Chapter Text
[December 2022]
Things had been blessedly quiet since the Project Reboot incident was resolved. Recently they’d covertly swapped Elon Musk out with a robot clone that had been forced to attend therapy, but for the most part, things were in a holding pattern and daily work had consisted of maintenance tasks.
The most frustrating of these for Reagan—bane of her existence for an entire day so far—was repairing the malfunctioning Holodeck. She’d been begged by Glenn on behalf of a secret service team that urgently needed to schedule trainings. This was irritating from the get-go, since it was below her pay grade. Couldn’t J.R. hire a repairman? Something else seemed strange about that, although she wasn’t sure what… But she was distracted from the suspicious hazy spot in her memory by her outrage as each attempt to get the machine running failed.
The roboticist made no progress by late Thursday afternoon, when her coworkers invited her to McUltra’s. For once, Reagan declined. Not to keep working on the Holodeck—she was too burned out and furious. She had a different task to complete.
“You’re not coming?” It was unlike Reagan to wriggle out of an excuse to drink; Brett was mystified.
“Uh…I was gonna…go dye my hair?” was Reagan’s absurd response.
“You dye your hair?”
“Ha. Yeah, it’s an even mousier brown naturally.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad. But what you’ve been wearing looks nice. And still fresh!”
“This will sound dumb, but I set a deadline for myself.” Reagan had to set deadlines even for minor, mundane tasks, or she’d procrastinate and never do them, Adderall or no. “It’s to take a decent profile pic to update RightSwipe.”
Brett’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Now?” His best friend had suffered a tragic end to a promising relationship with ex-Illuminati employee Ron Staedler barely months ago; he’d expected her to avoid romance for a while.
“Yeah…” The scientist’s gaze shifted to her worn sneakers. “See, I was talking to Glenn—very hit-or-miss idea, I know—but he was more interesting than usual. He talked about the military M.O. of getting people back in the field as soon as medically advisable after war trauma so they can start making memories of, if not positive, neutral/competent experiences. Delaying it longer while replaying horrible memories makes it way scarier to return, like nothing will ever go right again, y’know?” Reagan’s eyes briefly lit up with the inquisitive joy of learning new info. “Seems he’s not shitting me! I looked it up, and the approach seems legit…if handled responsibly.”
“Big ‘if.’ …So, Glenn’s capable of not bullshitting?”
“Right? Almost starting to see how he got hired!” They laughed together, then Reagan’s smile faded into her trademark ‘sad but sensible,’ resigned expression. “So, I took Glenn’s point and figured…maybe the best way to cope with losing Ron is to start dating again right away? I don’t mean it disrespectfully. After all, not like he’ll come back.” She shrugged and attempted, poorly, to look hopeful.
“Sure that’s a good idea? Don’t want you dealing with any crappy rebound shiz. You’ll be under enough stress with—” Blank, disoriented expressions flickered across both Cognito employees’ faces as both felt that some information was missing or muddled. “…with, you know, regular work stuff?”
Reagan shook her head. “Glenn’s point stuck for me. I should do this right away, or I’ll procrastinate like always and stagnate—possibly for years.” (She didn’t notice embarrassment flush red across her colleagues’ face at this remark.) “What the hell. Maybe I’ll find someone who’s understanding about how much I work. A fellow shadow government person would be ideal, but realistically, anyone as devoted to their job as me would be great. It was silly of me, pressuring Ron to join Cognito. A great partner you work with is a unicorn. Nobody’s that lucky.”
Brett’s brow knitted with interest. “That’s really what you want?”
“Phhht.” The brunette batted her hand. “Like I said, pipe dream!”
“Gotcha.” Her co-team-lead fidgeted, absently rolling the ball of one foot side to side. “But you can do that chore tomorrow, or over the weekend? I’ll even send a text reminder—” Brett flashed a thumbs-up. “—if you agree to come out tonight? You have to—you’re the life of the party, Rae-dawg!”
“I think I’m usually the laugh of the party.”
“Eh, hehe, sometimes there’s overlap?” Brett was intimately familiar with that particular overlap… He squashed meltingly humiliating frat party memories and continued. “Let’s see if you can beat your record at breaking people with your rendition of ‘Purple Rain.’ I’ll time you—always willing spot my buddies!” Big smile.
