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.
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Brooke 'Brie' Sheridan wouldn't necessa...
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RHETT
If I was shivering just before, I'm suddenly being attacked by a wave of hot flashes.
It's like all the air in the kitchen has been sucked out by the world's strongest vacuum, and I'm struggling to catch my breath. Every pore in my body is leaking sweat like someone has just switched on, which isn't exactly the most attractive of situations I could be placing myself in, but I suppose it could be worse.
For example, I could have passed out right then and there as soon as Brie uttered those words. I could have laughed in her face in sheer incredulity, which, in turn, would only make it seem like I'm not taking her seriously and, therefore, invalidating everything she has just confessed to me.
That just so happens to be the exact opposite of how I'm currently feeling, but she doesn't know that. Like she has ever so kindly decided to remind me, she doesn't know how I feel at all, as I won't open up to her; although I've always had enough self-awareness to know I'm keeping certain things from her, I thought it was a reasonable amount of secrecy, one that wouldn't leave her feeling this upset.
My stomach sinks like the fucking Titanic as soon as my brain decides to be useful for once and help me properly process what she has just said. With every passing second, I notice her resolve collapse and she retreats towards a corner of the kitchen, the instinct to make herself smaller in embarrassment over my ever so eloquent silent response.
The intensity of her gaze, however, doesn't waver.
Even though she's recoiling away from me, her eyes never leave mine. She stares at me with the force of a thousand scorching suns, although her bottom lip quivers. She could bite it to stop it from doing so, something I've caught her doing on more than one occasion because she thinks it makes her look weak for feeling perfectly human, normal emotions, and I can't help but wish she'd finally let her guard down around me. It's what she asked me to do, is it not? How is this any different from what I do?
She's still so radiant it hurts to look at her. Every time I consider looking away to give her room to breathe, I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame, like every atom in my body is attuned to seek her in every situation.
She once told me she has never stopped searching for me in every guy she's dated since me, all those years ago. For a split second, stupid, idiotic me was proud of hearing her say that, mentally patting myself on the back for having left such a lasting impression, that I failed to account for the reasons behind her feelings. Now that I fully understand just how deeply the wounds run, just how shipwrecked I left her, I know it's not something I should be happy about.
She's been trying to fix our relationship since even before I took the first step to extend an olive branch, albeit unconsciously. She's been trying to fix it for her own sake, to forgive herself for all the damage I've done—for years now, even when I was too blind by my pride, too big a coward to look inwardly and take responsibility for my mistakes.
