34 | longest love affair
Under normal circumstances, I would've stayed behind at the rink following the game. Unfortunately—and because I can never catch a break, not even from the unrelenting month of December in Vermont—my current circumstances are both not normal and less than ideal.
My initial plan was to wait for Rhett at the rink, as I always do, and now, more than ever, I want to be there for him. No one on the team played perfectly and the opposing team was far better, far more organized and focused, so no one should be surprised that we lost. The thing about not being used to losing is that you'll inevitably feel unmoored whenever it happens and, no matter how good of a person you attempt to be, there's always some resentment buried deep within you.
Rhett Price doesn't lose. He believes that wholeheartedly and has said it straight to my face countless times, some of them more serious than others, and I can't begin to imagine how devastated he must be feeling.
He was one of the players who performed the best, in my completely unbiased opinion (not that I know that much about the particularities of ice hockey, of course), and I know how easy it is for him to fall into self-deprecation territory, complete with blaming himself for things that weren't his fault. It's one thing when he can't tell whether he had any say or responsibility regarding a negative outcome, but it's completely different when he knows he was far from being the true culprit. Even from the stands, I could tell something was wrong.
So, when Professor Ramos emails me to summon me to her office right away, I find myself at a crossroad.
I'm wearing a varsity hoodie with Rhett's last name and number on it, as if people aren't already aware of the reason behind my presence at the rink, and it's been long enough for us to not be a novelty, so people don't care nearly as much. I want to think it's believable, especially now that it's real, but I don't want to take any risks and tarnish what he has been working so hard to build, especially after what happened between him and Magnolia.
I don't care whether people believe us or not when it comes to the relationship existing in a vacuum, but that's not the reality of our lives, and, at the end of the day, normal people aren't watching us as closely as my brain has me convinced they do. If they see me walk out after an embarrassing loss instead of staying to support Rhett, they might get the wrong idea, but I can't just ignore Professor Ramos, either.
I can easily pin all of this paranoia on Cole; even though his accusations came from a place of pettiness, jealousy, and general dislike of Rhett and my happiness, there was some truth to them.
At the time, the relationship was, theoretically, fake, and I can't blame him for knowing me well enough to be suspicious, but I covered all my bases. I adjusted my behavior. I adapted. I lucked out and my feelings were reciprocated, shooting me closer and closer to the epic love story I've always believed I'm destined for.
However, that epic love story will have to wait.
With how elusive Professor Ramos has been this semester, I know better than to take this opportunity for granted. I'd also be lying if I said my heart isn't hammering in anticipation about why I'm being summoned out of nowhere, especially after weeks of barely any communication. I obsess over every possible thing I could have done wrong this far, worrying about having been too annoying (suffocating, really) with my constant attempts at contacting her and begging for feedback on the work I've already done, even though this does more harm than good.
Even when I think I've done everything right, even when I think I'm finally finding my footing, I slip and fall and everything collapses around me. Most of the time, it's by my own hand; surely I must have done something wrong for Professor Ramos to want to see me with such urgency. Maybe she'll even tell me to scrap the whole project, wait another year, and delay my graduation because it's just that bad.
"I have to go," I tell Nancy.
She looks up at me, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Where are you going? I thought you wanted to wait for Rhett."
I raise my phone, even though the screen is dark. "Professor Ramos wants to see me. She didn't say why, but I'm scared of whatever it is that she wants, and I don't want to potentially make it worse by ghosting her."
"You mean like she's done to you?" Ripley asks, popping a piece of cinnamon gum in her mouth. Her knee brushes against Nancy's and, though the last thing I want is to make it all about me like I always do, the gesture makes my heart clench. When I'm supposed to be here for Rhett, I'm making the conscious decision to turn my back on him and walk away when I know he needs me. "Doesn't sound too fair, especially when she can't even be bothered to explain why she wants you there."
"I know, but she's my advisor," I point out, biting my tongue to avoid adding a comment about how she'll understand where I'm coming from next year, when it'll be her senior ass on the line, suffering from the unbearable lack of communication and the looming threat of finals and deadlines. "You can't ghost a regular professor, let alone your senior project advisor. She doesn't need me nearly as much as I need her."
As much as it hurts my ego to admit that, it's true. She'll have other students to mentor, and she's still getting paid. Besides her career in academia, she's a talented artist, a million times more than I'll ever aspire to be, and, though you can rarely rely on an artistic career to make a living, she has gone and made a name for herself. Meanwhile, I'm barely getting by on my scholarship, delivering one subpar project after another, and I hate that I have to beg for crumbs of attention.