Sigh. “Alright.”
[X]
Dr. Ridley was infamous for getting wild off the clock. Still, for a casual Thursday gang outing at McUltra’s to chit-chat and play pool, she got incorrigibly hammered drunk quicker than usual. Frustrated with her declining coordination while playing pool, she gave up and left for some fresh air on the 2nd floor outdoor balcony that overlooked the secluded inner courtyard of the Cognito industrial complex.
Her best friend looked on with concern before their new ‘team mascot’s’ antics distracted him. Regular Bud, who’d been chilling obediently under their table like a good boy, was now on hind legs trying to flag down a bartender with one oddly thumbed paw. “Hey! You can’t serve him! …He’s not 21!” Brett called, as Gigi facepalmed.
“It’s a regular dog, it just has thumbs for some reason!” Andre yelled more sensibly at the barkeep. “It can’t metabolize alcohol right. Give it a mocktail!”
A dolphin-human hybrid with a buzz cut rose behind Brett’s shoulder like Jaws and spun him around to recapture his attention. “Heyyy, whazzup, Glenn?”
Even Dolphmann’s best ‘inconspicuous’ whisper was barely muted military barking. “I told Ridley to get back on the field!”
“Huh? …Oh! Yeah, she mentioned you were talking about— That was deliberate?”
“Quit lookin’ at me like I ain’t capable of planning! I’m a goddamn general, asshole!” snapped the offended marine animal. “Watching that woman’s pity party is bringin’ down the whole team’s morale. Somethin’ needs to change quick. Now—” He pushed Brett back in the general direction of the balcony doors with his broad flippered hands. “—go take advantage of the openin’ and put your grubby paws on her instead’a my Dolores!”
Brett ignored the creepy possessive pronoun used for Glenn’s ex-wife. “Geez, I’m not gonna paw—” Hack hem. “We’re just very close friends. So, you mayyyy need a different man for this mission!” he advised, smiling good-naturedly.
The dolphin mutant eyed him impatiently. “Dammit, boy, I thought you were supposed to be the ‘yes’ man.”
“Ha! That running gag’s getting a little old!”
“It’s not a gag, Puppet. Now where’s my ‘yes?’”
Brett’s eyes drifted back to the glass doors, watching the back of Reagan’s pony-tailed head as she folded her arms over the railing and stared into the distance. He wouldn’t put it past her to fall if she was drunk and tired enough. He could go out and keep watch…maybe let her rest her sleepy head on his shoulder… “Alright. I’ll go supervise her.”
[X]
Reagan was not listening. She was a terrible listener under any circumstances, but now she was too drunk and preoccupied seething about the Holodeck to truly process her coworker’s rapid-fire yammering about new TV shows; how therapy was going; a self-deprecating funny story about a pre-workout shake he’d learned he was allergic to the hard way; a miniature goat farm he spotted while taking Regular Bud to a big park outside the city limits and omigodhadsheeverseentheYouTubevideowherethere’sabunchoftheminlittleonesiepajamasprancingaround?!
When Reagan did fleetingly register dialogue snippets, she felt bad, because Brett had been nice enough to bring her coat out and drape it over her shoulders, and now he was clearly trying hard to get her attention. He switched to asking about what she’d been watching or reading lately, and if she’d seen any of a few new sci-fi programs he suspected she’d enjoy. He asked about some of her newest projects, which was kind, but she shrugged him off because he wouldn’t understand the technical details anyway. He asked what her upcoming holiday plans were. Given the situation with both their sets of parents (and Rand being in Shadow Prison anyway), what if they just hung out together this year? There was an apple orchard out by that goat farm, he recalled. They could go pick apples and make holiday pie? Ooh, even if it snowed, ghost apples were a thing! Had she heard of that? The frozen apple kinda melts into goo, leaks out the bottom of the ice, and leaves the round icicle shell. They look really pretty at night in the moonlight— Oops, that sounded too much like a date! Sorry, he didn’t mean to sound weird… Hehehe… Speaking of which, what about this new RightSwipe adventure, huh? Did she need a wingman? After all, they worked super well as partners for just about anything, right?
