RHETT

          It's a bit daunting to come to terms with how absolutely whipped I am, but I've barely been able to take my eyes away from Brie the whole afternoon, and I fear it will be even harder to not look at her as the evening progresses.

          Every time she has caught me staring at her and smiled in return, it has felt like a punch to the heart. I don't know how I'll survive this dinner.

          When my chest aches the most and reminds me this is all for show, that we're only doing this to fulfill our short-term goals to secure our long-term ones, it gets downright agonizing. It's torturous to know nothing will ever feel as right as this, and this just so happens to be fake. I know Brie like the back of my hand, one of the few things I'm proud to admit to, and I can see through her bravado, so it's safe to say that she would've already said something if all these feelings had started to bleed into the realm of reality.

          She did kiss me out of her own volition at Paige's birthday party, though; even if it was just to convince Cole, she didn't have to ask me to kiss her again. And again. When no one was watching, when no one would ever know about it except for the two of us—that meant something to her. It could have been pure, unadulterated lust, sure, but I've been pathetically longing for it to be more.

          Me, out of all people. 

          Me, someone who has been running away from serious relationships for as long as I can remember. Me, someone who was burnt down to the bone the one time I gave one of those relationships a chance.

          Me, someone who once made Brie feel exactly how I felt over the summer. If this is the universe's way of making me pay for my crimes, then it's only fair, but it doesn't make the longing grow any quieter. If anything, it only makes me want her more, in spite of the uncertainty that lies ahead. It doesn't feel like this with anyone else, even if I wanted it to, and the only person I can openly talk about it with is her—not Andy, who I'm still choosing to keep in the dark and who could help me if I was able to trust him enough.

          Instead, I reel it back in, pretend I'm not falling fast and hard for the one girl I know I can't have.

          The main condition behind our agreement was that we would try to mend things, but she's still adamant on keeping the true nature of our relationship platonic. The sudden proximity has only made my feelings grow to unsustainable levels, easily slipping out of my control, and I hate it. I hate feeling this powerless, even if it's for a good cause—it shows I have a heart and proves I'm able to care about something other than myself and my career, or whatever—but it's still there, haunting me.

          At first, I even tried to fool myself into thinking this was all exactly because she's the one girl I can't have, like she's some prize to be won at a carnival, like she's an object I'm somehow entitled to. Forcing my idiotic brain to see her as Brie and not as a conquest—which shouldn't have had to be an obligation to begin with, but I like to think I've become a better person—has only made it worse in the sense that it has helped me realize my feelings for her are anything but platonic.

          I want to make it up to her because she deserves it, but also because I'm a hopeful fool who so desperately wants her to give me a real chance. 

          However, you can't force people to love you. You can't force them to forgive you, either.

          "I feel like I lost you for a minute there," my dad jokes, playfully elbowing me. It's embarrassing to notice how much he has to lean down to bump his shoulder with mine, with Lorelai being the one out of us both to have inherited his height. I've inherited my mom's eyes and stature, though my athletic inclination and broad shoulders are all his. "Are you okay?"

          I shake my head. "Yeah, sorry. I've just been a bit distracted lately."

          "I've noticed. You weren't playing at the top of your game that other day."

          He doesn't mean it in a critical manner, but that comment still slices right through me. We're just father and son and, for a moment in time, I briefly consider being honest with him and telling him why I was benched, why I've been feeling so miserable and letting those negative feelings seep into the person I am when I put on my hockey gear.

          However, I don't.

          It's not because I don't trust him; in fact, it's because I don't trust myself. I don't trust myself with these heightened emotions and know that voicing it in front of him will only make it sound as real and as worrisome as it is. I can talk to Brie and Andy about it just fine, but my dad is a completely different story. He'd understand, I think, but he'd also be tremendously disappointed in me and in my inability to keep my focus on things that actually matter, and that's what I was taught to believe my whole life.

          It reeks of toxic masculinity, yes, as Brie would put it, but it's all I've ever known, and it's what has been passed down through multiple generations of Prices with multiple degrees of intensity. You keep it to yourself, you swallow your own suffering until it starts rotting in your throat. You don't show weakness or any semblance of vulnerability. The weak get eaten alive.

          As society has evolved, so has this mindset, and the men in the family aren't crucified nearly as much for daring to not be strong all the time, but I still feel the need to hold myself to a higher standard of strength and perfection than I think other people should. The pressure to succeed is imposed on me by everyone who knows me, including my parents, but I know it's not nearly as aggressive as my brain makes it out to be. I know there's room to fail—in theory. I simply can't allow myself to take up that much space.

