BRIE

          Rhett's face has turned whiter than bone. I can't say I blame him, though, as his mom is standing right in front of us, separated from our now broken embrace by a straight row of kitsch kitchen islands, as green as Rhett's eyes.

          The same eyes he got from the woman standing right there, examining us closely.

          It's only then that I remember we haven't reached the 'tell the parents' stage yet, convinced we'd have time to prepare, and I don't know why I assumed his family wouldn't want to congratulate him for the first win of the season. They were present at the match, sitting a few rows down from me and Nancy, but they didn't notice my presence.

          Their eyes were either glued to the rink or to the group of fancy-looking people sitting next to them, who I assumed were brand executives and scouts. Even when Rhett isn't playing, he's still trying to sign deals, and I'd be naive to think there's a moment in time when there aren't eyes following his every move.

          It's hard to believe there's room for me in his world. Everything is so lightning-paced, so fleeting—his career can end in mere seconds and all it would take would be a bad fall—and the flashing lights are directed at him instead of coming from him.

          He's always under a spotlight, always networking, but, unlike me, he has been taught how to behave, when to speak and what to say, whereas I wing it. He's in his element when he's invited to galas and people actually want him there; he doesn't go in as someone else's plus one or arm candy.

          I'm just a nobody. With every step forward our relationship takes and we become better partners to each other—fake or not, it doesn't matter to me—it also becomes more and more obvious we're still fundamentally different, and I fear we won't be able to make it work. It's not even about making it work past the fake relationship period; if there's no space for me in his life, I don't want to impose my presence.

          I don't want to be suffocating.

          I wonder if that's how Rhett will break my heart this time around, through the reminder that we belong to vastly different worlds and it won't be sustainable to pretend otherwise. Last time, what drove us apart was him not being able to match my expectations and fulfill my relationship needs; this time, the driving force pulling us away from each other might as well be my inability to be what he wants and what he needs.

          I can give him all the support in the world, give him the best of me and pray it will be enough, but I'm not cut out for the ruthless world under the limelight. I'm meant to be behind the camera and that's exactly where I want to be; being thrown into a completely unfamiliar world where the both of us would likely be miserable doesn't sound like the greatest idea in the world.

          Unfortunately, love can't fix everything. I really wish it were different, but it's not, and yet I'm still clinging to a sliver of hope we can somehow make it work in spite of the bleak odds.

          "Hi, Brooke," Vanessa Price greets, pulling me into one of her characteristically tight hugs, and there's no way of describing how badly I missed this—everything from the steadiness of her arms around me to the chic scent of her floral cologne feels so familiar it nearly brings me to tears, especially after the realization I just had. In the blink of an eye, I could lose it all again. "You look fantastic, of course. Were you at the match?"

          "A few rows above you, actually," Rhett informs, coming to my rescue before I get the chance to ask for help, and the fingers wrapped around my heart clench it even tighter, squeezing so hard I barely hold back a pained gasp.

          I'd been so focused on watching him that I managed to not notice how he had been watching me right back, but maybe he's been doing it for longer than I thought. Longer than this, not just during his hockey games or during practice.

          And I hadn't noticed a thing. It just made me wonder how many more things I'd failed to pick up on, how many times he tried to reach out to try and fix things only to be jotted down, ignored, and avoided. We could have started to work on things years earlier if I had bothered to stop and listen instead of being so far up my own head, hung up on a years-old heartbreak.

          At the same time, it was my first heartbreak. Like it or not, that's what it is, and Rhett will forever be my first love. Wounds like that don't heal in the blink of an eye.

          "Sorry, we kept our eyes glued to the rink the whole time," Vanessa retorts. "Why weren't you playing during first period?"

          "I felt a bit queasy, that's all," Rhett continues.

          He doesn't have to tell me to follow up on the lie, but I still make a mental note to remember it in case it ever gets brought up in conversation at some point. He doesn't want to worry his parents, which I understand, but it only makes me even more concerned about him; it's not just because it's something that can easily be disproven—all they need to do is talk to his coach—though I'm certain he knows that.

         "Maybe cut back on the orange juice for now, then. All that acid can't be good for your stomach right now."

          "Yeah, you're right. I figured it beat the alternative." He nods towards the living room, where one can barely take two steps without tripping on an empty can of beer that's been tossed aside. "Andy wants to go grocery shopping tomorrow morning, stack up the fridge and the cupboards, maybe try to gather everyone and finally host that team meal. It's tradition, and all, but no one seems to want to follow up on that the second they realize there's cooking involved."