Brett passingly complimented Reagan’s appearance once or twice, which was bullshit. Must be sucking up for something. She’d wonder if he needed money if he weren’t independently wealthy. Maybe he wanted a favor? Welp, he’d need to ask again when she sobered up.
The ginger was more of a bundle of nervous, manic energy than usual, and each failure to get her engaged in conversation wound him up more. Brett tended to prattle, but tonight he truly sounded like an animated chipmunk.
Reagan was still speaking in fairly clear, full sentences, but that wasn’t the best measure of Dr. Ridley’s intoxication. She was the type to stay coherent almost up to the point of passing out. It was the content of her speech that gave her away, and boy, was she about to give herself away, after noticing Brett, if she wasn’t mistaken, appear to catch and stop himself from doing stress push-ups. Master of tact, Reagan giggled, out of nowhere, “Dude, when’s the last time you got laid?”
Brett choked on a gulp of Natty Lite and coughed, “’Scuse me?”
“You’re more—” She presented her best jazz hands, rattling the ice in one hand’s glass. “—BWAHHHH than usual lately, like you need stress relief.”
The ginger chuckled extremely awkwardly. “Can’t say off the top of my head—”
Reagan thumbs-downed and raspberried. “Boo! Too long!” She just wanted her friend to be happy, and they always talked like bros… But it came off sounding cringe-ily judgmental, even to her drunk ass. She politely self-corrected, “Hehe, not like I should talk. Before Ron, I’d barely played the field since grad school! Just want you to be less—” She struggled for the right word. “—uncomfy?”
Brett scrambled for a better answer, overlapping Reagan’s last few words with, “Guess there was Glenn’s ex? Eh, does it count if you weren’t technically the person they intended to sleep with? Not that it keeps me up at night…hehe…”
As usual, Reagan ignored her partner’s ethical concerns. “No worries, pal, hit RightSwipe and you’ll be flooded in 5 minutes. I’m honestly surprised you have dry spells. Seems like you need to beat people off with a stick. You certainly had to beat Gigi off!”
“Actually, the HR Mothman beat Gigi off. I would’ve grinned and accepted it without help.” Eye tick. “HA, joking! …Is that plane flying awfully low?” Brett attempted distraction.
“We’re right on top of an airfield, dude.” Reagan hummed. “Huh. Now I think about it… You had a profile when we acquired RightSwipe, but when I filtered though the data—” After the Brian-bot fiasco. “—I didn’t see it anymore.”
“Oh. It was an old profile I stopped using much. Think the website deactivated it cuz I barely answered messages.” (And/or, that dick pic Glenn took without his permission during their body-swap adventure elicited enough thirsty messages to overwhelm him, and the socially anxious man deleted it.) At Reagan’s baffled ‘Huh?’: “Just haven’t been feeling the whole hookup shiz for a while? Why’s this important?”
“Awww, does wholesome Baby Brett only enjoy relationship sex?” Reagan teased gently. “It does sound like you to be the hopeless romantic type. Wait, are you saying you haven’t even dated since you started here? …Wait, that tracks. Otherwise, we’d’ve all had our ears talked off about it.”
“Went on one or two dates, not many.” Brett ran a hand through his hair. “Hey, have you seen that new Wednesday show? I’m suspicious they lifted that dance sequence from the first Spiderman…"
Reagan overlooked his redirection once again, distracted by feeling sorry and perplexed. How was her stellar-looking coworker getting laid less frequently than her?! Her social awkwardness spun the wheel. “I guess I know what to build you for Christmas. Handy to have a robotics expert as a bestie when it comes to high-quality toys.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Then, abundantly clear she’s serious, no irony and all enthusiasm: “The ability of these puppies to parse biofeedback will knock your socks off!” Finger guns.
Brett spat an entire mouthful of beer over the balcony this time, earning a startled yelp and ‘Hey!’ from below. Oh god, no, pleeeaase, STAHHHHP. “ReaganIthinkI’dbettercutyourdrinksoffnow—”
The drunk scientist squinted. “You okay, man?”
“Just thinking we could be talking about literally anything else.” In characteristic stream-of-consciousness fashion: “Why did trading card games fall out of style? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Good health practices to prevent the scurvy.”
