BRIE

          It's not like I actually want to know who this mysterious Magnolia girl is.

          Really, I don't. Whoever she is, it's clear she has brought Rhett considerable pain and heartache and, regardless of how badly he has hurt me throughout the years, it doesn't mean it brings me any joy to know someone might have done the exact same thing to him years after. I don't care about that kind of karmic retribution.

          (Though I have to admit there used to be some comfort to be found in daydreaming about him getting his heart shattered like he casually did to me, I was younger, more naive, and thought I knew everything back then. Sometimes, you can't help but miss the not-knowing that comes with lack of hindsight and perspective when you're young and know nothing.)

          So, when Magnolia's name leaves my lips and he turns so white I fear he might pass out behind the wheel and crash the car, sending my heartbeat into erratic levels of panic, I regret it instantly. Not only do I want to prevent any sort of emotional suffering from coming his way, especially because of me, I'd also like to survive the night, thank you very much.

          "I can't do this right now," he half-whispers. Whatever resolve I thought I had, whatever courage I'd gathered to ask him about Magnolia—it has all vanished into the cold air of the night, swooping out of my open window. The wind glues my hair to my lipstick-coated mouth. "I can't. I'm driving. I'm driving and you're sitting in the passenger seat; if anything happens, if I get distracted or panic—which I will—then—" Rhett gulps, shaking his head for the briefest of moments, and then he's focused on the road like nothing happened. However, even with how hard he's gripping the steering wheel, it's hard to hide the way his hands are shaking. "I can't do this. I can't think about that right now—I shouldn't, but I can't stop."

          "Rhett," I murmur.

          "I don't know how to make it quiet. I don't know how to make it stop."

          "Rhett," I repeat, louder this time. If he wasn't driving, his head would've snapped in my direction—I'm sure of it. I know him well enough to trust him that much. "Pull over. Let me drive, okay? We don't have to talk about this right now. We don't have to talk about this tonight, either, but let me drive the rest of the way."

          His face is so ashen just from this girl's name being mentioned that I fear for what might happen in case he ever runs into her on the street or wherever they know each other from. Though I certainly don't know every single student attending Bennington, Magnolia is an uncommon enough name that I'd remember to have heard, even just in passing, and I can't say I remember it.

          It sounds old and elegant, a classical beauty. Not like Brooke, so bland and forgettable.

          I hate that Rhett's halfway through a serious anxiety crisis and this is what my brain chooses to focus on. Jesus. Isn't that one of the single most despicable things you've ever heard?

          To his credit—and I'm not sure how he finds it within him, which is admirable on its own—he safely stops the car on the side of the road so we can switch places. I easily settle behind the wheel, even while having to adjust the position of the seat to better fit my size, and, from an outside perspective, this could almost look normal. People switch seats and take turns driving all the time, but this is no road trip and neither of us feels particularly safe right now.

          I don't know how to explain it exactly, but the silence between us feels loaded. It's not the kind of comfortable silence you can sit in and be certain everything's okay; it's the kind of silence that grows all around you like toxic mold, like rust, and only deepens the chasm between two people. It's the kind of silence that reminds you that the worst parts of you and your relationship haven't fully gone away or healed with time, and you're both sitting there with your wounds fully on display.

          I hate this. I hate this so damn much.

          We don't speak about Magnolia during the rest of the drive back to campus, which is good for him and bad for me, as I die a little bit on the inside, both from not having my curiosity satisfied and my anxieties eased, but also because it kills me to see him like this. It's even worse to remember I'm the reason he was all but hyperventilating moments ago, regardless of whatever Magnolia has done to him; if he wanted to talk about her, if it was something I needed to know, he would've already brought it up.

          We don't speak about Magnolia, then. 

          We don't speak about anything at all, and I find I'm the one on the verge of a breakdown, but I force myself to keep my stubborn tears at bay. In a way, it feels like I'm being punished for caring, even if that's not really the case and it's somewhat unfair to even see things from that perspective, but I don't know how to untie the tight knot in my chest. It's painful to even think about its existence, but it's there and it's demanding attention.

          The words are on the tip of my tongue. All I need to do is let them out, be brave, and apologize like Rhett deserves, but I can't say anything. I'm not sure why, but there's something stopping me from doing it, and it makes me feel like an even worse person.

          This is hardly the quintessential college relationship experience. There's a point in every romantic comedy movie where a relationship nearly implodes over miscommunication or people simply refusing to talk to each other, but it doesn't mean I should be aspiring to go through that in real life.

