CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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2022

          I got the phone call around three weeks later, mid-March rolling around slowly like a caress, and warmer temperatures crept in at an even slower pace, but I still didn't feel like I was defrosting in the slightest. With spring approaching, I was still curled under all my heavy blankets and duvets, heating turned almost all the way up, but at least I'd gone back to attending all my lectures to get back on track.

          Mostly, I wanted—needed—to get Savannah, Ingrid, and my parents off my back, but I also knew I couldn't avoid Chase forever. Even though it would be the smarter thing to do, considering I'd never been able to keep secrets from him, and I was entirely convinced he'd know I had opened my big, cowardly mouth after swearing on everything sacred I never would, I still went back when the months changed.

          My anxiety would kick up instantly, especially with Savannah's wary eyes watching me like a hawk, but no one had said anything. I had them all fooled once again, making them think I was fine, I would be okay, but all that hinged on them keeping their mouths shut for my sake. I couldn't deal with a scandal that big, not now, and graduation marked yet another ending.

          So, when my phone rang in the middle of the night, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest. There was no reason for him to call that late, not unless something serious—something terrible—had happened.

          "Hello?"

          "Penn," Chase croaked out. The hand wrapped around my heart squeezed it so tightly I could taste the blood on my tongue. He'd called me Penn—not even Penelope—and, though even I knew it was the literal bare minimum, my dumb, pathetic, hopeful heart still hung on to the possibility of it meaning something. "I need you."

          He didn't need to talk to me.

          He didn't need to hear me.

          He didn't need to see me.

          He needed me—to what extent and for what purpose, I didn't know, but he knew exactly what to say to pull me back in, exactly where I wanted to be, and tugged at my heartstrings. He knew me better than anyone else in my life, so that was to be expected, but every comment and concern raised by my parents throughout the past few weeks were preventing me from fully launching myself back into his arms.

          Betraying him when he was being honest about needing me left a bitter taste in my mouth, but every bit of interaction between us—direct and indirect—didn't feel the same as it used to, as my parents had crawled right into my brain and contaminated my thoughts. They'd attempted their hardest to convince me he had a hidden agenda to manipulate me and not the other way around, that he'd been taking advantage of my insecurities, naivety, and pathological need to be wanted, needed, and loved, and I didn't know how to live with myself in a world where that was the true version of reality. Just considering the veracity of that theory disgusted me to my core, and the fact that I was hesitating to believe someone who had done so much, sacrificed so much for me, and had loved me so fiercely made my blood simmer.

          Had I hesitated before? Yes, but only briefly, for such a microscopic moment that they seemed insignificant. However, I had still hesitated—more than once—and those doubts had increased both in frequency and in intensity ever since the breakup. I couldn't quite understand why, but there was a part of my brain that pointed out there had to be an important reason behind it.

          After my whole world and my whole life had been bent and molded to fit his, what he had taught me, and what he wanted me to be, after I had to unlearn all those cognitions simply because he didn't want me anymore, there had to be a strong reason behind the incessant questioning swarming my brain. All I had to do was figure out what it was, figure out if I could trust it, and then go on from there, but there were more pressing matters at stake, and I couldn't turn my back on someone who needed me. It was not in my nature, and we both knew it.

          (Only one of us would ever weaponize it, though.)

          (I wasn't that callous.)

          (I was many things, but I wasn't cruel.)

          "Did something happen?" I questioned, unable to hide the tremor in my voice.

          Against my better judgment, I still kicked away the covers, finding surprising energy to drag myself out of the bed even with aching muscles and joints, and couldn't help but realize how eerily similar this situation was to that one time he'd called me in the middle of the night. I'd had to rush out of the apartment, lie to Savannah, and face the biting cold of the night to pick him up after a meeting with my father had gone awry, only to have my best intentions and love blow up in my face.

          I wondered if that was what it was again. I wondered, with a shiver of horror running through my spine, if this had been prompted by yet another confrontation—behind my back, even.

          "I'm at the hospital," Chase eventually revealed. He'd said at, not in, and, even if he were in the hospital, he wouldn't be calling me. There was no way I could be his emergency contact, not when he had friends and family who would instantly drive to him without having to worry about being seen in the light. Now more than ever, we had to keep up appearances, and I knew my mask would fall the second I found myself alone with him. Given the chance, I would run back inside the burnt building that was our relationship, desperate for something to salvage. "I didn't—there was no one else. I didn't know who else to talk to."

          "Oh," I croaked out. If my voice had been shaky before, now I was struggling to hide my disappointment. He knew how desperately I clung to every opportunity to be needed, and I was still being treated as a last resort, the person he reached out to because there was no better alternative. Even if he wasn't actively, consciously thinking about that or how it would make me feel, I couldn't shut my brain off and ignore it. I would always need him, for better or for worse, and he only wanted me there when every other option was unavailable. "Are you okay? Do you need me to drive there? I'm out of bed now."