“Did something happen? I should get better about listening,” Reagan added thoughtfully, “so if you want to talk—”
“I really don’t,” Brett groaned, eyes squeezed shut as he bent forward, fists clenched and forehead pressed against the metal railing.
“But now you have me concerned!” Reagan pressed hard, overlooking the irony of ignoring someone’s pleas not to talk just so she could get better at listening.
Her colleague, tipsy himself, blurted anxiously, “IDON’TWANNATALKABOUTKELLY!”
Crickets.
“Who’s Kelly?” asked Reagan innocently.
Brett cringed hard and ‘GNAAUUUGH’ed as if the name had stabbed him in the ear like an ice pick.
“Liiiike I was saying,” Reagan continued cautiously, “you’ve been there for me after what happened with Ron, so if you want to get something off your chest, I can be here for you, too. You keep encouraging me to let you into my personal life, anyway.” She supplied a gentle arm punch. “Not gonna be a hypocrite, are ya?” The scientist’s normally wry smile warmed up as she made a quick squeezing motion with both hands—a tiny air hug. This was as cutesy as Reagan got. Brett loved getting to see this special smile…but it suddenly faded. “Why are you looking at me like you think I might be plotting something?” she demanded.
Brett hadn’t realized he’d begun frowning suspiciously. Optimistic as he was, he, like everyone else, remained aware of Reagan’s limitations at offering social support. “What? No, you’re too drunk to plot!” he tried brushing it off.
“I’m never TOO drunk to plot. Sometimes I’m just drunk enough.” Reagan raised a finger with a sly grin. He must’ve still looked skeptical because she grew serious again, looking like a disappointed puppy. “Why do you keep looking at me like you expect me to make you feel worse? Am I that bad of a friend?”
The ginger winced. “Aww, Ray-of-Sunshine, no—"
“I only need practice! Right? If I’ve really been that bad, then please let me help with…whatever this is!”
It wasn’t worth explaining that causing discomfort to create a reason to help wasn’t helping. On the bright side, Reagan explicitly offering emotional support was progress! He had said he’d help her work on her people skills, and she seemed grateful for that, which was good; that made Brett’s ‘yay, I have done well’ internal golden retriever do a joyful jump. And maybe it would help to finally talk through this? This story was so damaging, he hadn’t choked it out to his therapist yet. She, unlike Reagan, was sober when he spoke with her. Meanwhile, by this point, Reags might not remember a thing he said in the morning—look at her sway! It’d be like talking to a brick wall, right?
“Well…okay. I’ve never vented to anyone about this, so—" The former frat boy squinted concernedly, gritted his teeth, and raised his palms in a silent plea. “—you can be cool, right?” Reagan nodded yes. Brett steeled himself. Here went nothing. “I quit actively bothering to see people about 3 years ago—”
Reagan very un-coolly choked on a mouthful of whiskey on the rocks and gasped, “Three years?!”
Reddening, Brett snapped irately, “Iamfeelingjudged.”
“Was that profile 3 years old? Why wasn’t it deactivated sooner?” (He’d kept logging in, looking at messages, panicking and logging out, which registered as activity.) “Besides Dolores, you’ve—? Yikes. No wonder you’re wound like a goddamn spring!”
“REAGAN! This is not being a bro!”
“Sorry, sorry…” she peeped. “I’ll be good!”
Brett prayed she was blacked out as he continued. “This was right after, erm—“ Say it, just say it. “—my last serious girlfriend, Kelly, kinda, ah, slept with my brother, Jagg.”
“…Oh my god. Dude. I’m so sorry.” Should she attempt a hug here? Reagan may have made the socially appropriate move if her brain’s drunk, yet still keenly observant gears didn’t creak into action. She was too detail-oriented for her own good. “Waaaiiit. You two don’t live anywhere near each other. When would she have—?”
“Thanksgiving,” Brett mumbled quickly before a louder, forceful, “Can I maybe give you the short version, Raegs?”
“At your family Thanksgiving?!” Reagan’s yelp echoed in the central courtyard. “Why!?”
“Hahaha, I sure wish I knew!” Brett shot back with an arm pump and very wide, crackable smile. Why did she think repeating every maximally cringeworthy detail was helping?! He laughed nervously, tugging the too-tight collar of his dress shirt and loosening his tie, feeling short of breath. “I mean, there were a bunch of factors… I mayyy have showed her the puppets—”
“Whywouldyoushowherthepuppets?!”
