07 | lovesick fool
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.
Even after promising myself I wouldn't ever allow myself to let him get to my head like that again, like a goddamn puppy-eyed virus with a dangerous smile, I stumbled to the wrong side of the tightrope. It's all his fault, though, because I cannot possibly be held responsible by the effect he has on me at a neuronal and atomic level.
(Note to self: atomic, not anatomical. Certainly not hormonal, either.)
A loud ding coming from my phone makes me jump up on my bed, rising to a sitting position so quickly I get whiplash, and I rush to follow the sound. I'm glued to my phone at all times, which is problematic in itself, but the one time I need to check it as fast as possible just so happens to be the one time I cannot find that stupid device.
It's the alarm sound I set specifically for emails from my senior project advisor, Professor Aline Ramos, so they won't get lost in the middle of other less relevant notifications and spam emails.
Even though she has my phone number and both my Instagram handles and I've dropped several hints about always being available to be contacted by her through those means, she insists on keeping all our digital communication in our respective email inboxes. Suddenly I regret not using a professional email address to communicate with her, as I'm constantly assaulted by anxious thoughts about having missed an important email in the middle of the night, which keeps me awake for hours. This mind of mine, I swear—it can either be absolutely brilliant or my own personal hell on earth.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I blabber, tossing aside piles of blankets and scattered clothes and praying my phone won't be sent flying across the room. When I finally find it, dangling dangerously close to the end of my mattress, I lunge forward to grab it, noticing the screen is still lit up. Not that much time has passed since the notification sound went off, so all the catastrophizing was just in my head.
Sometimes I really wonder what it would be like to not be so stressed out and nervous all the freaking time. I'm a tiny ball of nervous energy, crackling like I'm made of lightning, and I'm always so shaky—both physically and metaphorically—people think I'm deathly addicted to caffeine.
(I am. Probably not deathly so, but it is a crippling addiction that genuinely gives me day-ruining migraines.)
Huffing to blow my hair away from my face—and mentally wincing at how greasy it is from all the nervousness-induced stress from last night—I double tap the email notification to read the unabridged version of the email. I figured it would be better to email Professor Ramos about the state of my project instead of bursting into her office in tears, but I also thought it would save me from having to wait in agony until she found the time to see me. Now, I realize it's the avoidant side of me taking charge, as I can simply mute my notifications and pretend to not have sent her anything.
Good morning, Brooke.
I've checked with the registrar's office and I regret to inform you that your senior project ('Female Gaze') has already been patented and there will be official documents heading towards your school email's inbox within the next week or so, so please remember to fill those out and mail them back as soon as possible.
I tried explaining the situation without getting into too much detail regarding your personal life (I cringe so hard at the thought of Professor Ramos having to read all my relationship woes and choosing to keep the intimate details to herself while speaking to the ladies over at the registrar's office that I nearly delete the email), but they said it would be too much trouble having to redo the documents and wait for them to be signed by the Dean (who, as you probably know, is busy, and they don't want to bother him with such trivialities), so I don't think there's a way out of this unless you postpone your submission.
Postponing your submission is an option on the table, though I'd particularly advise against it, as it might cause some internal conflicts regarding deadlines, coursework for your other classes, and even graduation.
I take it that's not a risk you want to take, which I fully understand, but I figured I'd let you know that's something you can do if you so wish. However, that would mean scrapping the entire thing, since your project, in the state it currently is, cannot be altered either in name nor in description, and that would include the submission deadline as well. As you're well aware, presenting your project involves a public exhibit at the campus gallery, and it wouldn't be fair for other students to move the entire calendar around to accommodate a singular exhibit.
If you want my personal advice on the matter—I would strongly advise you to stick to your current project and either find a new subject to photograph or try to convince your former one to keep their word; even if it feels awkward, difficult, and uncertain right now, it's what you've wanted to do from the beginning. You've always been passionate about photography and about this project in particular, so please don't let a silly boy ruin this for you. Be your own muse, Brooke.
Please let me know what you want to do moving forward.
Best regards,
Aline Ramos, PhD
— Sent from my iPhone
In that moment, as I dramatically set my phone aside and fall back on my bed, stomach up, and lie immobile like a dying damsel in distress, I find myself relating to Charlotte Lucas from Pride and Prejudice (2005) more than anyone in their right state of mind would ever want to admit aloud.