          Fake relationship or not, there has to be something real about whatever we're doing together, and I expect us to be honest when it comes to patching things up. After all, that's one of the ways he managed to talk me into this, not just by volunteering to help me with my senior project. I want things between us to be okay, not necessarily because I've been pining over him for all these years or because I'm expecting to get a real relationship out of this once graduation is out of the way, but because I deserve that kind of closure. We both do, but we can't get to that point if we avoid touchy subjects for all eternity.

          "Would you like me to stay with you, just so you won't be alone?" I question, once we're safely parked in the campus parking lot. Both our seat-belts have been unbuckled, yet neither of us attempt to leave. The last time this happened, we almost kissed following that awkward first date, but we've kissed since, and it shouldn't be an issue.

          If we've kissed out of sight, when there's nothing to prove to anyone, which means there's at least some portion of this relationship that has to be real. Even if it's not real to him, it certainly feels real to me, and I don't want to risk losing it after all we've been through to get to this point. It's not just lust when it comes to me—I'd be relieved if it was just lust, something I could squash and ignore at this point in my life—but I find myself missing him when he's not around, thinking about him in inopportune times, and even mindlessly daydreaming about hypothetical scenarios.

          Romantic scenarios.

          I'm not sure how to feel about these developments. I haven't given it much thought, as it's far easier to pretend it's all fake and just for show so I won't inevitably get my heart shattered and stomped all over for the second time—both by Rhett and in such a short amount of time—but, at the same time, I can't ignore it for much longer. He's all sunshine, this boy, and it would be a pleasure to be burned by him again.

          I don't have the heart to ask whether he feels the same way. Not now, certainly.

          "I'll probably just crash with Andy, or something," he mutters. "I'll be fine. I need to sleep it off."

          "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

          "I know." Rhett exhales through his mouth, opening and closing his hands on repeat. The veins on them bulge. "I'll text you in the morning, okay? I'll be fine."

          "Will we be fine?"

          "Yeah. Of course."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          Rhett doesn't text me in the morning. He doesn't text me at all during the next few days, and I don't see him. We don't even meet up for coffee.

          I don't want to let it bother me too much. I don't want to overthink things.

          And yet.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I decide to respect his space, respect his privacy, respect his right to want some distance from me after I unintentionally dug up painful memories.

          This isn't a decision I'm able to make lightly. Although I know it's for the better and it's admirable that I'm still putting Rhett first, it brings me great anguish, and I almost go back on my word to myself countless times. I don't do it, suddenly too consumed by the overwhelming fear of being a terrible person, but it doesn't mean I don't spend the whole week agonizing over it.

          Realistically, I know he doesn't hate me.

          I know Rhett and I know his behavioral patterns, much like I know how he acts when he hates or simply dislikes someone, and he's transparent enough in my eyes, even when other people—including him—think he's being covert about it. I haven't done anything that would justify a sudden dislike and he would've said something about it, regardless of whether he wants to spare my feelings or not, but I understand he's upset and might need some distance. All of that is fine by me, and I fully understand that at a theoretical level.

          However, I'm a hypocrite, and I can't properly allow my rational thoughts to overpower my more emotional side. It's eating me alive, not being able to talk to him or see him, and I'm well aware it's pissing off everyone around me, especially Nancy.

          She doesn't voice her frustration, but I don't need her to. It's times like these that make me wish we were closer so I could vent to her, but I don't want to overstep or be seen as a complainer for being unable to deal with my problems on my own, so I bottle it up. I don't do a good job at it, either, which does nothing to improve her opinion of me, and the bottle is overflowing.

          As we sit in a booth at the campus café, my usual hangout spot—without Rhett, as my brain reminds me—joined by Ripley and Paige, I can't help but feel like I'm abusing her patience, even as her roommate. I don't want to embarrass her in front of the girl she likes—who, coincidentally, is one of my tickets to a blossoming career after graduation—and in front of the Paige de Haan. As if she wasn't intimidating enough on her own, I also can't neglect that she's Andy de Haan's sister, someone I'm trying so hard to impress.

          Like with Nancy, he's one of those people I'd love to be closer to, but it's mostly because of Rhett.

          I've never felt the need to be close friends with the friends of every guy I date, as I know my place and know how important it is to not be suffocating to your partner and all, but Andy strikes me as one of those charismatic people who draws people to them without even making an effort. I don't know whether he's aware of this or not, but I want to be his friend so badly, even just to prove to Rhett I can be a part of his world, too.

          If I was closer to Andy, I'd be able to ask him about Rhett and figure out how he's doing, considering he's not speaking to me. I don't want to take it personally, but I'm finding it harder and harder to be kept in the dark, especially when I know he's like this partially because of something I did.