“Aren’tyousupposedtobehelping?!” Brett sharply inhaled through his nose, filling his chest, eyes closed, mouth a sharp, straight line. “I was going for cute and endearing. Little Brett’s pimp-tastic tree fort with the puppets. Like, if she’d shown me a childhood hobby, no matter how silly, I’d’ve probably ‘awwww’d at it, so I thought…” He gave a vague hand wiggle. “Nope, did not have the intended effect! Then I tried to save it. Key word ‘tried.’”
-x-
[About 3 years ago]
“This…is a practical joke, right?” asked the tiny woman, dark blonde curls swaying as her head swiveled, taking in the colorful stuffed creatures. “Where’d you fly all these in from?” Her hazel eyes widened. “You didn’t really make them?”
Sweating bullets, heart pounding, Brett Hand scrambled for a diversion. “I…was…hoping…we…could…play?”
“With…the…puppets?” eked his girlfriend, face draining of color.
“We could…play ‘puppet?’” Yes, yes, this was good. This would work. Brett kissed her ear while wrapping an arm around her to draw her close, then spidered a hand to small of her back. “I could…put my hand somewhere…and make cute noises come out your mouth?” Impressively, he managed to deliver the otherwise vulgar joke in his characteristically sweet, flirty way, nuzzling her neck lovingly. Saved it?
Nope. Kelly dislodged herself, eye ticking. “I’m sorry, I need to drink until this memory is nothing but a black ink stain on the permanent record of my life.” She scrambled down the treehouse ladder, which promptly fell after her.
“K-kelly? Um, hun, you may have a-accidentally—”
“Just use the zipline!” she called over the fast-paced clip of footsteps down the driveway onto the main property.
-x-
[Present]
“You didn’t really say that?!” Reagan guffawed at the retelling.
“Itwasamomentofdesperation!” her friend returned, then darkened, deciding whether to continue to much grimmer information. Reagan quieted as he made fleeting, shy eye contact and wrung his hands. “You sure you want to hear this story? Don’t wanna put a damper on a nice evening.”
Reagan felt bad for laughing, but it wasn’t clear enough, as she joked well-meaningly but entirely too deadpan: “Oh, the damage is already done, this is excruciating.”
Brett blanched. “I mean…you…dug it out of me? Yeah, I’m gonna stop now.”
“No!” Brett’s best friend shook her head emphatically, eager to prove herself. “Joking! Bad at tone control!” She mimed slapping her own cheek—‘bad Reagan!’ “Erm. It’s definitely upsetting—” Brett groaned. “—because I care!” she clarified. “I hate people being dicks to you! If you’re willing to talk, I want to listen. Support! Friending!” She flashed a thumbs-up, immediately questioned its appropriateness, and alternated confusedly between thumbs up and thumbs down. “As long as it’s helping? Am I helping?”
Oh, sweet, emotionally dense, blasted drunk Reagan. Endeared, Brett perked up and snorted a short laugh. It did seem to make her feel good to do this… “You’re being Rea-dawg. Good enough for me!”
Reagan smiled, encouraged, then picked up, “So…you found out later that this happened while she was at the house?”
“Um, no. Short version—”
“Whaddya mean no, Brett? Jesus!” Reagan gasped, totally aghast.
The next listening lesson would include accepting ‘no’ for an answer, Brett mentally noted, rubbing his temples in frustration before confessing in a barely audible mumble, “I walked in on them in the bed.”
“Why would you be walking into your brother’s roo—Wait, in YOUR bed?!” Hand-flapping. “WHAT A— I mean—” Coughing. “Where did you sleep that night?” she asked curiously. Sounded to her like laying back down in that bed would’ve felt like reclining on nails.
“The tree fort,” Brett answered easily, before realizing how cringy it sounded. “It always h-had a loft bed in it,” he explained, rubbing his arm. “I slept in there all the time as a kid!” (Womp, womp.)
“Wasn’t it a child-sized bed?” Brett was not a short man. “Dude, it was almost December.”
