Brie Sheridan has had her heart broken way too many times. Rhett Price is usually the culprit, but, this time, he might be the solution.
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Brooke 'Brie' Sheridan wouldn't necessa...
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RHETT
As per usual, maybe I should have thought things through before opening my mouth.
Asking Brie to watch today's practice would be a great idea in itself if she wasn't Brie Sheridan and if I hadn't taught her terrifyingly massive older brothers how to play hockey, accidentally giving them plenty of vital knowledge on how to ruin my life. I failed to remember she hates hockey, something she's always been outspoken about, and I fear I might be asking for too much here.
Does this feel manipulative to anyone else or is it just in my head? Am I gaslighting myself right now?
As we make our way towards the ice rink, I start wishing I had the ability to shut off my brain whenever I need to instead of needing external distractions to do it for me. Just now, speaking to Brie kept me focused on the conversation itself, making me forget all about our surroundings (the whole world could have exploded and I wouldn't have noticed a thing), but it also made me forget about my physical presence and how it impacts everything else.
It feels ridiculous to be this concerned about having left my hand on her thigh. I'm not judging her hesitation and discomfort, no; most of all, I'm judging myself for assuming she'd be okay with it considering our history and chastising myself for not paying attention.
Part of me assumed she wouldn't mind, as we've technically agreed to do whatever it takes to sell the story, which includes supposedly spontaneous displays of affection. For fuck's sake, I do this all the time when I'm chatting to a girl I'm interested in—I let my fingers brush against theirs, place a hand on their hip or on the curve of their waist, lean in while we're talking like a dance. Maybe that's the main issue here. Maybe I need to make a mental reminder that I absolutely cannot behave around her exactly how I'd behave around those girls, even if the end result is somewhat similar.
It's only similar in public, where people can see us, and sometimes it's wise to assume someone is always watching. I'm not trying to be cocky here, but I know people pay attention to me and care about what I do, so I've grown used to the feeling of being watched even when I think I'm alone, which makes me sound unbelievably paranoid and obsessed with myself.
It's true, though.
She slips her hand into mine as we walk, arms touching, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like she can't tell how the warmth emanating from her turns into electricity the very moment we touch. She doesn't know the effect she has on me, how attuned to her every inch of my body is, and it's simultaneously endearing and frustrating.
I'm floating with every step I take, wondering how much of this conversation is serving as a way to forget what just happened and how much of it is real, an olive branch, a step towards a mended relationship, no matter how small. My anxiety over this relationship, my career, my relationship with my family, and life in general isn't her responsibility to fix or her fault, but, if we want things to work out, if we want to go back to being friends, we need to be able to talk about this.