My stomach is tied in a knot so tight I can physically feel it coiling around itself, but I still bend down to pick up my bag from the floor and start making my way towards the exit. I try my hardest not to look back over my shoulder, knowing damn well I'll drop everything and run back inside if anything Rhett Price-related comes cruising my way.
The worst part is that, deep down, I know he'll understand. I know that from the bottom of my soul, but there's a part of me that's still stubbornly fearful that I'm lying to myself. It doesn't protect me in any way and I know this is all a deep rooted insecurity Cole made sure to leave exposed like an open wound by proving me right, by proving no one really wants to stay with me.
Rhett isn't like that. Rhett wants to stay.
Right?
The walk across campus from the ice rink to the building where professors' offices are located feels more like a walk of shame than I'd like to admit. I walk with my head down, arms firmly crossed and pressed against my chest in a feeble attempt to both shield myself from prying eyes and from the biting cold of the December winds, although I'm not quite sure what—or whom—I'm hiding from.
There's nothing shameful about meeting up with a professor, especially an advisor—not that anyone would know outside of Professor Ramos' other advisees, potentially—but my annoying tendency to overthink is tethering on borderline obsessive to the point where it's ruining my life. It's making me reconsider the existence of an alternative third group chat, the one they use to point fingers and laugh at how desperate I am for some attention, and I shudder with nausea at the thought.
Realistically, no one cares where I go, but the hoodie I'm wearing feels like a massive target, complete with flashing neon arrows that beg people to notice me walking away from my boyfriend after an embarrassingly devastating loss.
When I push open the door and quickly make my way up the stairs, feeling as though I'm halfway through a marathon, the sudden difference in temperature hits me like a truck. As if I didn't look disheveled enough from walking at a quicker pace than usual and from the weather outside, sweat trails down the nape of my neck, weaving into my hair, and I feel like a disgusting mess.
Catching a quick glimpse of my reflection on a metallic frame is enough to tell me my mascara is trickling down my cheeks in black smudges. To top it all off, I decided to wear lipstick today and, after spending the entirety of the match gnawing at my bottom lip, I've managed to smear it all around my mouth and on my teeth.
Needless to say, it's not looking good. At least my appearance matches how chaotic things feel in my head, though that's hardly an accomplishment I'd like to brag about.
Professor Ramos quickly puts me out of my misery like an euthanized animal by not making me wait for long, which comes with the added bonus of not having to be around the other students lingering in the waiting room or being forced to make small talk with any of them. Some of them glance at me, discussing today's less than stellar performances on the ice like I have anything to do with it, but no one asks me for an opinion or asks about Rhett.
"I'm sorry for asking you to drop by on such short notice," Professor Ramos says, sitting at her desk. Her laptop is open in front of her, along with an almond croissant and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, which makes my stomach growl—loudly, too, like I haven't embarrassed myself enough today. I was waiting on Rhett to grab something to eat. "I won't keep you long. I know this meeting is outside my office hours and you must be busy with your studies."
I shift in my seat.
She most certainly has noticed what I'm wearing and the way I look—both of which make it pretty evident I wasn't doing anything related to my studies. The academic tradition I was partaking in has nothing to do with the finals I should be studying for or the senior project I should be focusing on.
"I understand," I lie. "So, now that I'm here . . ."
"Now that you're here, I'd like to talk to you about Female Gaze. I figured it would be more appropriate to have this conversation face to face instead of hiding behind a screen." I nod, biting my tongue to hold back a mean comment about how this also doesn't let her ghost me again. "How's everything going with the project? I haven't heard from you in a while."
She hasn't heard from me in a while because I decided to conserve whatever is left of my ego and self-esteem instead of attempting to reach out to her multiple times only to be ignored when I need her the most. I know this decision stems mostly from pettiness and hurt feelings, but sometimes a girl just has to give in to her emotions. I'd explode otherwise.
I'm also trying to be more independent about it, trusting my ideas and my skills and not letting other people's opinions mold my work too much, but I have been updating her whenever there's a major update—such as a new edited photograph or a difference in mood.
"Everything's fine," I say. "Rhett is a great subject. He understands the vision." Probably more than Cole ever did or ever would if he hadn't dropped me like a piece of trash. It's still weird to refer to Rhett as a subject or as a model when he's so much more than that—like the longest love affair of my life, for starters—but I need to remain neutral, composed, and technical. I need to be professional about it. "I know there's not a lot of time left until the exhibit and I know I've fallen behind on schedule a bit, but I'm confident I'll be able to deliver a more than acceptable final product. I know I will. It'll be excellent."
She nods, sipping her hot cocoa. Her free hand scrolls down on the laptop's trackpad. "I see."