“There was a space heater?” Brett lied, keeping his eyes trained on a tree behind Reagan, unable to handle her pitying, semi-nauseated expression.
“Okayyy. And everybody was cool with you curling into a sad ball like a dog in a cold, barely insulated tree fort? What did the rest of your family say to the two of them?”
Brett drew a deep breath and swallowed. He’d reached the most traumatic element of the story. “Reagan… Ray-of-Sunshine… You can be cool, right?” If she laughed at this, even sunny Brett Hand might consider yeeting himself off the balcony. Reagan nodded again, concerned. Brett unleashed the horrifying tidbit: “…They all…started pretending…like she’d come there with him.”
“…WHAT?!”
Brett was grateful his vision had completely blacked out and he couldn’t see Reagan’s face. “Like we lived in an alternate universe where she’d never met me.” Eye tick. “Everybody really liked her, so maybe they were, like, glad for her? Didn’t want her to go down with the ship?” he finished, voice cracking slightly at the end.
Reagan’s abjectly disgusted frown practically melted off her face. “A family more dysfunctional than mine exists?” At Brett’s loud groan: “Ooooh, that was out loud!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. Then her mental gears turned again. “Wait… Isn’t your brother’s wife named Kelly? She was in the one campaign commercial—OHMYGOD!!!”
“Hehe, yup. That was a craaaazy wedding! I mean, I can technically say I introduced my big brother and my dear friend Kelly to the loves of their lives, so still a win, right?” Fist pump. “Feed the friendship wolf, starve the resentment wolf!” he stress-laughed, mercilessly grinding a loafer heel into the ground.
“You attended the wedding?!”
“I would’ve looked rude if I didn’t?”
“Sorry, you thought you’d look rude?! Seriously, why would you go to that?!” She meant it in a ‘Why would you torture yourself like that?’ way, but it came out sounding like she was calling him rock stupid, or weak.
Brett winced. “I don’t know, to be honest. They kept pretending she and I didn’t know each other. Ugh. Well.” Air quotes. “‘Pretending.’ It became more like a performative in-joke. They were, uh…having some fun with it.” His mouth aggressively ticked down at one side, but he drew it back up and smile-grimaced.
-x-
[About 2 years ago]
“And this is my other little brother, Brent,” Jagg ‘introduced’ them.
Brett prevented his fist from crushing his champagne glass and, shamefully, played along. He didn’t know why. These people were the true nutcases, not him, but the power of the majority felt overwhelming. “Pleased to…meet you.”
“Same to you. …Why weren’t you with the other groomsmen?” Kelly and Jag shared snarky sideways glances.
“He’s the one we relegated to the back room to play the wedding soundtrack.” Brett’s brother smiled condescendingly. “I’m impressed you could figure out what all the buttons meant!”
“Your face looks familiar,” the bride remarked. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
‘Don’t respond to the mind games, Brett,’ the younger brother silently implored to himself. ‘Just smile.’ He knew his smile made him look too stupid to notice he was being mocked. He did it anyway. Because it was polite.
“Because he has the face of 20 Ed Hardy models averaged together!” Jagg and Kelly laughed and turned to depart.
Brett fought off murderous thoughts off by summoning Friendship Wolf and called after her, “Um, Kelly, hold on?” She turned, eyebrow raised. ‘Deep breath, you can do this. It’s the right gesture,’ Brett promised himself. “I just want to say I’m…glad you’re happy.” He offered his trademark wide, friendly smile and went for an awkward handshake.
Kelly pushed his hand away. “Ugh. Don’t be familiar, Brent.” She and her new husband shared that same sideways smirk again and walked away chortling.
-x-
[Present]
“Is this woman SATAN?!” Reagan gasped incredulously. “Weren’t there, like, signs?”
“Yeah…” Brett frowned at his shoes, looking defeated. “Guess I didn’t know her as well as I thought. …But strangely, no warning signs. I know I tend to see sunshine and rainbows everywhere, so—” A rueful smile. “—maybe I missed something? But she acted like she cared, until—” His shoulders sunk. “—she met my family.”
Heavy silence. Boom. There it was.
“…Oh.” Reagan put it together. “Thanksgiving was the first time she talked to them?”