I'm twenty-one years old. I have no money, no prospects, and I feel like a burden to my parents and to everyone around me. To make it worse, my only two options are to either scrap my passion project and start from scratch because fucking Cole is a backstabbing snake, setting me back and potentially ruining my future and my graduation, or to bite the bullet, accept I'm going to get my heart broken by Rhett Price again, and agree to his proposal.
We fake date, he gets his brand sponsors, his family is happy, and I get to present the only senior project I've ever cared about in my life. Everyone wins, except I know how badly this is going to end for me—Rhett's whole thing is breaking girls' hearts, regardless of whether he means to or not, and we all know the road to heartbreak is paved with the best of intentions. I don't plan on being demolished all over again, but I have to admit we really do need each other right now, even if it's merely a temporary fix.
My cards are laid out before me. There's no illusion of choice now, even though my options suck, so it's only a matter of choosing the one that will harm me less in the long run.
What do I choose? My career or my heart? Which of them will I have an easier time fixing? Which of them would be more cataclysmic to ruin?
Said heart is pounding so hard against my chest that I suspect the nausea coiling my stomach around itself isn't just a byproduct of my hangover. As my brain fog dissipates and I'm bawling furious tears all by myself—over my own stupidity and naivety, over Cole's lack of consideration for anyone but himself, over Rhett's correct assumption that I'm desperate enough to think about wanting his help—I realize no one can pull me out of this slump except for myself.
Nancy has been helpful when it comes to processing the end of a long term relationship and coming to terms with Cole's sudden betrayal, but this is way above her pay grade as a roommate, and I need my partner to be a man—it's the whole point of the project and why I titled it Female Gaze. I don't doubt she'd do it if she could, but she can't. There's also my brothers, Dante and Flint, but I think all of us would die of embarrassment while the shoot took place, so they're not an option either.
Having Rhett stand on the other side of my camera in the way I intended for Cole to do is a thought I've been trying my hardest to keep at bay for the sake of my mental and emotional well-being, but that's the thing about mechanically stopping yourself from thinking about something. You'll inevitably start letting tiny portions of it slip through the cracks until they flood your every thought and there's no way of erasing those images and daydreams from your brain.
As if my heart rate quickening to the speed of light wasn't enough, my cheeks grow so hot I could fry eggs on them, and I certainly don't want to think about the way I have to press my thighs together to—oh, God, please let me think about virtually anything else. It is that bad, it is that intimate, and I never meant for anyone else but Cole to know what we'd be doing during the shoot and how he'd be posing.
I don't think I'm ready to be in that situation with Rhett. Even just being on speaking terms with him and sharing moments of playful banter feels too much right now, like we've skipped important steps in the meantime, and getting intimate on a physical level . . . well. It would help me blow off some steam, let out some of the complicated feelings boiling in my bloodstream for once, but it would add another layer of complexity to our relationship without fixing all the others.
Rhett and I will never stop being complicated. We've never been right for each other, either thanks to timing or conflicting ways of living and interacting with the world and with one another, and, even if this somehow fixes everything that has ever gone wrong between us, part of me still sees it as somewhat of a fever dream, a product of wishful thinking. It's everything a younger version of me ever wanted and, now that it's within reach—albeit in a strange way—I'm finding more and more reasons to be wary of something that dreamy being handed out to me on a silver platter.
I should be suspicious. I really, really should. There are things that only ever work out in romantic comedies and, if we're anything like Andie Anderson and Ben Barry, we'll only be playing each other for our personal gain. Though they get their happy ending, it's a genre convention; it doesn't necessarily mirror real life.
I want it to, though. I want it to be my reality so bad the heartache I'm feeling right now has nothing to do with the blows he's delivered to my heart throughout the years.
So, I do it. I grab my phone, and email Professor Ramos first and foremost.
Good morning, Professor.
Thanks for trying to fix it, but I've made my decision. I'll be moving forward with Female Gaze and have found an alternative partner to work with. Since I never specified a name when I submitted the original paperwork, this should be an acceptable workaround.
Looking forward to our next meeting.
Best,
Brooke Sheridan
That's the easy part. Messaging Rhett is something akin to swallowing battery acid.