BRIE

          It turns out that being honest with people really does have its benefits. Who would have thought?

          January goes by in the blink of an eye, hurrying past me before I can properly process the passing of time. It's like a short, deep breath for the first time in my life; other Januaries have dragged on for so long they felt eternal. Unlike those Januaries—long, jagged little breaths like I've just finished running a marathon and look and feel like a dying seal—I can finally allow myself some moments of peace.

          That's not to say I haven't been busy.

          I wish college had given me a break this month, but it's been a whirlwind since classes were back in session, especially with it being my final semester of college—ever, which is still such an odd concept to grasp—and I'm slowly falling back into the hyper productive rhythm that's required of me.

          I attend all my lectures, participate in them, socialize with my classmates instead of only caring about my professors, and don't always linger behind after the end of a lecture to earn extra brownie points when I don't have any questions about the syllabus. Somehow, I'm checking all the boxes on the list I made at the start of my freshman year on how to find balance. 

          My new-found time management skills have even allowed me to allot time to change my voicemail greeting, something I haven't done in years. I find it in me to be humorous about something that was so unbelievably stressful for me a couple years ago ("Hi! You've reached Brooke Sheridan. Leave a message and I'll call you back ASAP. I'll Brie right back!"), so I'd like to see that as progress, thank you very much.

          It might not be that big of a deal to most people, but most people around me are a lot more in control of their lives than I am (or they're better at masking the chaos of their lives), so I'm learning to appreciate the small victories. It's something small in the greater span of things and I'm certain I'll have to deal with bigger, more important curve balls in the future, but at least I'm not giving up when faced with a small hurdle.

          Perhaps the past version of me would have, I don't know, but I do quite like this version.

          "How do you want me?" Rhett asks, a few days before Valentine's Day.

          Unironically, it's my favorite holiday out of all of them. I still love Christmas, like the entirety of my family, but there's something about having an entire day dedicated to love—romantic love, in this case—that just tugs at my heartstrings. I feel like I'd be betraying myself by falling victim to the criticism and cynicism surrounding it.

          Do I think love should be celebrated every day of the year? Yes.

          Do I think capitalism has stolen something so warm and pure and turned it into a black hole of unmeasured, unsustainable consumption? Also yes.

          Do I still love Love Day? Abso-freaking-lutely. No one can take that away from me, not even the skeptics like Flint and Nancy.

          (TBD on Nancy's opinion of Valentine's Day now that she and Ripley are officially together. It's the first time I've seen her be in a serious relationship with someone in all nearly four years I've known her for, and people surely aren't lying when they say that real love makes you happier. It makes you glow and blossom.)

          (I know it because it has happened to me. I know it because it is happening to me right now.)

          "Move a little bit to the right, lower your head just a little bit so that your jacket covers it more," I instruct, even though I believe hiding that frustratingly handsome face of his should be a crime. He seems to agree or even read my mind, as he shoots me a playful smirk before adjusting his pose. "I'm sorry, but can you raise your left shoulder just a little bit? Pretty please? I know I'm asking a bit too much—"

          He raises his shoulder as asked. "You're not asking for too much. This is your project; I'm just the model. I'm at your mercy."

          I bite down on my bottom lip, embarrassingly aware of how badly I'm blushing. "It doesn't mean you have to be uncomfortable just so I can take the shot." 

          "I'm not uncomfortable. You're a great director."

          I let out a playful scoff. "You're just saying that."

          His shoulder sags. "Permission to take a break?" I nod, setting my camera aside. My wrists are sore from how long we've been doing these shots, over and over until I can get the perfect one, while he has yet to break a sweat. His stamina is miles better than mine. "I'm not just saying that. Don't sell yourself short. The art you make is extraordinary and not everyone can do it, especially not as well as you do."

          Although I hate that it happens, my mind takes me back to all the times I felt diminished in a relationship—particularly with Cole. Even though he begrudgingly agreed to let me photograph him for Female Gaze, I knew he didn't care about it or about what I did. Photography to him has always been a small, insignificant thing, a hobby I'd end up dropping along the way, and not at all that serious. Yes, it's a hobby, but it's also a passion, my major, and my main future source of employment; just because it's art, it doesn't make it any less valid or important.

          My other boyfriends didn't care much about photography either.

          They weren't nearly as meaningful or left such a big dent in my life, self esteem, and sense of worth. They were fine, average, barely-there men. Purses, as Nancy refers to them; prettier in theory, perched up on a shelf, and easily replaceable. Cole, on the other hand, took his time leaving his mark on me, but, if I healed from the Dark Days, I can heal from him, too.

          "I'm just not used to being with someone who cares about what I do, that's all," I confess, half-embarrassed to be voicing this aloud. "Most people don't."

