31 | out in the open
I feel the crash before I even see it or hear it.
It's not as dramatic as it sounds, I promise. I can barely see a palm ahead of me with how dipped in thick darkness the frat house is, complete with the colored lights I remember seeing at Paige's birthday party that make my eyes water and beg and aching for a break from the overstimulation. The playlist they've selected to serve as a soundtrack for the party is heavy on the bass, so heavy I'm not sure how campus security has yet to ruin everyone's night by bursting through the front door.
Either way, I'm having to rely on my other senses to navigate my way through the frat house, but some of them end up being far more useful than others.
My sense of smell is being overwhelmed with the pungent smell of alcohol, burning my nose, and there are so many different concoctions scattered around the house that I can't help but feel nauseous. I'm a fan of everything in moderation, despite how often I've gotten embarrassingly intoxicated in public, and I wish there was a way of distracting myself from those memories.
At least in the kitchen there were other options—there was food, the decadently sweet smell of my Coke and Sprite mix, and Rhett's cologne—but, as we push through the crowd and get closer to the main event of the night (namely: Jeff's undoubtedly impressive, yet mortifying for everyone who knows him keg stands), I find I have to hide my nose in the fabric of my clothes, pressing it against my shoulder, so I won't gag. Thus, relying on my sense of smell is out of the question, as the only thing assaulting me is unfairly violent.
Taste.
That, on the other hand . . .
I can still taste Rhett on the tip of my tongue. I can still taste it on my lips, feel the tingle of missing the hot, chaotic physical contact between us. I can still taste the smokey, charred sensation left behind in the wake of his fire. It lingers behind for so long I worry I've burnt my tongue by daring to lick an open flame.
I find it doesn't matter. I find I quite like it, actually, and the mere concept of admitting it aloud sends my heart into overdrive, transporting me back to that moment, to the weight that was lifted off my shoulders after I dared to tell the truth—the moment I was rewarded for my bravery and honesty.
I pride myself in speaking my mind even when my voice is shaking, even when a little white lie would be far more beneficial to keep up a fa?ade, but I know the weight of guilt and the way it sinks and rots in one's stomach all too well.
Even though my penchant for being truthful, my desire to remain honest and consistent at a personal, moral level (which, in turn, makes me want to always be right) often get me in trouble and do nothing to ease the awkwardness in certain social situations, the good old trick of putting my foot in my mouth can be as terrible as it is endearing. It's lonely there, at the top, and knowing I've achieved the moral high ground over everyone else means nothing if I don't have anyone to celebrate it with.
I want someone to be there for me when I hit my lowest points, but I also want a partner to bask in the warm light of success. Is that too much? Can't a girl get a break these days?
So, I focus on the most reliable of sensations—touch.
My fingers are still intertwined with Rhett's, something I've grown quite accustomed to with the passing of days. Whatever happened to Miss "no PDA unless it's strictly necessary" is beyond me, with us finding every excuse under the sun to be in physical contact with one another, even when there aren't any other people around to witness it.
We argue it's just in case someone might be, just in case we have to immediately jump into pretend mode without giving anyone a chance to suspect it's all for show with how fast we change our stance, or whatever, but I know better now. Both of us do, and it's so much more liberating to have it all out in the open now.
So, I keep my hand clasped with Rhett's, trusting him enough to believe he knows where to go and what to do, even though he's being unsurprisingly cryptic about . . . whatever has happened. The understanding that passed between him and Paige in the kitchen was hard to ignore, but I've been playing the dumb, oblivious act just because it feels like the right thing to do in this context. If I act like I haven't noticed a thing, if I act like I don't know they were talking about Magnolia, it gives Rhett enough time to mentally prepare himself.
It also gives him enough time to come up with an excuse to keep me in the dark about it for even longer, which I'm not a fan of, but it was yet another sacrifice I've decided to make for his sake. I've noticed I've had to do a lot of those lately, truly believing I'll be rewarded in some way, even if not directly in a cause-effect association, but there has come a time when I can no longer stand one more minute of this.
I can't keep dumbing myself down for the sake of other people's egos. I can't.
Then, Rhett abruptly stops walking and I nearly face plant right into his back. I'm not understanding why at first, but, when I use my free hand to hold him by the waist and steady myself before I fully lose my balance, I can feel how stiff his entire body is, and something in my heart just knows.