          He took in a sharp breath. "It's Stephen. He had a heart attack. They don't . . . they don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what to do."

          Scorching hot panic spread in my chest and, if I wasn't standing so close to my bed, I would've fallen and woken up the entire building.

          Stephen Delaroux, in all his glory, was a monumental man—both in stature and in charisma—and there was no one in the world who would ever compare to him. He was the healthiest person I knew, only drinking socially, and he was still so secluded that those occasions were atypical, not to mention how often he went on hikes and spiritual retreats. If there was anyone in the world I wouldn't ever expect to have their heart fail on them, it would have to be him.

          The world swayed beneath my feet, shipwrecked, and the restlessness brought by the uncertainty of the immediate future was the only thing that kept me moving forward. I couldn't stay still and knew I had to make my way to the hospital, even though there was a high chance of my parents also being there; outside of his connection to Chase, I'd grown attached to Stephen during the past three and a half years, and he'd been a pivotal presence in my life. He was family, in a way, and he was a tie to Chase I wouldn't ever be prepared to suspend, regardless of how selfish that was.

          My parents hadn't said a word about his heart attack, which both cut me deep and worsened my anxiety about the three of them being in the same room together—and what that would imply. I could only begin to imagine how heavy the atmosphere was thanks to all the negative feelings and dynamics involved. I was self-absorbed enough to assume I was partially at fault, as their relationship would forever be tainted by everything that had unfolded, especially the aspects related to my relationship with him, and I wouldn't want to cause a scene when there were more serious things to worry about.

          So, I swallowed my stupid pride and decided I would be there. I would be there to support Chase to the best of my ability, sure, as that was something I was unsure I'd ever stop turning into an absolute priority, but I also wanted to be there for my parents. Most of all, I wanted to be there for Stephen, like my presence mattered enough to make a difference in whether he'd make it, but I'd hate to fall back into my overestimating tendencies. I wouldn't change a thing and he wouldn't know if I was there or not, so it was more along the lines of making myself feel better for showing up.

          Before I could leave the apartment, throwing a long, heavy fake wool coat over my pajamas and putting on a pair of combat books, I ran into Ingrid. The last time I'd snuck out in the middle of the night, I'd woken up Savannah, but lately she'd been sleeping like a rock thanks to her flu medicine and I knew she wouldn't be an issue. Ingrid, however, was an obstacle I'd failed to account for, which, considering how much focus I'd given to her in my mind while I attempted to maintain my relationship a secret, showed how much things had changed—for the better or for the worse, I wasn't sure.

          "You're leaving to meet him," she said, not even bothering to make it sound like a question. She was sitting by the kitchen counters, nursing a steaming mug of peppermint tea, and her hair was the brightest thing about her, glowing in the dark.

          "I'm going to the hospital," I muttered, wrapping a scarf around my neck. It could be overkill, as it wasn't nearly as cold as it had been a while back, but I felt safer that way. It helped me blend in and hide, and I was always at my best whenever I was covertly moving through crowds, shrouded in an aura of mystery only I cared about. "Something important—"

          "You don't have to lie to me, you know."

          "I'm not lying. I just don't see the point in trying to explain myself to you when you've been judging me this whole time and thinking I'm a naive idiot for getting myself wrapped up in something like this."

          I could have added she was just jealous Chase hadn't chosen her and had chosen me over everyone else, but I didn't. I didn't want to antagonize her now, especially when I was in such a rush to leave the apartment, but also because I couldn't risk pissing her off and having her run her mouth out of spite. Those were the sacrifices I'd still have to make for a long time to protect Chase and his honor, which made me wonder how far he'd go to protect me.

          He'd always been so quick to point out there were rules in place to do it in his place, but what would happen once those rules no longer applied? Was that why he had walked away so easily? Because there was nothing he could hide behind?

          Ingrid sighed. "I think your naivety was used against you, yes, but I don't think you're an idiot. There hasn't been a single moment this whole time I've thought any of this was your fault."

          "Well, you're mistaken, then. I've been saying this was my choice, my decision to keep pursuing—"

          "I'm not arguing with you in the middle of the night. I know what you're trying to do; you're trying to shut me out even further because it's safer to isolate yourself from the people who actually care about you and run off into the arms of the person who doesn't. He still has you wrapped around his finger, and you keep falling for it." She calmly sipped her tea, avoiding my eyes, and I walked towards the front door, keys in hand. "I don't blame you, you know. It's what people like him do—they manipulate and twist everything around them for their convenience. You just so happened to be a pawn in a much bigger game, and the only thing I regret is not having seen the signs earlier."

          "It was my choice, Ingrid. I did everything I did because I wanted to."

          "Some of it, perhaps. But maybe consider thinking about why you wanted to do all of that."

          I sank my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood just so I wouldn't let out a guttural scream. I also knew what she was doing—by trying to get me to see reason where there was nothing rational, she was trying to get me to a highly emotional state where I'd let it all out again. I wouldn't let her win. I couldn't.