          "Andrew has better things to worry about other than babysitting an entire team of grown men."

          "To be fair, there's fresh meat now."

          "Still." She shrugs. "Why don't you two come over for dinner next week, then? Enjoy a properly cooked meal instead of takeout or frozen meals? Lorelai will be home—again—so we'll all have a chance to make up for lost time." Her eyes are glued to me now. Whereas Rhett is sweating buckets, I feel strangely relaxed around his mom. She and my mom can't be more different from each other, but there's still a certain comfort that comes from being around a supportive family, which the Prices have always been . . . even if they show it in a different way. "If you're available, Brooke, that is. If all goes well, maybe your mom and I can finally co-host the Thanksgiving dinner we've been trying to throw for years at this point."

          "I'm sure she'd love that," I say. "It's been years in the making."

          I throw her a nervous smile, suddenly aware of the arm Rhett keeps wrapped around me. I half-expected him to drop it once his mother walked into the kitchen with how startled we both were, but he still hasn't. I can't tell whether it's because he doesn't want to or because he feels the need to keep up the charade even though this is her first time seeing us together since the original breakup.

          I also quickly realize I don't mind, which is certainly an improvement for my mild freakout over a hand on my thigh.

          I wonder if she can tell we're faking it, though. Vanessa Price knows her son better than anyone in the world, even better than me, even better than Andy de Haan, and I don't think I'm a particularly good liar. I don't want to believe Rhett is, either, mostly for the sake of my mental health and my silly little fragile heart.

          So, there's two lies currently at play here—the reality of our current relationship and the reason he wasn't playing during first period. With how he's been performing in practice, I'm not surprised, but I was there to witness it all. His parents weren't.

          Then, Rhett clears his throat.

          "Is Dad here?"

          Vanessa fixes the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder, briefly glancing back at the party in the living room. "He's in the car. He almost came inside, but then remembered the ragers you boys throw after winning a match, and thought it would be best to remain undetected before any of them try to convince him to stay. You know how he is."

          Rhett nods, apprehensive.

          Daniel Price is a champion, a legend on campus, and there are photos of him scattered around the house, which makes Rhett cringe in embarrassment. In most of them, if he's not holding a trophy or a medal, he's holding some sort of alcoholic beverage, so, if they're hinting at what I think they are, it probably is best if he's not here.

          Once she leaves, complete with a tight hug for both of us, I'm not expecting to find a perfectly relaxed Rhett standing next to me, and I'm not happy about being proven right this time.

          "I'm sorry for roping you into this," he tells me. His glass of orange juice is now empty, but he hasn't dropped his arm. It's a miracle it hasn't grown numb yet, but do I look like I'm complaining? "We don't have to go to my house for dinner. We don't have to do joint Thanksgiving."

          "I want to," I insist. Part of me has questions—why hasn't he dropped his arm?/why is he lying to his mom?/what happened to his dad?—but, thankfully, I have enough self-awareness to know to keep my mouth shut before I ruin the moment. "Was I caught by surprise? Well, yeah, obviously, and I haven't told my family about . . . about us yet, so I guess I'll have to work on doing that sometime before Thanksgiving, but it's still so far away. I think I'll manage."

          He exhales through his nose, finally removes his arm around me, and supports his hands on one of the islands in front of us. "Are you sure? I don't want to pressure you."

          I gently place my hand over his. He doesn't flinch and even I am surprised at how natural this feels. "I'm sure. We're in this together, you and I. Whether you want to or not, we're on each other's team."

          Rhett turns his face ever so sightly just to get a good look at me, and my heart skips more than just a single beat at the sight of his smile. "You quoted two separate songs there."

          "I did. Will there be Gouda?"

          He brings our joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles. I'm done for. "There will always be Gouda for you."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          Before facing dinner with Rhett's parents—and the most intimidating member of the family, Lorelai Price—I have to face the music.

          Namely, Professor Ramos.

          In my head, where I'm a lot more confident than the real version of myself, who just so happens to be a yellow-bellied coward, I almost convince myself she's the one who has to face me after nonchalantly blowing me off, ghosting me, and letting me know she took an unplanned leave of absence through her assistant.

