BRIE

          Saying I'm freaking out might be the understatement of the year.

          Better yet: it might be the understatement of my life.

          I've had an entire year to prepare my Female Gaze presentation and any delays haven't been directly caused by me (I'm sorry, Professor Ramos; with all due respect, it's true).

          I've had four years of college to prepare me for what will dictate the rest of my future and, modesty aside, I've gone through it successfully. I've busted my ass in class, studying until my eyes burned and my brain couldn't process a single sentence any longer, and I've made the connections I could. Even if my classmates hate me, at least I've been a pleasure to have in class. Even if that's not something most people like to brag about, I take great pride in being liked by all my professors and will find a way of bringing it up during family reunions, thank you very much.

          The night before my presentation, I'm so nervous I can barely keep any food down. Nancy has been a true saint all week, when the nausea first started, even though her first course of action was to get me to take a pregnancy test. You know, just in case.

          (It came back negative, by the way.)

          "You're going to do great," Rhett reassures me, for what feels like the millionth time today. He's been watching me pace around the room, listening to me practice my presentation all day, now that his schedule has been cleared of hockey. "Don't overwork yourself."

          "I can't be great, Rhett," I retort. "I have to be perfect. Great isn't good enough."

          He reaches out his hands towards me, beckoning me to take them, and I do. "You're more than good enough for me."

          "I know." This time, it's the full truth. No more second-guessing myself, no more feeling inferior next to my partner. This time, I'm his equal and I sure as hell feel like it. "I have to be more than good enough for Professor Ramos." I almost say Julia Krischer, but I bite my tongue at the very last second.

          It's not because I think he wouldn't understand. Unfortunately, I know he understands the feeling all too well, the whole 'obsessing over what other people think' thing, and we've always been similar in that aspect. It turns out he wasn't coping with it as well as I spent years thinking, not even when he made it all look so natural at events and galas. It's exactly because he'd understand that I don't want to say anything about it.

          Now that he has been scouted by the Islanders and has his whole professional career waiting in the wings for graduation, I don't want to be a reminder of his darker days. I promised myself I wouldn't be the thing dragging him down.

          Part of being in a relationship is looking out for each other . . . but, then again, so is honesty. I'm torn between justifying my omission and tossing my fears out of the window and confiding in him, which, coupled with my nerves surrounding my presentation, hasn't been great for my mental state. If anyone raises their voice at me, I might cry, and that's not a good look on me. It's not a good omen.

          He looks up at me, green eyes all adoring and pleading, silently asking me to talk to him about my insecurities, and my resolve is thrown out of the window.

          "Okay, so, remember the whole Julia Krischer thing?" I tentatively begin, sitting on my bed next to him, and he scoots to the side to give me more room. Under normal circumstances, we'd be hanging out in his room instead so as to not bother Nancy, but she's out with Ripley. "Remember how the whole thing is hinging on how tomorrow goes? Remember how everything's so within reach but it's also so easy to screw up?"

          "Yes, but I also know how hard you've been working."

          "I've been working my ass off to ensure it's going to be perfect, but that doesn't guarantee it will be perfect." I run my fingers through my hair, but I feel so exhausted and defeated that I don't straighten back up. Instead, I press my elbows against my thighs, holding my head between my hands like one does when they're feeling lightheaded. I am quite lightheaded. "Things this big, this important are always so easy to ruin. All I have to do is say the wrong thing, forget what I'm going to say next, or choke. Someone can sabotage me, the pictures might not be that good—"

          "Permission to beg to differ; I'm the model, so they are that good."

          I roll my eyes. "Still. It's not the model's fault if the photos aren't good. It's the photographer's."

          "Brie." He cups my face with one of his hands, thumb and index finger lifting my chin so I'm forced to look him in the eye instead of hiding behind my hair. It's a bad habit I have yet to fully quit, but I found I've been doing it less often. "Look at me."

          "Looking."

          "Good. That's a start. You never look me in the eye when you're trying to escape a conversation." He drops his hand once he's certain I'll lower my head or look away from him, but still places it on my thigh. It does nothing to help me focus on this conversation, but it's the thought that counts. "I know there's a possibility of things going sour, but the odds of you being perfect are much higher. You're the best photographer I know—"

          "You must not know a lot of photographers, then."

          "—and you're hard-working and dedicated. You started working on the presentation before everyone else even thought about writing their titles. You're spending every waking moment either practicing or thinking about it, so there's no way in hell you're forgetting the words. Even if you do, even if you have to ad lib your way out of the presentation, there's no one on Earth who knows your project better than you do. You can describe it in your sleep. Sometimes, the best presentations are those you end up winging, especially when you know the subject matter like the palm of your hand."

          I sigh, staring down at our joined hands. The silver ring he gifted me glistens. "I can't wing the most important presentation of my life."

          "I know, babe. But if that's what it comes down to, you'll still be okay. You'll still be perfect," he adds, when I open my mouth to correct him. "I wish you could look at yourself the way I do."

