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
It's September, but I feel like I've walked straight into a New England winter with how much I'm shivering and with how hard my teeth are chattering.
I don't understand how Rhett likes being here. I love fall as much as the next girl—I've lived in Vermont my whole life, as cliché as that sounds—but my poor body doesn't like abysmally low temperatures, even when I have time to prepare myself for it in advance, both physically and mentally. At least I have Rhett's letterman jacket, which gives me an extra layer of protection from the biting cold air, but it's still not ideal.
I'm suddenly hyper aware of how intimate this is, even when I'm sitting on the bleachers and he's skating laps around the rink with the rest of his team. Wearing his varsity jacket brands me in a way that attracts curious glances from the moment people catch a glimpse of his name and jersey number stamped on my back, but it's been manageable so far.
There's some discomfort attached, especially when I notice the murderous glares some girls shoot my way once they realize I'm wearing his jacket, but I don't partake in those dynamics. They can hate me all they want if it makes them feel better, as I know neither I nor Rhett owe them any explanations or apologies about what we're doing—not that it concerns them in any way—but it saddens me to know they're choosing to antagonize me and turn me into a villain purely based on my choice of outerwear.
There are things that matter so much more than varsity jackets and hockey players, but I can't force them to agree with me. I'd rather pretend they're not plotting my murder and how to make it look like an accident, even though it would be a pretty targeted attack, in my opinion. I'm not going to war over a guy, not even for Rhett Price.
Even if most romantic comedies from the early 2000s—my personal favorites—help promote the concept of female rivalries over men and only valuing friendships with the women who aren't also interested in the male love interest, that's not the kind of girl I am, and I don't want to indulge in girl hate.
To distract myself while the guys are just skating laps and not doing something I need to pay close attention to, I pull my phone out of my pocket, which is considerably harder than it needs to be, courtesy of my freezing fingers.
Professor Ramos never got back to me regarding the senior project update I sent her the morning after the charity gala, and thinking about her sudden silence makes me want to sprint across campus and barge into her office, so I decide to stop refreshing my inbox for a response that I likely won't receive.
Though it's something that doesn't necessarily require a response, I'm still hoping for the slightest bit of acknowledgment that she got it and read it, or maybe a small pat on the back for not giving up over the slightest inconvenience. She was the one to tell me to be my own muse and, now that I found a way of solving my problems, she has suddenly gone silent.
