CHAPTER TWENTY

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2018

          Chase was even more nervous than I was, if that were even possible.

          We sat next to each other in my parents' living room, on the same couch, but we had to sit so far apart it felt like there was an invisible person between the two of us. I sat as straight as I possibly could, refusing to move a muscle, to inhale or exhale too deeply, while Chase was so restless he was barely able to sit still. Whenever he returned to the couch, magnetic waves pulled me towards him and tested my self-restraint, forcing me to dig my nails into the flesh of my thighs to stay put.

          Stephen Delaroux hadn't arrived yet, so it was just us and the staff, while my parents were doing something else on the opposite side of the manor. Even though the two of them weren't in the same room as us, I didn't dare to make a move to inch closer to him; there were still too many people here, too many privy eyes.

          When he was offered a drink, he refused at first, possibly out of politeness and, if he were anything like me, because his hands were shaking far too much to be able to hold such a thing like a frail cocktail glass. It was only after I asked for a glass of white wine that he followed suit, asking the staff for a Manhattan cocktail, and I brought my glass to my lips to try and hide the small smile my lips had stubbornly twisted into.

          It wasn't necessarily because of me.

          I'd hate to overestimate my importance in anyone else's life and Manhattans were common-enough cocktails around here to not be considered signature, so it could very well have been the first thing that came to mind. I shifted in my seat, steering away from him before the fabric of my clothes—another of Ingrid's dresses, this one a lot more appropriate to see my family than, say, the one I'd borrowed the night of the frat party—can brush against him and ignite the entire living room.

          The second my father entered the room following a prolonged absence, though, he deflated. He set the glass aside, being mindful enough to use a coaster before my mother could protest regarding her precious furniture, and stood up.

          He almost looked like my professor here, clothing-wise, which made me feel ridiculously overdressed for the occasion with a dress that hardly fit me and heels I shouldn't be allowed in. He wasn't even wearing a suit—the pressed shirt, chinos, loafers—and neither was my father, but my mother hadn't graced us with a dressed down look for the evening. That meant there was nowhere I could run to, inevitably bound to make a fool out of myself for trying too hard during an event that was hardly about me, if at all.

          Looking at him was physically painful, so I kept doing it. It was so easy to get burned, and so easy to not care.

          "So you're the infamous professor," my father said, in what he believed to be a proper greeting, and all I wanted to do was dig a hole and bury myself in it for all eternity. I didn't want Chase to worry and obsess about the way I'd described him to my family—I'd tried to be as vague as possible, distant, but I was beginning to second-guess everything I'd said—but he knew his name had been mentioned. It was why he was here, after all, considering my debilitating inability to stay quiet, but if this was an omen of things to come, it wasn't looking too good.

          Part of me couldn't help but think this was a strange way of introducing him to my parents. He wasn't here as my boyfriend—he was nowhere as my boyfriend, regardless of whether we'd sat down and talked about the status of our relationship (we hadn't)—and, the second I had a bit too much to drink, I just knew I'd inevitably put my foot in my mouth and try to make a joke about some PTA meeting. The joke wouldn't land, everyone would be uncomfortable over my accidental self-infantilization, and I'd stress Chase out for no reason.

          "That would be me," Chase replied, shoulders so stiff he could very well be made of iron, and accepted the hand my father reached out towards me. My father, bless his soul, had a reputation for having a mean handshake ("if people can't handle a handshake, then they can't handle me," he'd say), and I saw Chase flinch almost imperceptibly. He quickly regained his balance, which seemed to please my father. "Nice handshake."

          My father's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Thank you. I get it a lot."

          "Sir, I have to tell you I'm a huge fan—"

          "They all are. Penny has yet to introduce me to someone who doesn't try to butter me up the second they meet me." He playfully elbowed me, while I felt like dying. Panic crossed Chase's eyes for the brief moment I dared to look his way. "We've met a lot of her teachers throughout the years, but this is the first time we've had a professor here. Obviously. It's her first year." His face turned somber now. "You're not here for my blessing. You're not here so Penny can get special treatment. I know the type of people you lecture. She's not like that."

          "Dad," I intervened—pleaded, actually—before things could escalate further than the sudden antagonistic tone of the conversation, "please—"

          "Stephen wanted to see you. Stephen is also one of my oldest, dearest friends, and I value his opinion, but he also tends to be a good judge of character once you get to know him. I'm hoping you won't disappoint me." He finally dropped his hand, then turned to me, looking a lot more cheerful as he pulled me towards him to kiss my cheeks. "Cariño. You look wonderful."

