. Who am I without my silly little electronic treats and validation on social media? "I, uh . . . slept with Rhett."

          "What?"

          "I slept next to him, in his bed," I rush to clarify. "We didn't have sex. It was pouring by the time we got back to campus last night after the party and his dorm is closer to the parking lot, so I crashed there. Borrowed his hoodie." I pull the fabric down to show it off, though it's a plain light-gray hoodie, no writing. "I wasn't planning on spending the night there, I promise, and I know I should've at least texted you."

          "Yeah, you should have."

          "I'm sorry, Nance."

          To be fully honest, I'm not sure why I'm apologizing here, considering she was the one to ditch me first in favor of her newspaper buddies, and I have yet to ask her for an explanation, so it feels unfair of her to demand the same thing from me. I think it might be my non-confrontational impulses at play, as I don't want to argue with her over something this stupid, but also because I don't want my day to be ruined over this.

          I might be non-confrontational at my core when it comes to my friends, hyper aware of how easy it is for me to lose them over what might appear to be something small and insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Even if it sounds self-centered or an overshot, influenced by how little I actually mean to people and try to compensate for, I know how it goes and how it ends.

          I lost one too many friends in high school for picking fights over things that seriously hurt my feelings (most of the time I wasn't even picking fights; I was simply exposing my side of the story, but they still thought I was coming off as accusatory and aggressive), so it's easier to stay quiet and pretend to be cool and unbothered. It's an approach I've extended to romantic relationships as well, bottling it all up so I won't be accused of being too sensitive and easily offended, and then everyone—including me—gets to act all shocked that the cool, usually easy-going Brie is all prissy and explosive.

          I'm not mad at Nancy, but, as I fall to my bed and she does the same, returning to her laptop, I can't come up with a reason for us being friends other than the forced proximity pushed on us by our housing situation. It makes me a bit sad to think about it in those terms, but forced proximity works as a fictional trope in romance because it's fictional.

          In real life, there are so many times when you realize you're only close to certain people because you have to see them and/or work with them every day, not to mention those who are the first person you see in the morning and the last you see when you go to bed. In movies and books, it helps build the tension between the romantic leads, especially if they're starting off as enemies, and I eat that shit right up, but it's different when it happens in real life.

          It's particularly hurtful when it happens to you, and you're someone suffering from a crippling phobia of merely being tolerated by those you consider to be your friends. It's the kind of pain that keeps you up at night, that starts out from small, isolated incidents, and quickly turns into death by a thousand cuts.

         Thinking about Nancy only pretending to like me to my face and then running off to her cooler, richer friends to laugh at me being a wannabe who doesn't fit in and will never fit in is heartbreaking and I know I should stop. 

          But I can't. 

          I do it even without anything she says or does prompting it, and it's what angers me the most. I don't have anything to support my thesis, but it's still here, permanently haunting me, and I really need to find something better to do with my life than projecting my insecurities onto other people.

          We settle into comfortable silence, with Nancy typing away on her laptop—she's a much faster typer than I am, but refuses to be bribed to help me with essays and term papers—and me sulking in my corner of the room. She doesn't want to be bothered, which I respect, and there's something heartwarming about noticing she still wears the friendship bracelet an intoxicated Brie made for her right after we became roommates.

          It's one of those things that people don't have to do, but they still do it because it has some personal meaning to them, and they don't even realize how nice it makes you feel. It makes you feel seen. It makes you feel valued. If anything, it also makes me feel somewhat ashamed for doubting her, even if sometimes I catch myself wondering why we're even friends when we don't share many common interests.

          We like fashion, blogging, and writing, so we're able to help each other when it comes to those things—sharing tidbits of knowledge, sharing clothes (more like she lets me borrow her clothes), proofreading articles, helping with photography (these two are mostly me)—but there's little else we do outside of it. We might listen to the same music and go out to the movies, but I've never met her family and she hasn't met mine, either, yet she can name every family member of her other friends.

          It's probably my anxieties being louder than my capability for rational thought, but it hurts. It hurts deep in my soul.

         "Did you like Lucy?" she asks. When I look at her, she's staring at the mirror on the opposite end of the room to her, twisting her curly mane up into a messy bun.

          "Sorry?"

          "Last night. Paige de Haan introduced the two of you, right?"

          "Ah. Yeah, she did." I massage the side of my neck, glad I'm wearing a hoodie that leaves most of the skin there covered, so it won't leave any potential hickeys on display. I don't remember Rhett's lips being anywhere near my neck or my throat, but that doesn't mean anything. "I forgot she doesn't go by Lucy."

          "Girlie is scary whenever someone doesn't refer to her as Ripley, isn't it?"

          Yes. Yes, she is.

          Though Lucy Ripley was intimidatingly nice after Paige introduced us, barely taller than me, but with dark makeup that highlighted her cat-like eyes, narrowed and long, and her high cheekbones, I still got the feeling she could rip my hair out of my scalp with her bare hands if she wanted to. Like me, she was dressed in all black, contrasting with her light-golden skin, kissed by the sun, and her Californian blonde waves, but, unlike me, she could actually pull it off. I just looked like a middle schooler going through her goth phase.

         "I liked her," I reply, and it's the full truth. She terrifies me a little bit, in a different way than how Paige does it to me, but I still never felt like I was being tested (though I suspect the alcohol might have helped me relax). "I don't want her to feel like I'm using her, but I really, really want to make this connection work. She and her family sound fantastic."

          "Yeah?" I enthusiastically nod. This time, the smile Nancy throws my way feels genuine. "That's great, Brie. I'm happy for you. And, um . . . I'm really, really sorry for ditching you last night. I heard from the girls you wanted to meet Luc—Ripley, and I freaked out a bit there." I don't know why she freaked out, as this is the first time I've heard Ripley's name be uttered within these four walls, and I don't know why or how the girls knew about this. I suppose news really does travel fast in Bennington. "I needed liquid courage. Did she . . ." Nancy clears her throat, and not even I can pretend not to notice the discreet pink flush coating her cheeks, even from a distance. "Did she, like, mention me at all?"

          "She knows we're roommates, I guess. She asked if I was there with you. I figured it would be best to tell her the truth, with the cameras and all. Paige knew I was there with Rhett, so . . ." I shrug. She bites down on her bottom lip and avoids my eyes—purposefully this time. It's what prompts me to stumble towards her bed, nearly shoving her by accident. "Oh, my God. You like her. You like Lucy Ripley."

         Nancy huffs, throwing her head back, and it's the first real bonding moment we've had in God knows how long. I intend to cherish it as long as I'm allowed, boundaries-wise. "I mean . . . yeah. I guess you could put it that way. I didn't even think I was on her radar, but apparently she knows I exist, which is better than nothing."

          "Nance!" I squeal, taking her hands in mine. "You could've told me! This is huge."

          "Hardly—"

          "Tell me everything. I promise I won't play matchmaker if you don't want me to."

          "Promise?" I nod. And she does. For a moment there, we're okay. It's perfect.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

i apologize for how unnecessarily long this was. but hey! relationship progress? i suppose?