          "I know," is my weak-ass response. "It won't happen again."

          "Rhett," he sighs. "I know the past few months haven't been easy for you, with everything that went down with my drinking, and then Magnolia." I wince with the mention of her name, after months of avoiding it like she doesn't even exist. Like she didn't wreck my entire existence. "The last thing we want to do is to make you feel even worse. When we push you to be at your best, it's because we believe in you and your skill, but there are things that matter a lot more than succeeding at a sport. Your health matters more."

          "My health is fine. I'm not injured."

          "You know what I mean." He gently taps my temple with his index finger. Under normal circumstances, I'd probably move away from it, in a 'ugh, Dad, stop' joking manner, but he never speaks about his drinking issues, and this feels like the closest we've been to a proper conversation in months. "There's a difference between burning out and burning yourself out. We want you to be the best you can be, not the objective best. Everyone has their limits."

          "I know."

          It's true. I do know that—in theory, that is.

          I know they want the best for me and, realistically, their demands are reasonable. They're based on objective facts and attainable goals and I could've fared much worse when it comes to the parental expectations department, but the issue lies in the way my brain chooses to see those expectations and add my own to the mix.

          Their pressure was always something I expected and I know I need to get my shit together if I want to pursue my dream—my own dream, not theirs. Even if I was influenced by the presence of ice hockey in my life growing up, this path was one I chose and forged for myself, by myself. They've helped me as far as their reach has allowed them to without bordering on nepotism, and it was a struggle to get me to accept it, which means I need to make it all worth it. I need to focus, to do my best, and hope one day I'll ever feel deserving of the opportunities I've gotten. I need to be drafted and, for that, I need to be seen as committed and responsible. I need the brand deals.

          I can't admit it to him, but I'm a disaster. I'm juggling just a few things at once, and it somehow feels like the whole world is crumbling beneath my feet. It's humiliating.

          "I just don't want the sport to become a chore to you, something you feel obligated to do. It might be a career, but it's also supposed to be fun," he concludes. His hand is on my shoulder now, comforting and paternal, and it nearly triggers the waterworks. "That's when everything is ruined. It's when the dream ends."

          If we were in a coming of age movie, this would be the point where I turned to him and reminded him this is his dream, not mine, but alas. It's my dream, all right, which also means it's mine to save—no one else's. It's about time I do the right thing.

          "You can't live your whole life with your head in the clouds, right?" I ask him. "You'll have to come back down, set your feet back on solid ground eventually."

          He stiffly nods, lips pressed into a thin line. "You sounded just like her now. Magnolia."

          Yeah. I did. That was the point—to hit myself right where it hurts.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I pride myself in being observant.

          There are many negative aspects to my personality, sure, and this isn't even a matter of being my harshest critic (which I am), but watching people and paying attention is something I consider to be one of my greatest strengths. Therefore, it comes as no surprise to me when I notice a shift in Brie's mood as we occupy our seats at the dining table, even if she doesn't realize it herself or if she thinks everyone else is oblivious to it.

          To her credit, she's not being extremely obvious about it and no one else gives it too much thought, attributing her rambling and zoning off to pure, simple nervousness, but I know her better than that. She is nervous, which I already knew beforehand—and she made sure to remind me of it countless times throughout the week—but there's more to her jittery posture and lack of focus than nerves, and I don't want to reduce whatever thoughts are running through her head to just that.

          This makes me look like a creepy stalker, anticipating her every move before she even makes a conscious thought about it, but it has saved my ass countless times with other people.

          Yes, yes, I know all about not treating Brie like I treated the one night stand girls but also finding a way of treating her like I do everyone else, which is a somewhat tricky balance to aim for; I want to believe I've been succeeding, though, as she has yet to run for the hills.

          So, with Brie, I know how stressed she has been with her senior project, which we've yet to start preparing, but I haven't dared to mention it out of fear she'll spiral even further. Tonight's dinner hasn't been particularly helpful either; even though she and my family have known each other for several years, I can sense her hesitation from a mile away. She's far too concerned about keeping up the fake relationship façade, which hits me like a shot through the heart, and she's worrying about that concern being what hoists her own petard.

          In my mind, I'm grumbling—something something shooting yourself in the foot and ruining everything out of fear you'll ruin everything, so you trap yourself in a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the feeling.