          "Well, I'm not most people." He walks up to me, brushes my hair away from my face. A shiver runs across my spine when his fingers graze against my cheekbones. "I'm Rhett fucking Price."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          Rhett fucking Price, true to his promise (something he slurred while under a nasty case of a flu that took him out of commission for nearly two weeks), decides to take me out for Valentine's Day.

          My first instinct was to launch into a protest about how he didn't need to do that, how I didn't really feel like doing anything special to celebrate, but I'd be lying to him and to myself by refusing the gesture. The socially acceptable thing for me to do is to pretend I don't want to go when I actually do want to go—because God forbid women say yes to anything that makes them feel good—and have him beg for my approval just to appease his ego when I finally agree to do it.

          It's nothing special to most people. Even then, it means the world to me, more than he imagines.

          Rhett decides he wants to use his lifelong discount code (which doesn't actually exist) from Mona's and tells me he planned everything in advance so that things go as smoothly as possible tonight. We won't have to wait in line or wait for a table to vacate; with him and Mona being close to each other, he can guarantee he always has an empty booth waiting for him, me, and/or Andy, with or without a wig on.

          (And no, I'm not ever letting him live that down. The mere thought of Andy de Haan flicking his fake hair over his shoulder and throwing Rhett a fake loving look, batting his eyelashes, is hilarious to me.)

          He picks me up outside my dorm room, as per usual, and, this time, there's no Nancy looming menacingly behind me to warn me to be careful and to deliver a poorly disguised threat to Rhett about what will happen to him if I return bawling.

          She has her own plans with Ripley, which means Paige is also left to her own devices; since we're all invested in the Keane-Paige-Jeff love triangle (not really), it makes me wonder what she'll be doing tonight—if she's even doing anything. Why I care, I don't know, but then I remember we're friends now and it's normal for me to care about my friends.

          "You're stunning," Rhett tells me, holding a bouquet of perfectly pink peonies—my favorite flowers—on one hand and his car keys on the other. It's a simple compliment, but I'm a simple girl who swoons over the bare minimum, so it's no wonder that I feel my cheeks grow so hot I could cook dinner on them. "Ready to head out?"

          "As ready as I'll ever be," I confirm, carefully taking the bouquet. I'm scared I'll squash the flowers if I hold them too tightly, but I don't want to accidentally drop and ruin them.

          Knowing me like I do, it's something very plausible. I'm not the quirky, endearing kind of clumsy. I'm more of a train wreck kind of clumsy, dragging everyone and everything down with me, a hurricane destroying everything in my way.

          "I'll be honest and tell you straight away you look so good tonight it's almost indecent," he says, unlocking the car from a distance. Once we're close enough, I place the bouquet on the backseat, with as much care as I'd use with a small child or my camera. "I'm not just saying that. You do. I'm having a hard time focusing right now."

          "You're never just saying that. Or anything."

          "True. But I mean it."

          I playfully pat his cheek. "Let's hope you can focus on driving long enough to get us to Mona's in one piece."

          His eyes glaze over, giving me one last look before he slides into the driver's seat, and I use that brief moment of calm to take a deep breath. The air between us has shifted, with warmth pooling in my abdomen, but I rush to shake off those thoughts before I do something stupid—like hooking up with him in the backseat of his car in a crowded parking lot like a hormonal teenager. My hands are cold enough to be helpful and I press them against the sides of my neck.

          So maybe I put extra effort into looking good tonight. So what. Sue me.

          I curled my hair into loose locks, switched up my makeup (and remembered to wear transfer-proof foundation and lipstick. Just in case), and put on some of my nicer clothes, albeit with no sequins. The plunging neckline has made its glorious return to show off some cleavage but not in a RELEASE THE TITTIES IMMEDIATELY way. Overall, I know I look good, and I love that it has some effect on Rhett.

          I love that he cares. I love that I love that he cares. It's not often that I feel this adored by someone, not just physically, and I'm proud that I can finally feel like I belong next to him.

          Appearance aside, I'm growing more confident and certain of myself, learning to believe in myself and my potential, and choosing to accept that I deserve the good things coming my way. I've fought like hell for my scholarship and have spent the past four years making sure everyone around me knows how serious I take my academic and professional careers. I've spent even longer than that honing my craft, going above and beyond to ensure no one ever will think of me as mediocre or average.

          Rhett Price doesn't lose. Now, neither do I. And it feels fucking awesome.

          The hand he keeps on my thigh whenever we stop at a red light is unbelievably distracting, though, and I feel powerless whenever it happens. He shoots me a smirk, amusement swimming in his eyes when he glances at me, like he knows the effect he has on me—the goosebumps covering the bare skin of my leg, blazing thanks to his touch, are great evidence of it.