          "Rhett—"

          "No, I mean it. You undersell yourself too much. I look at you and see a funny, intelligent, gorgeous, skilled woman; I understand sometimes it's easier to get caught up on the negatives, especially after everything Cole said and did to you"—my stomach turns just thinking about Cole and the open wounds he's left behind in me—"but they're not true. You're not a handful. You're not suffocating. Female Gaze's time is tomorrow, but now . . . now the male gaze is showing how incredible and talented you are. I'm looking at the most wonderful woman I know."

          I playfully shove him to the side, letting out a chuckle. He barely budges. "That's not what the male gaze is."

          "I know. Just wanted to make you laugh."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          The following morning, I don't feel well-rested in the slightest.

          Even though I spent the night at Rhett's (Nancy and I have reached a silent agreement to not have anyone over) and have every reason under the sun to feel confident and relaxed, there are also countless reasons to justify feeling the opposite way.

          My eyes are red and puffy, as though I've been crying all night, when, in reality, I spent the whole night tossing, turning, and not letting Rhett sleep. My throbbing migraine isn't giving me a rest, either, and it's a miracle I managed to drag myself out of bed to shower and get ready. Not even splashing cold water on my face helped. Applying makeup to an exhausted and swollen face, complete with a twitching eye, is a skill that should be studied.

          My voice is giving out from practicing my presentation for hours on end. I decided to skip the business casual dress code (it's implicitly required) by wearing a sweater and tucking it into a skirt, along with a pair of black tights and my trusty heeled loafers, and ignored a blazer in favor of a cardigan. I look approachable, with soft makeup and hair pulled back, instead of someone who knows what they're doing and is serious about it, which is appropriate.

          Well, I am serious about it. The problem is that I don't know what I'm doing and can't mask it, so it's written all over my face. Even with Rhett and Nancy's reassurance that I look and will do great, my palms are sweaty enough to make me silently pray I won't have to shake anyone's hand.

          At least I'm being perfectly, awkwardly polite.

          I smile and nod at everyone who comes in and makes direct eye contact with me, either on purpose or accidentally (the latter quickly look away once they notice the redhead grinning a bit too widely at them, like the fool that she is). I even point them towards the snacks and drinks tables, thanks to all my people-watching activities at the parties and galas I've attended with Rhett, Nancy, and sometimes even Ripley.

          The fact that these people, including strangers, are here because of me and my work is still unthinkable in my mind.

          No one is forcing them to be here—except those bound by an unspeakable agreement of mutual support, like Nancy, Rhett, Paige, Ripley, and my family—so I can't help but be taken aback whenever I accidentally eavesdrop a conversation about me. It's even more daunting to hear myself be painted in a positive light, hearing them talk about their excitement over the exposition.

          If I were any other person, I'd be able to use that excitement to bring up my mood, but, since I'm Brooke Sheridan, it only makes me feel more at ease. Nervousness coils in my stomach, a hurricane destroying everything in its path, and my hands can't stop shaking. I nearly spill water all over myself which, after all the work I put into looking presentable, would ruin everything I've carefully put together.

          When I catch a glimpse of my reflection on a metal pillar, it's so distorted it startles me with how on edge I've been all week (all month . . . all year . . .). I decide to stay away from reflecting surfaces for the sake of my sanity, as though I need yet another thing to obsess over today.

          "This is it, baby," my mom says, right before the presentation starts. "How are you feeling?"

          I exhale through my mouth, suddenly aware of how badly I'm trembling when she resorts to holding me by the shoulders. "Do you want the honest answer or the one you want to hear?"

          "I always want you to be honest with me." I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, hoping it will somehow quell the urge to burst into tears. A stubborn one still rolls dramatically down my cheek, which she wipes away with her thumb. "I know you're nervous, but I'm sure it will be fine. No one is more prepared to do this than you are."

          I know that. However, that means nothing to me considering I don't feel prepared in the slightest.

          I still make my way towards the makeshift podium, where the despised microphone awaits, along with my laptop. Behind where I'll be standing, the projected first slide of my presentation welcomes everyone. No one cheers when I walk in, as I'm not important enough to matter, but there's also no hushed gossip like I feared.

          I don't spot Cole in the crowd, but a characteristic flash of blonde hair draws my attention and reveals Magnolia. I nearly barf all over myself and my equipment, but she flashes me two thumbs up and an encouraging smile, two gestures I didn't know I needed, and away I go.

          "Good morning," I begin, clearing my throat at the end of the sentence. "My name is Brooke Sheridan, and this is Female Gaze.

          "As you know, the male gaze is a term used to describe the way women are portrayed on screen—as sexual beings, existing only for their pleasure and entertainment." I press the button to move to the next slide, revealing photos of Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow, Megan Fox in Transformers, and Margot Robbie in The Wolf of Wall Street. "Their backstories are shallow, often filled with unnecessary suffering, sometimes of sexual nature, in order to make them more palatable and desirable for heterosexual male viewers. They're there to sit back, look pretty, and be a prize for the male hero—the viewer by proxy—to obtain. By nature, the female gaze would do the same to a male-presenting subject, like so."