          Because I can't have nice things and acknowledge that Brie's life doesn't revolve around me and my life, I'm breaking out in cold sweats and blaming it on the weather, utterly convinced it's me she's mad at. Certainly I must have done something wrong, something that will somehow justify the dissolution of everything we've managed to rebuild until now and make it impossible for us to even have a future together.

          She actively engages in conversations with my family, particularly with Lorelai (whom she was warned to not call Rory, like she used to before the Gilmore Girls renaissance era a few year back, which is exactly why Lorelai doesn't like it anymore), and even squeezes my hand under the table when my chest feels about to explode.

          At first glance, there's no factual evidence pointing towards her souring mood being directed at me, but what if there is and I'm somehow oblivious to it? Am I not looking hard enough, paying enough attention? What if she thinks we're way in over our heads and there's no way in hell this could work, even just to honor the initial deal?

          It's the kind of negativity that sustains itself and, if that knowledge was sufficient to allow me to ignore it instead of letting it run wild and free to ruin my life, I'd be set for a bright future. Instead, it renders me unable to function like a well-adjusted human being and, even if I consider myself to be quite high functioning in spite of the chaos going on in my head, I also have enough self-awareness to know how unsustainable it is to live like this.

          It's repetitive. It's ruminative. It constantly makes me feel like I'm about to die from a heart attack when not even an intense sport like hockey puts that much strain on my body. It's exhausting being capable of rational thought and still not being able to escape the endless loop of anxiety, where everything you do, everything you say, everything you think is wrong. It just never stops.

          And I still conceal it. I act unbothered, pretend the only thing stressing me out are sponsors and brand deals. I tell myself it doesn't hurt that Brie will never like me back in the way everything in me aches for her—her touch, her attention, her affection.

          Perhaps it would be wise to move past it myself, too, and adopt her mindset.

          Perhaps it would be wise to treat this relationship as the farce that it is instead of dreaming it could become something more, something real.

          If the floor were to crack open on its own and swallow me whole, I'd be thankful.

          For what it's worth, all our efforts appear to pay off. My parents and Lorelai seem to believe us, even though I hate lying to them and can't help but regret this whole ordeal.

          If it doesn't work out in the sense that Brie magically falls back in love with me, we'll have to go our separate ways and either awkwardly explain we broke up again or reveal it was all a lie; the former would prove to everyone I can't commit to anything or make up for past mistakes, whereas the latter would break all the trust they'd put in me, proving my immaturity.

          In an ideal future, I get everything I want—Brie, sponsors, a proper career. However, lying and manipulating my way to achieve all of it is disingenuous, morally wrong, and in no way representative of the person I want to be. It reminds me of the teenage boy I used to be, with no real awareness of the consequences of his actions or consideration for others.

          There are many things I can blame on other people's influence on me—the crowds I hung out with back then, some of the men in my family, even Magnolia—but it doesn't change the fact that I've allowed myself to absorb that influence and let it mold me and the way I've conducted myself throughout the years. It's also been my responsibility, which is why I've repeatedly made the conscious choice to change and better myself, but I still slip back into my old ways.

          I am rotten to the core. It's right there on display, and everyone else just chooses to ignore it in favor of my potential.

          "Can I ask you something?" Brie timidly asks, in the safety of my car, during the drive back to campus.

          I drive with both hands on the steering wheel, nothing out of the ordinary, but it's been considerably harder than usual to keep my eyes on the road with how quiet she has been all evening. There's a chance it has nothing to do with me and she's just preoccupied with her personal stuff, but, comparing the odds of that being true with those of it being because of me . . . I'm not optimistic.

          I've grown used to having her voice in the background while I drive, happily humming along to whatever song she has chosen to play or generally making conversation, so this silence cuts me to the bone.

          "Is everything okay?" I can't ignore the caution in my voice when I reply to her with another question, something that certainly doesn't help ease my nausea. It only opens the door for more assumptions about why I'm dodging the original question.

          "I mean . . . I guess so. Everything's fine. In theory. Dinner was nice. I didn't realize how much I actually missed your family until we all sat down and started talking again. Just like old times." I dare to glance at her from the corner of my eye, just long enough to ensure I won't hit a deer, and find her smiling out of the window. Then, she goes serious again. "It's something your mom said that has been stuck in my head for hours. She just said it, didn't elaborate, and I didn't push the subject. I figured it would be easier and fairer to hear it directly from you instead of going about it behind your back."

          I exhale through my mouth, wishing I had at least had the brain power to park the car instead of risking an accident. "That's thoughtful. What did she say?"

          "Who's Magnolia?"

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

that's the million dollar question isn't it brie