The joke writes itself in my head. In my head, everyone is staring and laughing at me, chuckling at my naivety. They shake their heads, wondering how someone can be this stupid, and it really is a terrible sensation to feel like everyone is in on the joke except for you, even when you're the punchline.
So, a girl walks into a party where her (fake) boyfriend's (presumably) ex-girlfriend is . . .
She's gorgeous, and she's blonde, and I'm about to throw up at the mere sight of her. I want her to be mean, an abhorrent person, just so my worst fears and most terrible assumptions of her can be confirmed (someone who hurts Rhett to the point of traumatizing him enough to make him nearly crash his car just by the simple mention of her name should not deserve my kindness), but my selfish mind instantly locks in on the way he looks at her, and I wonder why he doesn't look at me like that.
Andy once told me he looks at me like I'm magic, but he looks at Magnolia like she's the sun—bright enough to give life, dangerous and flammable enough to take it away. I suppose I got the longer end of the stick, but, in a sick, twisted way, I miss that fire, even if it wasn't the healthiest.
"Rhett," she calls out, and the whole crowd parts to let her through. Her voice sounds like a wind chime, almost musical, because of course it does, and I'm suddenly reminded of how shrill mine can get. You begin to grow tired of your own voice when you have no one else to talk to. "Rhett, can we—"
"No," he retorts. He moves his arm so I move behind him, like he's trying to shield me from view, and I'm unsure whether it's due to a desire to protect me or to hide me—like he's ashamed to be seen with me. "I have nothing to say to you. Let me through, Magnolia, please."
Someone who kisses me the way he did back in the kitchen isn't usually ashamed to be seen with me in public, not when he has taken every chance he could to display his affection for me (while silly, little, old me was too stupid to even consider it was anything but platonic . . .), to the point where I was mildly uncomfortable with it at first. Someone who kisses me like they need the oxygen in my lungs and does that with their tongue . . .
I don't dare clear my throat, too afraid to draw unnecessary attention to me when things are already this tense, when the air in the living room feels this stifling (the irony of this isn't lost on me), so I try to swallow the lump lodged in there. Staring at Magnolia while she completely ignores the presence of anyone who isn't Rhett does me no better, though.
Her hair, golden even under the strobe lights, frames her heart-shaped face and cascades down her back in gentle waves, the look I haven't ever managed to pull off quite how I want to—it's obvious it took effort to style, but, at the same time, there's something oddly natural about it. Her eyes are big and wide, cerulean blue, and there's no malice in them, not even in the nervous curl of her full lips as she attempts to get the words out.
Even her stupid makeup is perfect—mauve lipstick, a delicate blush, a light coat of mascara, and an immaculate sunkissed complexion—whereas I look like a clown even when I follow tutorials to the most microscopic details, even in the way brushes are angled.
Magnolia fucking Hawthorne. I'm praying so hard for her to be an evil witch.
My heart has sunk down to my stomach. It's lodged even deeper down than the Titanic. They look perfect together, even when he's gripping my hand so tightly it's cutting off the circulation on my fingers, even when I'm the one he kisses and has romantic feelings for, even when she looks so apologetic I'm terrified he'll give into it and decide he doesn't need me anymore.
The childish, selfish thought of wanting my mom assaults me. I don't want to cry, not here, not now, and certainly not because of this, but my mom is so far away from me, Nancy has disappeared to hang out with Ripley and her other, closer friends, and even Rhett can easily slip away.
Paige's eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments, and I know she knows. I've always been great at picking up every piece I break into, including the smallest ones, and Nancy and my family have been incredibly supportive through it all, but I can't bear this by myself this time. So, when I make the criminal mistake of letting my hand slip out of Rhett's, Paige's arm is quick to wrap around my shoulders—like she's the older sister, like she's mama bear.
It's not the first time she's been there for me without me voicing the need for support. It's not the first time she has done it without hesitation. I don't know how to be the person being cared for, so it's all foreign territory to me, but I tentatively lean into the embrace, finding I don't really mind how it feels.