         "Hola, papi."

          "Whose dress is that?"

          I stepped away from the hug, not wanting to shut Chase out of the conversation without giving my father any hints as to what exactly I was doing. "Givenchy."

          "You don't like Givenchy."

          "My friend let me borrow it for the evening." Next to me, Chase shifted his weight from one leg to the other and I swore I could read his thoughts. His mind had sped up into overdrive, wondering just how much I'd filled this friend—Ingrid—in regarding what I would be doing tonight and, most importantly, if his name had been brought up. It hadn't, but she knew my parents were important people and, by association, so was I, meaning I needed to dress the part. "I feel like it's a bit too much."

          "It's not your style, darling," my mother said, exiting the foyer. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, a calming sound that had always meant I was coming home—it meant I was safe. "You look good, but it's not you. You could wear a garbage bag and look wonderful." Her eyes darted towards Chase, still looking even more dumbfounded than me. "Is this the professor? A professor drinking a . . . Manhattan cocktail in my house?"

          "Penny likes those," my father added.

          "That, she does." She stepped closer to us, grimacing at the way Chase was massaging his hand. "Honey . . ."

          "He wanted a handshake. I gave him one. Right, sport?" He playfully punched Chase's shoulder, knocking him back a bit, and I cleared my throat to mask a chuckle. For a split second, this almost felt normal, like they were simply meeting my boyfriend, but I was quickly dragged back to reality by the hair. I thought Chase would rather have his skin boiled than be called sport, but sometimes you had to make sacrifices for the people you wanted to impress—I knew a thing or two about that. "Chase Steele, darling. He has a PhD."

          "Does he, now?"

          Though, deep down, they knew they were doing all of this in good spirits, their humor sometimes wasn't well received. One good look at Chase was more than enough to let me know how uncomfortable he was, and I caught him staring at the foyer multiple times, willing Stephen Delaroux to finally arrive and put him out of his misery. If I could, I'd do it myself—there was nothing I ached more for than to be able to reach out a hand to hold him—but it would be impossible to pull off such a feat.

          I had to make do with the little I had. With our backs turned to the wall behind us, my hand timidly pressed against his back once my parents finally turned their attention elsewhere, just briefly. I didn't know if he'd get it, if he'd know I was doing it to show I was there to support him in an environment where he clearly didn't feel like he belonged, but I didn't want to push his stony boundaries. He stiffened under my touch, regardless of how swift it had been, and I dropped my hand like he'd just burned my skin through his clothes.

          Defeated, I walked away towards the dining room, more than ready to refill my drink, but Chase's fingers pressed against my wrist in a gentle, quicker than lightning gesture, and he took my glass.

          Stephen arrived shortly after. It was the first time I saw Chase nearly bring himself to tears.

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          At the dining table, the first thing I noticed was how the lights made Chase's eyes look impossibly blue.

          There were other important aspects to note—Stephen Delaroux, sitting in my parents' house again, my parents drilling Chase with questions they wouldn't make to other guests—yet there I was, mesmerized by him. He sat next to me, between me and Stephen, and wasn't wearing his glasses, so his eyes were in full display, steel blue. I couldn't spend too much time looking at him like a child looking at the starry sky and forced myself to actually focus on the conversation, but our sudden proximity wasn't doing me any favors.

          Underneath the table, hidden from view, his knee brushed against mine. At first, I thought it had been an accident, so quick my brain barely registered it, and instinctively switched my position, crossing that leg over the other so I wouldn't be occupying any unnecessary space, but then he did it again and I almost spit my drink all over myself.

          My mother shot me a concerned glance, mixed with a slight plea not to embarrass myself in front of the guests, particularly Stephen, and I happily obliged. I switched to water then, something that wouldn't noticeably stain Ingrid's dress if I were to spill it, and was determined to stay on my best behavior, even though Chase's presence would never allow me to do such a thing.

          "Can I refill your glass?" Stephen asked me, at some point, after I'd been staring at one of the rare blank spaces on a wall. When I looked back at him, I found everyone else looking at me expectantly, like I'd taken far too long to react, and dread crept up my spine. I didn't like being stared at, especially like this, with people expecting far too much from me.

