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.
*****
Brooke 'Brie' Sheridan wouldn't necessa...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
BRIE
I wake up the next morning feeling as though I've both been run over by a truck and like there's something weighing down on my chest.
This matters because the weirdest thing about my hangovers is that they tend to leave me with a strange sensation that I'm floating even while lying down on my bed, which does absolutely nothing to help with the inevitable nausea. It's almost like being seasick and being unable to leave the stupid boat because of that weight anchoring me down to the mattress. Even if I wanted to move, I couldn't, and that's the most infuriating part of it all—it's the hidden prohibition, hiding behind a false illusion of choice.
It's probably not as dramatic as I'm making it out to be, but if there's one thing I know how to do, it's being dramatic. I was a theater kid in high school, for Christ's sake. The only reason I don't randomly break out into song or launch myself into an intricate dance routine in the middle of a crowded grocery store aisle is how terrified I am of being subject to public humiliation. As much as I liked it, I quickly realized it's the kind of stuff that is frowned upon, and I don't often get the luxury of getting away with being seen as unlikable.
Appearances matter, unfortunately, and it's not just about looks.
Modesty aside, I'm confident in the way that I look, even though it pains me to admit how much money I spend every year on skin and hair care products, makeup, and pretty clothes just so I can look the way that I do, but there's a certain standard that you have to meet in particular circles. Like the massive, massive hypocrite that I am, I do care about what people in those circles think of me, as they'll be my clients and the people hiring me after graduation, so I need to look the part if I want to fit in. If I can't fit in through monetary means, then I can at least look like I do and stroke my ego the tiniest bit.
However, I can't fit in with them with a pounding migraine, courtesy of my hangover. I switched to water at some point during the gala last night, after being so overwhelmed by my surroundings—and by Rhett, but that's no secret—that I couldn't physically stop myself from refilling my champagne flute, but it didn't do much. The appetizers they were serving were small and not filling at all, so there was barely anything in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, so I should have seen this coming from a mile away, really.
Instead of blaming my already poor disposition and inability to keep my personal, academic, and professional lives separate for ruining my night, I blame Rhett. Rhett Price had the audacity to walk up to me, looking criminally good in fancy black and white attire (seriously, no one should look that good on a suit without being, say, one of the Chrises), when I was already feeling fragile and vulnerable. He told me a sob story about how much his lovely family misses me as much as I miss them, batted his strangely long eyelashes at me, and I fell for it like a lovesick fool.