She doesn't sneer at me, doesn't scowl, doesn't snarl. She doesn't smile, either; at least she doesn't look at me like she pities me or like she thinks I'm somehow below her. She looks at me like I mean nothing to her, like I'm not even on her radar, and, in a way, that's even worse, but it's to be expected. I'm the one who's been obsessing over her for weeks on end, when she hasn't had a reason to even think about my existence.
To her, I'm nothing. To me, she's everything, and I don't even know her. It's hard to figure out why this bothers me as much as it does, but it's a bitter reminder I'm not the center of anyone's universe.
She opens her mouth, but, before any words can come out, Rhett's brain pieces two and two together, and we both lose our respective opportunities to tell each other whatever we've been meaning to say—if there even is anything to be said. There's no manual, no one to teach you how to behave.
"Don't talk to her," he warns. "Don't even glance her way. You don't get to ruin her."
"I was just going to—"
"Save it, will you? I don't know what you think you're planning on accomplishing by ambushing me at a party you have no business—"
Magnolia frowns. The expression looks so out of place in a face like hers it almost looks distorted. "I have every right to be here. I'm part of the sorority, these girls are my friends, and there are so many other people I know here. I was invited." She raises her phone to show off a QR code. "It's not like I owe you an explanation for anything I do or don't do, but I assure you that nothing about this has anything to do with you. The world doesn't revolve around Rhett Price."
Rhett lets out a humorless laugh. "Sure. You might think you have everyone around here wrapped around your finger, and you might have had me there, too, but not anymore."
Magnolia sighs, placing a hand on her hip. "If anything, the only thing I want is to bury the hatchet. I'm tired of having to avoid every place I used to go to because I'm being forced to think about how you'd react if we just so happened to run into each other there. I'm tired of having to look back over my shoulder to make sure you won't be there and get uncomfortable. What happened made us both miserable, yes, and I won't deny the part I played in it, but I wasn't the only one getting their hands bloody. It was a two-edged sword, and you're delusional if you think this isn't affecting me negatively, too." She squares her shoulders, acting a lot more maturely than I ever expected her to—more than how I would behave, that's for certain, and far more so than Rhett. "You don't need to forgive me, but we need to start acting like adults instead of pretending like we can avoid each other forever, at least before graduation. We're bound to be in the same place at the same time. We run in the same circles, are friends with the same people, and have similar interests. I like hockey, you play it, whatever. Am I supposed to never watch a match again?"
"Obviously not—"
"Then stop this nonsense." She glances at me. "I'm sorry, by the way. This isn't how I intended for things to go, and I promise you I'm not a threat to . . . whatever you have going on, if that's how you've been thinking about me in your head. It's in the past, and I want to move forward with my life, but I can't do it if Rhett here won't let me."
I know she's right. I don't want to admit it aloud because of my stupid pride, but she's right, and we all know it. So, when she waltzes away from us, joined by girls I recognize as Paige's sorority sisters, I find I don't have a hating nerve left in my body reserved for her. I can't hate her, not even dislike her, but there's no way I can shake off my concern—both for my mental well-being and Rhett's.
Everything about me feels bruised. I can't even breathe without my chest burning, and the cold air outside, blasting my face and uncovered skin as I rush to catch up with Rhett towards his dorm, does nothing to cool me down. I am a walking flame—the kind of fire I don't like.
He doesn't push me away. In his room, as I sit at the foot of his bed and wait for him to join me, the air is so electrically charged with tension it raises all the fine hairs on my arms. He's on edge, dangling dangerously close from the edge of a cliff, and, somehow, I have to be strong enough for the both of us.
Then, he sits next to me. He's quiet, as still as a statue, but I know there's more to it.
I can do it. I can. Even if it breaks my heart.
"Talk to me," I ask Rhett, almost beg him—and I'm oh, so tired of begging people to be half decent. I curl my fingers around his wrist, feeling the erratic thumping of his heartbeat against my fingertips, but I don't allow the heavy weight of guilt to coil around my heart just now. I'll have time to deal with that later, but, following our relationship's most recent developments, this is something we need to handle now. "We can't keep ignoring what's right in front of us. It'll destroy us. I don't mean to give you an ultimatum or anything of the sort, but this isn't fair—neither for you or for me."
To my utter shock, Rhett nods. "You're right."
"I am?"
"Yeah."
Then, he tells me everything.