          I press the button again and again, showcasing the not necessarily safe for work photos of Rhett I've captured. To remain professional, I keep my eyes glued to the crowd because, if I look behind me or at my laptop, I'll be greeted by shirtless Rhett Price.

          He's everywhere, playfully taunting me, gorgeous as hell—getting out of the shower, in the locker room talking to the blurry guys in the background, pretending to be asleep in his bed with the golden glow of the sunset in the distance—and I'm not a strong enough woman to handle it appropriately.

          "This is the female gaze, male gaze style. The subject is sexualized, showcased as an object instead of a human being. He's here for the viewer's consumption, and he's here to perform." I take a deep breath, keep showing the photos. They shift in tone, slowly but surely, and it's not just his looks that are the focal point. "The female gaze in its more evolved iteration represents a more complete view of the subject in all its complexities. It portrays the subject as human and not as an object to be consumed. It portrays the subject as someone to root for, to empathize with, to understand. It doesn't fully exclude sexuality, but it doesn't treat it as the sole purpose of the subject's existence or rob them from their agency if that's something they want to see explored via this medium."

          More photos of Rhett are projected behind me. There are some he knows about, others he doesn't—those captured in moments when I just so happened to have my camera with me and took the shot. I always took the shot, be it because of the lighting or whatever else, whenever the mood felt right. I took the shot whenever he felt more human to me, not just when he was completely relaxed.

          That's not just who he is. As a human, he has bad days. Naturally, I didn't capture any shots of him at his lowest, a very Brie-thing to do as opposed to what Magnolia did to him, but that thought didn't even cross my mind—that I was being better than she was. It could have, but it didn't. It was never about one-upping her.

          It's him, my human, my person, and I love him whole.

          I keep explaining my ideas, my project, and even manage to go off-script sometimes—something I found impossible to do yesterday. The more I talk, the more I feel at ease, and it's almost second nature, like I've been doing this forever. I've been taking photos since I've learned to hold a camera, but I've rarely been in front of people who want to hear me talk about what I do. Usually, the photos themselves are all that matters, not me, so this has been a refreshing yet terrifying experience.

          "The point of this project wasn't to portray men in a sexual manner and reverse the object of the gaze. It's to show the multiple sides to every individual, especially one who's used to being sexualized and viewed as an object of desire thanks to their physique, social status, and occupation." I switch to the final slide, the one thanking the crowd for putting up with me and my silly little project that took a bigger toll on me than I'd like to admit. "Being conventionally attractive doesn't negate the other aspects of the subject's personality—they're a child, a friend, a partner, an athlete, a person. The female gaze, in order to combat the male gaze, has to be conscious of the other dimensions human beings have.

          "The female gaze is all-encompassing, acknowledging that a woman can be whatever she wants and still be treated as a human being. The model distances themselves from traditional gender roles, which allows, for example, for male-presenting subjects to appear gentle and kind instead of overpowering or for female-presenting models to reclaim their voice and their power. It allows them to simply . . . be what they want to be. They're given autonomy beyond the lens of a camera. And I think that's the most honest way to photograph someone or be photographed. Thank you for your time."

          I'm met with thunderous applause, the biggest praise I've received in my life, and I'm so quick to run to my family it's embarrassing.

          They return my hugs with even tighter ones, even Flint (who's no longer failing Biochemistry, thank the lord), but I'm the one to pull away this time. I'm never the one to do so, always lingering for one beat too long, but it's only so that I can fall into the arms of the other person who turned this passion project into something tangible.

          "You're the most talented, incredible person on this planet," Rhett whispers in my ear as he sets me back down on the floor. I have to remind myself we're in public. "You were even better than you thought you would be."

          "What did you think? I didn't want to expose you too much."

          "Pfft. As if." He shrugs. "I look damn good in those photos. You've always been great at capturing my best angle."

           I open my mouth to answer, but then I spot her and her bright red pixie cut—Julia Krischer herself, checking out the framed photographs a few feet away—and everything I wanted to say fades into oblivion. Rhett catches me staring and urges me to walk up to her, but I'm a) terrible at making small talk and b) terrified of this woman.

           However, she notices me first. When she stops in front of me and introduces herself, I thank the heavens for Rhett Price for not letting me pass out in front of one of my idols.

          She gives me a card, tells me it'll be a pleasure to have me as an apprentice in September.

          Rhett's hand clenches mine, and it finally dawns on me.  

          I'm getting everything I've ever wanted. My loved ones are here to witness it and to love me through all of it. I can finally breathe.

          And it's the greatest feeling in the world.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

THERE'S AN EPILOGUE COMING STAY TUNED XOXO

y'all omfg can you BELIEVE we're at the end??? it's been a wild ride but i've had a real blast writing this book. i really needed a break from the hard hitting books and i couldn't have asked for a better book or better readers. not you, demons who ignored brie's chapters.

we love to see a girlboss winning