          I stared at the hand he reached out towards me, in front of Chase. The jar of water wasn't on the table anymore and he'd have to leave for the kitchen for a refill, which wasn't the issue, but my mind trailed back to the last time I'd accepted a glass of water from a stranger. Stephen was no stranger anymore, more of an acquaintance, and yet.

          My chest filled with smoke, so thick I barely got a breath in or out, and I gripped the side of the table to steady myself. The blurry desert had returned, so dark I could only see the dimly lit glass ahead of me, no traces of orange in the distance, not even blue, and the sand threatened to swallow and bury me whole. My ears were clogged, fully blocking everyone's voices, but there was a strange sound I was unable to tune out.

          "Penny," my father called, above all the noise, as my hand slammed against my glass when I sprung up from my seat. Water seeped through the tablecloth, soaking the cloth napkins and dripping from the ends of the fabric, but I couldn't bring myself to care about the state of the stupid dress. "What's—"

          "I have to go," I blurted out, suddenly aware the sound I hadn't completely muted was that of my heavy breathing, gasping for air. I couldn't tell if they were all staring at me like I had just committed a crime, like I looked ridiculous, but I certainly felt that way, like the ground was slowly giving out under my feet.

          I could hardly stand straight, something someone would inevitably blame on the drinks I'd had—like people always did—and, in a way, I'd brought it all upon myself. It was what I'd heard whispered about me in the hallways on campus, like I was making it all up for attention when I'd spent so long running away from it, and I quickly realized how selfish I'd be to make it all about me. If they didn't believe me, if they blamed me, then I didn't want to hear what they were saying about all those other girls.

          Flashes upon flashes blinked in front of my eyes as I made my way upstairs, holding the railing with both hands, and, whenever I skipped a step and nearly fell, thundering pain spread across the back of my head like it had that night. I knew I was standing up, I knew I could walk, but I still felt like I was cowering in pain on the floor, in the bedroom of a stranger, blood pooling in my mouth.

          My childhood room hardly felt like mine anymore, but it was the only place where I could hide, especially in the dark. I peeled off the dress before I could ruin it and stain my friendship with Ingrid even further, particularly after all the effort I'd put into attempting to avoid any interactions with her bar those strictly needed, and clumsily stumbled towards my closet.

          Downstairs, the dinner party went on and no one came after me. I was sniffling and weeping by my window, leaning my forehead against the cold glass to pull me away from the desert, but that just served to remind me of how truly insignificant I was. I didn't want them to stop living their lives because of me and I hated that this would be what they would remember about tonight—an event that was supposed to be cheerful and bright was now tainted by my stupid trauma.

          I loathed calling it that. Nothing bad had happened to me, unlike those other girls, and I had everything in my power to fight against it, but I was choosing not to. I was running away from everyone and everything that had ever tried to help me, convinced I could handle it by myself based on the opinion of people who didn't matter. I didn't feel like I had the right to be upset, having left just in time, and to hear someone other than me refer to it as 'trauma' was so dehumanizing for everyone else, but part of me still thought I was self-sabotaging, as I always did.

          This couldn't go on. I couldn't keep living like this.

          For the first time that night, I allowed myself to listen to myself—really listen, not just assume the worst. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to want to get better.

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          I found Chase outside, on one of the balconies on the first floor.

          I no longer looked glamorous or beautiful, and had received sympathetic, pitiful looks from the staff as I made my way across the manor, and I supposed that was well-deserved. If I didn't have my looks, I had next to nothing going for me, so I presumed I looked absolutely wrecked after refusing to look in the mirror. On other days, I was miserable, but at least I still looked half-decent, sometimes beautiful.

          At least.

          "Are you okay?" he asked me. The night was cold yet quiet, not windy, and he couldn't use the weather to mask his voice, so we had to keep quiet. "I'm sorry I didn't go after you. It wouldn't have looked appropriate."

          "I know."

          He grimaced, watching me light a cigarette—an annoying habit I'd gained thanks to Ingrid, as opposed to my previous 'I'll only smoke in social situations' stance. It was better when I could actually see the smoke. "What happened there?"

          "I drank too much. That's usually the problem." I reached out the pack towards him and he carefully pulled out a cigarette, holding it between his lips as I stood on my toes to light it. I had to shield the flame with my free hand, stepping too close to him, and I even heard him sharply hold his breath, though no one could see us. "I'm okay. I'm just . . . not really used to trusting people with my drinks."