I gulp, knowing I'll have to take the bait and ask her directly if I want to figure out why exactly I'm here. "Do you . . . not agree? Is there anything specific you'd like me to change or improve on, or am I on the right track?"
I don't dare ask her if she wants me to scrap the whole thing altogether. I doubt I'd be able to take a positive answer to that question, especially with how hard I've been working on Female Gaze and ensuring everything is perfect.
Rhett has truly been a wonder to work with, allowing me to have complete creative control and trusting my process (it is, after all, a portrayal of the male body through the female gaze). Knowing he trusts me completely with his image and reputation, especially after what happened between him and Magnolia, means more to me than what he might think, and it's so liberating to be with someone who believes in me unconditionally that I almost forget there was once a time when I wasn't treated with respect in relationships.
It lets me allow him to make suggestions, turning it into a true collaborative project, as opposed to what Cole wanted to do—he wanted it to follow his ideas, his demands, and the breakup has proven to be quite the blessing in disguise. Had we not broken up, Female Gaze would've been destroyed.
"I quite like what you've sent me so far," she tells me. "I have to admit I was scared you wouldn't be able to pull it off this nicely, especially with all the last minute changes you've had to do"—I carve my nails into my jean-clad thighs, as the backhanded compliment was simply unnecessary, in my opinion—"but I'm impressed, Brooke. I think you might have some revolutionary work in the making."
"It hasn't been easy," I confess, fidgeting with one of my silver rings so I won't start picking off my nail polish, "but I'm also happy with how it's turning out. I was scared I'd have to delay it after . . . you know. I lucked out."
"Maybe so, but it also takes talent and persistence. You could have given up, chosen the easy way out, and you didn't. You've gone out of your way to learn and improve. With that being said, I was wondering if you've already started thinking about what comes next."
I blink. "Sorry?"
"After college. Do you have any plans?"
"Uh . . . no, not really. I understand it's not the most profitable of fields and I might not get that much done, especially immediately after graduation, but I'd like to continue learning and honing my craft. I'm not expecting to sell out exhibits."
Not right now. A girl can dream, though.
She eyes me with curiosity. "If you have the opportunity, I'd recommend checking out the photography scene outside of Bennington. There's only so much one can accomplish in Vermont." With a small sigh, she leans back on her chair, lacing her fingers over the mahogany desk. "I'll be honest with you, Brooke. I see a lot of potential in you. I don't think you should limit yourself to small projects."
I rub my arms, cheeks burning. "I'm not exactly in the greatest financial situation right now; ideally, I'd love to travel, visit other big cities, but I also need to be realistic."
"That's reasonable and understandable, but I also think it's commendable to admit there's always room for improvement. Anything can be a learning opportunity if you're willing to put in the effort." Her face significantly softens, but there's an excited glint in her eyes I can't ignore. My heart pounds in anticipation. "With that being said, depending on how your exhibit turns out, I think you're a strong contender for an apprenticeship—which, I'm sure you know, is something the department sponsors when we see potential in our alumni—after you graduate. I was thinking about potentially reaching out to my friend Julia Krischer on your behalf, let her know one of my immensely talented mentees would be a great fit."
My mouth goes dry. I could legit vomit right now.
Julia Krischer, a photographer based in New York City, just so happens to be one of my main inspirations, someone I've learned so much from already. I've spent years devouring her interviews and conferences, learning how to perfect the art of portrait photography while not fully copying her, but she's a genius behind a camera. There's no way in hell I'd ever be able to compare to her, no matter how hard I try.
My heart is about to explode when I blurt out, eyes welling up with scorching tears, "Wow. I—wow."
"Of course, it's all hinging on your final exhibit, but, if you continue delivering high quality material, play to your strengths, and make a convincing argument to the board, I don't see a reason for you to not be accepted into the program if that's something you wish to pursue."
I force myself to take back every single negative word I've said about this woman and thank her profusely, sobbing like an idiot and shaking her hands like she has just saved my life and career—which, honestly, she might have.
When I was feeling so devastated about not ever amounting to anything, like I peaked in college with a silly little passion project, she reached out with a dangling carrot, something new for me to chase.
It's how I work best—I'm goal-oriented. I need to know what to do, and she knows that.
I all but skip out of the office and the building, invincible even under the chilling blasts of December wind against my face, and could legitimately scream and sing out of sheer happiness. For once, there's something in my life that makes sense because I worked for it—it wasn't money, it wasn't connections. It was my hard work and persistence, and it's all because I pushed myself this far.
My phone buzzes, and I rush to pull it out of my bag to check the incoming notification. Whoever it is—Rhett, Nancy, Paige, my family—will have to hear about my great news.
My stomach sinks like an anchor. There's a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, an inkling that something isn't quite right.