          Dinner goes by without a hitch.

          My stomach doesn't growl embarrassingly loud as I peruse the menu and I don't spill my drink all over myself. Rhett nearly does, but he manages to jump off his seat at the very last second thanks to his lightning fast, hockey influenced reflexes. I would be looking like a wet dog, dripping iced tea from my hair and sleeves, but he makes accidents look good. It's frustrating, but in a good way.

          We talk about New York and our future plans, refusing to let the uncertainty of it all sour the mood of the date.

          We're grown young adults who know how to communicate properly with each other (or we try our hardest to be, at least) and this is something we can't ignore or assume there will be a better opportunity to discuss. No miscommunication shall be involved, thank you very much.

          Neither of our careers are set in stone just yet and, even though I know building up expectations can be dangerous—I know all about it because of Cole et al.—I still try to convince him to have more faith in himself and his talent. It's something you can learn, yes, but there's something about it that comes naturally to him, something no one can teach you.

          He does the same to me, lifting me up whenever I talk down about myself, downplay my skills, try to convince myself I'm not good enough at won't ever be. I know I'm good, but I could be better; my project is good, but it's not perfect, and I fear it won't be enough to land me the recommendation for the apprenticeship. Even if it's good enough, Julia will ultimately be the one to choose someone, and the fact that I can't guarantee she'll choose me is frying up my brain, redirecting my thoughts towards self-deprecation territory.

          We'll make it work. I oh so desperately want to believe that, with every ounce of strength left in me, and I know he feels the same way. Even if it's not in New York, even if these plans don't take a turn for the better and we have to find alternatives, we'll still be okay.

          (A girl can still hope, though. And a girl does.)

ᓚᘏᗢ

          The ride back to campus is quiet—comfortably so, the kind of silence shared by two people who know each other well enough to not feel the need to fill it up with mindless chatter.

          Rhett hums along to the song playing, courtesy of my playlist, one he seems to like and has no clue it's filled with songs that remind me of him and us. I don't want to tell him just yet in case he hasn't realized it, as I don't want to suddenly overwhelm him with information; with how violent his anxiety can be, I fear he'll inevitably start reading too much into it. Sometimes a song is just a song, and sometimes a song says more than a single conversation.

          I follow him to his dorm, like the powerful woman that I am, because I know what I want and I want to get it.

          (I won't force him to do something he doesn't want to do. Obviously. Consent matters, regardless of my feelings about being rejected, or whatever.)

          When we stop by his door, my hair all messy but not my makeup (smart Brie is smart), Rhett looks at me—properly looks at me, like a hungry man, and I feel a sudden urge to pin him against the door behind him. Not the classiest of thoughts by any means, but I'll take what I can get when my brain turns into cotton candy whenever he's in close distance.

          He begins, "It's getting kind of late—"

          My heart momentarily drops. "If you want to get rid of me—"

          He shakes his head, chuckling. "I was going to ask if you want to spend the night here. If you don't, I can walk you back to your dorm, no worries. I'd just rather if you weren't walking around in the dark by yourself."

          I place a hand on my hip. "If you want me to stay, you can just say so."

          He laces an arm around my waist, pulling me closer, and the friction nearly makes me explode. "I always want you to stay. It doesn't mean I can't also worry about your safety."

          "I'm fine."

          "Damn fine, actually."

          He briefly turns to open the door, holding out his arm so I can duck under it and enter his dorm room first. When I hear the soft click of it closing behind me and that of him turning on the floor lamp, not as bright as the ceiling light, I can also feel a shift in the air.

          When I spin around on my heels, he's already there to meet me halfway, standing so close I can find the speckles of blue in his eyes—cerulean, even.

          "Hi," I stupidly blurt out, like a schoolgirl in love.

          "Hi," he replies, grinning. He helps me take off my jacket and, even though I obviously still have clothes on, I feel naked. "Fancy meeting you here."

          "You say that like I wouldn't meet you anywhere." I smugly match his expression, but my breath gets hitched in my throat the second his lips brush against the side of my neck and I lose all composure. "That's cheating. You don't get to"—I sharply inhale—"distract me like that."

          "How can I distract you, then?" His breath fans over my skin and I momentarily forget how to breathe like a normal human being. "This okay?"

          "More than."

          "Good." His hands slide down my back, palming my ass, then reach to grab my thighs to lift me. I let out a stupid, childish giggle as I wrap my legs around his waist, clinging to him for dear life before pressing my lips against his. "Now who's trying to distract who?"

          "We're tied." I cup his neck with my hands, feeling his pulse against my palms. "Bed?"

          "Bed."

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

a reminder that i do not write smut. the scene continues in the next chapter, but it's not detailed. if you comment ROBBED, you will be blocked x