Brett hissed. “Yyyyeah. Had to happen eventually.” He aggressively rubbed the back of his neck. “It was only then she understood the…whole…dynamic…y’know? Guess I hoped…” She’d be on his side? That felt too bizarre to say, a flagrant impossibility, a wildly indulgent, shameful thought. He interrupted himself: “Like I said, I think it was a number of things, but maybe, mostly, she thought there was no point dating somebody from a wealthy family if he was least-liked and most likely to get written out of the will, so she’d better jump ship to one of the better options?”
There was no more to say. Brett’s chest felt too tight to talk, remembering his excitement to show his family this gorgeous woman wanted to be with him, a signal that he was worthwhile… Followed swiftly, crushingly by embarrassment growing progressively clearer on her face as she conversed with his family members, shooting him furtive glances across the room like he was an ill-behaved pet she wished she hadn’t brought with her.
He was nervous enough now to feel numb in the extremities. He usually trauma-dumped in the form of jokes, not full-fledged play-by-plays. But he’d wanted Reagan to feel like she was doing good; he appreciated the desperation to please others all too well. “Hahaha…I mean, even the dog would be a better option! At least Muffy’s inheriting a house in Cape Cod!” Brett desperately tried to elevate the vibe with self-deprecating humor, but Reagan still looked appalled. “I-I’m sorry, I’m being, a real downer right now.”
Aching to break the silence, Reagan huffed indignantly. “Well…she sounds like a like-minded t*** who was naturally absorbed into the demonic hive mind that is your dogshit family. Glad she didn’t do it by chaining herself to you. Congratulations on dodging that bullet!” She waited expectantly, but there was no reply, no crack of a smile, nothing. Reagan hadn’t quite worked out yet that insulting the offending party didn’t comfort Brett the way it did others; he was too convinced he was the problem. Nervous, frustrated, the brunette coughed. “Um… I absolutely understand why this put you off relationships, but why’d it sour you on hookups?”
Brett snorted. She couldn’t be that dense? Yet the otherwise-brilliant robotics expert cocked her head like a confused puppy. “It was kind of an overall confidence killer?” The memory of those noises Kelly made for his brother, which he couldn’t recall her making for him, was crippling. The final nail in the coffin, cherry on top of 4 solid years of humiliating sexually tinged hazing by 38 different frats. “And Brett never tooooootally got his groove back? …But there’s more to life, right?” he finished with a wide, frantic smile.
Reagan wouldn’t let it go so quickly—not sober, and certainly not drunk. “Why are you letting her mess up your life?” She didn’t notice his flinch at her emphasized word. “Even you, in retrospect, must see this person was a shallow, gold-digging, back-stabbing creep who didn’t deserve 5 minutes of your attention?”
Read as: ‘Even you, the nicest person on Earth…’ But it sounded like: ‘Even you, a complete airhead…’
“I just don’t understand this! Isn’t Jagg the brother you took a bullet for?! Why would you do that?!” If she’d known about this while she was with Brett at the manor, she’d have crapped in a dog bag and piloted her drone to dump it on the family members’ heads from above. ‘Lock doors, call police, and eat shit, Hand Family!’
“Uhhhh…” the ginger uttered. Oh god, she thought he was completely pathetic, because he was. Crap!
Reagan didn’t intend to sound so reprimanding toward Brett. It was his rude, sadistic family who made her so angry! She was even trembling slightly! “Don’t you ever stand up for yourself?!” she groaned.
KKKKKKKKKKK. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Brett chuffed, leaned on the railing, and looked intently at the ground below, wishing he could drill into the soil like a worm. “I guess not, no.”
Snapping out of her boozy fog and rage flashes, Reagan’s eyes fixed on Brett’s expression for the first time. She finally realized how she’d sounded. “Oh no, Brett. I didn’t mean…” Not knowing how else to fix the massive failure, she acted unusually, springing forward and flinging her arms around her dear friend.
He startled, then relaxed. It was a real, tight, warm hug, from Dr. Reagan Ridley? Brett was pleasantly surprised and even proud of her shocking display of bare-minimum emotional intelligence…at least until a few moments later.
Reagan backed up, making vague hand motions while working out something else comforting to say. She felt so much protective emotion for her friend right now, so why couldn’t she come up with anything?! “You really have no reason to lack confidence in general,” she tried. “I mean, you look great!” A strong start.