          As I sit in the lounge outside the offices on the third floor, I realize how pathetic it is that I have to remind myself to have some empathy and make a mental note—if there's even room for one more Post-it note in my brain—that I'm not owed an explanation. This is a grown adult with a career and a personal life that certainly don't revolve around me and I wasn't the only person in this situation, as her other advisees were affected by her sudden absence, but I'm the only one of them on the verge of a breakdown.

          I'm not close to the other people, even though we're all part of the same group chat—well, technically, there's two, one of them where Professor Ramos is present and uses for the occasional announcement, despite preferring communication via email. The other one has grown quiet now that she has come back, but, during the ghosting period, it was the most active I ever saw it, with outlandish theories being shared one after the other.

          Now that it's silent, it's more and more obvious how obsessed with myself I am. Like thinking Professor Ramos' world is spinning around me, my brain has somehow convinced itself that everyone in that group chat is quiet because they've created another one without me just so they can comment on how annoying they think I am.

          This is completely delusional and the rational side of my brain is still present and strong enough to be aware of this, but it's also strangely easy for me to spiral down that train of thought. Realistically, I know people don't think about me often enough to do something like that and this isn't high school, where that kind of petty thing would be considered reasonable.

          It doesn't stop me from going there, regardless of how idiotic it sounds when said aloud and properly processed. Even now, when I'm sitting by myself and nibbling at a cream cheese bagel, my panicked brain is restless, but I guess it comes with spending your whole life being told by your peers you're a brown-nosed nuisance who will never fit in.

          I'm terrified of getting sesame seeds stuck between my teeth and walking into Professor Ramos' office like that, of being too loud with the aluminum foil the bagel is wrapped in, and, most of all, of what will happen once the meeting starts. She can very well tell me to scrap the entire project, even while knowing I've been losing sleep over it for months, since her break allowed her to gain a new perspective on our projects, or something.

          Then, as if I wasn't feeling stressed out enough as is, someone enters the room. I'm not done with my bagel yet, but I'm far too self-conscious to continue eating something this seedy and flaky in public when my current state of mind isn't the best, so I rush to wrap it back in the foil and stuff it inside my bag. My stomach is still rumbling, but my hunger has given place to nausea clutching my insides, so the rest of the bagel will have to wait until I feel better.

          Andy de Haan struts into the room like this is an everyday occurrence, then falls to the empty chair directly next to mine, even though every other seat is unoccupied. I gulp, suddenly aware of how tall he is, long legs outstretched in front of him, and my first instinct is always to shrink, to occupy as little space as possible to avoid other people's personal space.

          "Hey, Brie," he greets, ignoring how he's meeting up with me during an inner meltdown. Everything in me hurts from having to hold it in, but he doesn't need to know that the girl (fake) dating his best friend can barely keep it together when she's nervous about meeting her senior project advisor. Among other things. "What are you in for?"

          "I'm meeting my senior project advisor, not sure for what exactly, but I was summoned," I explain, expertly foot in mouth as always. "She emailed me and asked me to come. I wasn't actually summoned." One of the corners of his mouth raises in amusement—genuine amusement, I think, and not in a mocking way. "What about you?"

          "Imagine my surprise when I found out my professors actually care about my academic standing and that I can't keep getting away with the bare minimum for four consecutive years without any consequences." Andy glances at me from the corner of his eye, the only way he can look at me without fully turning to face me. I sense some ambivalence, some hesitation to fully welcome me into the circle like other hockey players have; I don't want to feel entitled to his friendship, not even with my budding friendship with his sister, but I also want him to like me. "You don't want to hear about it. It's mostly my poor planning skills."

          "You can talk to me, if you'd like. Sometimes it helps talking about it with someone who doesn't know a thing."

          He sighs. "It's Jackie stuff. Daisy stuff. Rhett must have told you a thing or two about it."

          "Not really. Rhett knows a thing or two about letting people have their privacy."

          Andy nods, pensive. "Yeah. I guess that's also true." He leans forward, lacing his fingers between his knees, and it's only when I'm staring at his back that I allow myself to finally exhale. It's the safety of knowing he can't see me that allows me to do it without risking misinterpretation of my breathing rhythm. "We need to talk, you and I."

          "Do we? About what?"

          "About you and Rhett and this . . . thing you two have going on."

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

andy has gone into full protective best friend mode. does he know it's fake dating??? does he suspect it's fake??? more at 7