          "Ah."

          "I hope that didn't ruin things for you." One of the corners of his mouth twitched. "I know you've wanted to see Stephen for a long time. I'm sorry it wasn't under . . . better circumstances. I really was just trying to help. To be honest, there are plenty of things I could have handled better about tonight, and I know you're still upset your name was brought up, but it was never in a way meant to hurt you. That has never been my intent. My dad liked you, at least. He doesn't warm up to strangers that quickly, yet there he was, treating you like a son."

          Chase took a drag of his cigarette. "I suppose."

          "Are you still mad at me?"

          "I was never mad at you."

          "Well, every conversation we've had leading up to this point told me otherwise."

          "Now you're just projecting." My own cigarette trembled in my hand. I leaned my shoulder against the wall for support. "I never said I was angry. You're once again putting words in my mouth—"

          "You didn't have to say it. I know how it sounded. It's about how you say things. It's about your choice of words. Even if you don't specifically say those words, there are plenty of other ways to convey a message. I'm not stupid. This whole conversation is making me feel stupid, like I'm not certain of how I'm feeling, and—"

          "Maybe you should stop and think about how it makes me feel, too. Everything I do and say keeps being misinterpreted and, sometimes, I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around you. You get upset with the littlest things, think I'm mad at you when I'm mad at the situation and the circumstances—"

          "Then tell me that!" The corners of my eyes pricked with tears. "Why don't you just tell me that to my face? Why do you have to be so cryptic about everything? You asked me if I thought you were just expected to guess things, but what about me? I can't read you at all."

          "You know, sometimes I forget you're still a kid."

          I backed away, hurt sparking across my chest. Did I really need to be reminded of that? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

          "It means you're still learning, it means you're still trying to come to terms with a new situation, and I get it. I get it's confusing, but there are times when you need to trust me instead of trusting this . . . uncertainty. Just trust me, baby, okay?"

          "Wow. Just—wow. Now I'm untrusting. Just tell me what else you think of me, then. I'm stupid, I'm a kid, I'm a baby, I'm selfish. You do realize those things hurt, right? You've known I was nineteen since you walked me to my loft, and I know you're older, I know you're smarter, but I thought we were past that. I thought I wouldn't have to feel inferior in private with you, too."

          He brushed his hair back with his free hand. "Jesus Christ, Penelope. You cannot be serious right now."

          "All I've done is try. All I do is try. I'm sorry if it's not enough for you, I am, but I don't know what else you want me to do. What can I do if you don't talk to me? What can I do if I'm standing here and doubting what I was feeling at any given moment?"

          "That's not what I'm doing. I'm just trying to get you to see my side." He glanced at the interior of the manor. "We can talk about this later. Tomorrow. You can sleep at my apartment if you'd like, but this isn't the right place or the right time. Please," he added, fingers brushing against my hip bone in a way only he knew, and the storm subsided.

          I knew I was being unreasonable. I knew that.

          "I was thinking I should maybe talk to someone," I told him. "A therapist."

          He knitted his brows together, face partially obscured by the harsh lighting. "Why?"

          "I think I had a panic attack just then. Maybe anxiety. When Stephen asked to refill my glass, I . . . I panicked. For some reason, my brain just shut down and thought I was still at the frat party. It was the last time someone I didn't know asked to get me a drink, and it ended in catastrophe, even though I know Stephen isn't like that. I know that, but I couldn't stop panicking." I gulped, watching him finally drop his hand. "I can't sleep. I can't cross the campus quad without feeling like people are watching me or whispering about me, even when they aren't. Some people think I made it all up, but I know I didn't. I didn't, right?" I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, searching for some recognition, some validation, and he shook his head. Somehow, that was good enough for me. "I'm scared all the time, and I don't know how to make it stop. I know I couldn't tell someone the full truth, that you got me out, but I just need to talk to a professional before I explode. I'm begging you, Chase." I curled my fingers around his wrist. "I'm literally begging you to let me do it. I promise I won't tell a soul."

          Chase sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead against mine. His skin was much warmer than mine, and I shuddered with the sudden change in temperature. "Go. You know I can't stand to see you like this. If it helps . . ."

          "I want it to."

          "Then, go." He took a step back, then put out his cigarette, smashing him with his shoe. "We should go, too. Are you coming?"

          I nodded, exhaling through my mouth, and, once we stepped back inside, the heavy weight in my chest never faded.