A rare Reagan compliment in the wild? For the first time since starting his story, the former personal trainer’s face felt hot in a pleasant way and he cracked a genuine smile. “Wow, thanks, Reags! I really appreciate that.” Brett did try, hard. His brother was a senator, his sister was a neurosurgeon, and his other brother had been a quarterback. He was not as bright or gifted as them, by a longshot. He’d realized young that he had to visibly present well, so at least people might think kindly of him before he opened his dumbass mouth. He was thrilled it worked on Reagan even after she’d heard his dumb mouth sounds many times. Maybe there was hope?
But at this point, the white-girl-wastedness Brett had hoped would be a boon became a gigantic detriment. Reagan could’ve said a number of things. ‘When you swapped bodies, Glenn got you on a billboard and almost laid by two supermodels’ or ‘The app you’re too nervous to use has rated your face a 10/10’ were obvious choices. Instead, seeing his positive reaction, she over-excitedly blurted, ”Seriously, man! I mean, I wouldn’t mind screwing you!”
Brett flared a deeper shade of red as flattery became flustered confusion. “I— Haha— What— Wouldn’t— Mind?”
Reagan would’ve struggled parsing his current reaction if sober. Drunk, she was hopeless. In panicked desperation, hoping sincerely this would help, she announced, “Hell, I’d f*** you right now if it’d make you feel better!”
Yeah, Reagan, you keep digging that hole. Keep on digging until you’re burrowed deep into the center of the hollow Earth, singing ‘Crash Into Me’ with the mole people.
Brett’s face quickly transposed from red to sickly green. Reagan momentarily wondered if his drinks had caught up with him—he didn’t have the tolerance she did. Then he emitted a burst of uncontrollable stress laughter, looking like he wished someone would shoot him behind a barn. “Thanks, Rea-dawg, but gonna have to decline that friendly invitation to pity-f***!” His mouth warbled like he might vomit on the spot.
Reagan gasped. “No!” She wobbled, attempting to approach, but for once, Brett backed away. “Not like that! I’m just…trying to console my best business friend forever. Using sex!”
Brett’s laughter was unusually terse. “That’s the definition of a pity-f***, Reagan.” Drawing deep breaths, Brett turned to the side and stared directly into a park lamp until blinded. “Hehehe. You win the gold, buddy! Didn’t think you could do worse than offering to build me sex toys as condolences, but I’ll never underestimate your creativity again.” He swiveled to face her again, but now Reagan seemed to be moving farther and farther away at the other end of his newfound tunnel vision. “Is it warm out here? Seems warm for…December… Oh. Yeah. Reptoids. Global warming. Hehehe… Just gonna…go inside…back into the temperature control for a sec…” Miraculously, Brett managed to move his legs.
“Oh, Brett, no, wait—!” Reagan teetered after him unsuccessfully.
[X]
Brett vomited in the men’s room, then sat on the toilet seat, paralyzed by anxiety, for about 7 minutes, desperately playing the jock jam playlist through his airpods. Why had he continued that totally debasing story to completion? He’d wanted more than anything to stop, but Reagan’s persistent questioning had activated his people-pleasing response, and with his anxiety peaking, the words had risen uncontrollably up his throat like vomit. ‘Great job, idiot! Go talk to the pretty, successful genius and make yourself look even dumber, more spineless and helpless than usual!’
Once recovered, he stood and splashed cold sink water on his face. Naturally sunny disposition re-emerging, Brett began finding real humor in the situation. Relief crept in, loosening the painful knot in his stomach. “Phhht! That was terrible, even for Reags! Oh man…” He patted his wet face with his sleeve. He’d get over this. After all, from how flustered she immediately became, it was obvious Reagan hadn’t intended to be hurtful. But Christ! Brett devolved into amused snorting. Reagan was either the smartest idiot or dumbest genius he’d ever met! Once the jarring sting of any given burn wore off, it always reverted to being adorable, so Brett was already willing to forgive. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. Friendship Wolf!” His reflection mimed a friendly fist bump back at him. “I mean…at least she didn’t say it while we were inside the bar. Ha! Even Ray-Gun-of-Destruction would know better than that!”