          (Part of me suspects Andy knows who Magnolia is. My desire to know more about the elusive Magnolia, whoever she is, is, fortunately, weaker than my willingness to keep Rhett safe.)

          ". . . a WAG," Paige concludes, gathering the foam of her hazelnut mocha with a small spoon. It's only when she throws an expectant look my way that I realize she's talking to me, the only WAG sitting at the table, even though there's something about the term that irks me. It's not like any of these girls are actually married to the players—they're fiancées at most—so I don't get why we're using it. "Yes, girlie. I meant you."

          "Sorry, I dozed off." I shake my head, brushing back my hair away from my face before it can fall into my pumpkin spice latte. "What were you saying?"

          "I was saying there's going to be a party after this week's hockey game at the frat-slash-sorority house, kindly hosted by the WAGs. They're our sorority sisters, so we shouldn't be making any snide comments about them, but both Ripley and I think it's pretty lame that they're making it WAGs only even though we're also part of the sorority and shouldn't have to be excluded or kicked out of the house just because we're not dating anyone on the team." Ripley scowls at this, like she's being roped into something she can't care any less about. "I think reducing women to who they're dating is only setting the feminist movement back about fifty years, no matter how much they try to twist it, and I don't think it's right."

          "Can't you, like, pretend to tolerate Jeff just for the night?"

          "No, she can't," Ripley retorts. "Keane Mahoney is a thing."

          "Stop it," Paige complains, blushing furiously, while I comb through the deepest parts of my memory in search of information regarding this Keane person. "It's not even because of Keane. I don't want to lead Jeff on and it's frankly annoying that he still thinks he has a shot with me. Sometimes banter is just banter; it doesn't mean there's any sexual tension behind it."

          As they discuss the ethics of hooking up with two guys from the hockey team, who just so happen to be best friends with each other, it becomes clear which of them Paige actually has feelings for. I also realize she needs my help to convince the other WAGs to not kick them out of their own Greek house just because they're not dating anyone on the team.

          In theory, neither am I. In their eyes and in my heart, however . . .

          I don't mind trying to help them out, but I'm not sure how much power of persuasion I actually hold. These girls don't know me and have no reason to trust me, at least not compared with how much trust they're willing to deposit on each other after all this time, and there's no guarantee they'll ever accept me as one of their own. I haven't been one of them for long, and I still can't shake off the murderous glances they've been sending my way ever since I started attending practice sessions and games.

          Women have sixth senses when it comes to detecting suspicious things, and I know that being scared of what they might know only makes me look shadier. I don't know why they don't like me and I doubt I want to dig deeper into it, running the risk of tripping over my own feet and raising even more red flags about me and Rhett, but I've done nothing to justify this behavior.

          "I can try to convince them," I tell Paige, "but I can't say for sure it'll work. I don't think they like me that much."

          She shrugs it off with a quick flick of the wrist. "They don't like anyone, especially newcomers, so don't take it personally. Although . . ." She eyes me carefully, like there's something else she wants to say, and my heart jumps. "Never mind. They don't like me, either."

          "I'm sure it has nothing to do with them thinking you're two-timing two guys," Ripley points out. "I'm not saying you are or that it's right of them to be shitty to you or, even if you were, that it would be any of their business, but they'll probably argue you're not doing yourself any favors. I don't know why you care so much about their opinion."

          "Not everyone is as cool as you, Luce."

          Ripley scoffs. "Indeed."

          I'm the first to leave for the first time in my life, as I have to rush across the quad to get to my Light and Lighting lecture. It's something I desperately need to get right if I want my senior project to be a success, considering how big of a part atmospheric lighting plays in it. I need to find the perfect balance between light and dark, the perfect instance of chiaroscuro to appropriately convey the emotions I want to share with my audience and trigger others in them.

          I've been photographing for years now, with various degrees of success and expertise, and have come a long way since I first started, made my way through plenty of cameras and brands, but there's always room to learn and perfect my craft. This is an intermediate course, one I know some seniors scoff at because it's supposed to be easy and basic, but I can't afford to take these opportunities for granted—quite literally. I'll have to spend years paying off my student loans, even with a scholarship, and I need to make the most out of my college experience to make it all worthwhile.

          The one thing that doesn't make my experience worthwhile is the person I run into immediately after entering the building where my lecture will take place. He's waiting for me, stomping his way towards me as soon as our eyes meet, and I know I can't run away. I'm like a crowded animal.

          "Hey, Brie," Cole greets, hands tucked inside the pockets of his jean jacket. "Can we talk?"

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

exes that don't leave you alone and still say they don't want you are the absolute worst innit