          Letting her win would mean agreeing to a reality where Chase had never truly cared, where he had used me from the very beginning. He'd hurt me and my feelings, sure, and I'd learned to take the blame for the littlest things, to acquiesce and be the better person by putting myself in harm's way (drunk driving to get to him to make up for his radio silence, drinking while on medication because he'd gotten wine just for me), but it had to have been worth it.

           It just had to. I couldn't fathom such an enormous amount of cruelty coming from someone I loved that hard, that destructively, but it was there. He had done all those things, hurt me in all those ways and more. What then? 

          Where would I go from there, when home wasn't home anymore?

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          I didn't touch Chase in the waiting room. He noticed me, because of course he did, and was the first to do so—even before my parents even realized I'd arrived. When they did, my father immediately stepped forward to drag me away from Chase, sending him a pointed look, and it was then that I was certain Chase knew we weren't in the clear anymore. We weren't together anymore, but we still had to hide that we'd ever been involved in any capacity besides academic and by proxy through my parents and Stephen, and it was clear the bubble of secrecy had burst.

          I didn't want him to figure out I was to blame, but coming to that conclusion would be as easy as breathing, so it would be a matter of time before he realized it. He'd know, and I'd have to barely survive the guilt somehow.

          Standing under the incandescent lights of the waiting room with him brought me back to simpler times when we could hide in each other's homes—his apartment, my loft—and dance without music, illuminated by the pale moonlight. He'd press his lips to my shoulder, arms sneaking around my waist, and I'd lean my shoulder blades back against his chest.

          Taking all of those moments for granted had been our downfall in the end and dwelling on what I'd lost would do me no good, especially when I knew we could never go back to being those people. Even if we could, I knew I'd be spending the whole time waiting for the other shoe to drop, paranoid and damaged beyond belief or repair, and I couldn't do that to us. Most of all, I knew I couldn't do it to myself if I wanted to survive.

          Was that how I wanted to live the rest of my life, permanently terrified the worst that could ever happen to me would always be lurking around the corner, permanently doubting I could truly be loved by the man I called a partner? Would I want to cut ties with the people I knew loved me, regardless of how infuriating they'd been this whole time, regardless of how much effort they were putting into ruining what I wanted to save as happy memories? Would I look back on my twenty-three-year-old self years from now and be glad I'd chosen this path? Or would I look back in anger and regret for letting go of my girlhood way too early?

          Would I want to remember myself like this? Would I learn to believe I deserved better than someone who could never give me a tiniest piece of himself even after I'd devoted everything I was, everything I had to him?

          Maybe what I had been calling love until now was twisted. Maybe it wasn't healthy. Maybe I didn't know how to love anyone without becoming pathologically dependent on them and their constant validation, and maybe I'd been unfair by making unrealistic demands to match even more unrealistic expectations. Maybe I'd asked for too much from him, and a clean break had been inevitable.

          Like everyone around me pointed out, with no reservations, I was naive and stupid at heart, allowing people to prey on my insecurities. Whatever insecurities Chase had, whatever he'd seen in mine and in me, there had to have been love involved at some point because, after all, no one in their right mind would keep up a ruse for as long as we had if we hadn't truly felt strongly about each other. Whether it had been love or not—and I wanted so badly to believe that's what it had been, ever the pathological romantic and settler for the bare minimum—there had been something there.

          Even after all the daggers he'd stabbed me with and twisted, even in the darkest hours, all I wanted to do was cross the waiting room and go to him. Yet, I didn't, and it wasn't simply because my parents were present or would instantly know what I'd be doing if we were to sneak away in tandem or separately. The veil had been lifted, the curtains were spread right open, and I was so transparent I could almost be as invisible as I'd attempted to be around everyone, as invisible as I'd been horrified to be in Chase's eyes.

          He was miserable through and through, and there was some semblance of delusion left in me to make me believe I could be a cause for that. He certainly looked the part, with the beard, red-rimmed eyes, and days-old purple circles under them, and yet that served as no consolation. I wanted him to be devastated about losing me, mirroring my own feelings and current state of mind, but he'd have to count that as a loss for it to be a true emotion, which I doubted; after all, he'd been so calm and collected, so cold when he shattered my heart, it felt like second nature. Maybe it had always been his first nature, and I'd never allowed myself to see it, hiding behind mirrors that would only show me what I wanted to see. Behind the smoke, after the dust settled, I could almost see it clearly now, spelled out for me to make it easier than it should be.

          I hated him, but I also loved him, and the duality of those feelings was devouring me alive.

          What he had done to me had been more than cruel—it had been evil. If all of it had been an intricate plan to ruin me and my spirit, to devoid me of any self-respect, if all of it had been a deliberate effort to ruin my life, it was evil. That was what it was, and part of me wanted him to hurt and bleed like I was doing. I wanted him to feel like a scorched, singed open wound. I wanted him to burn, to be consumed with grief, but one would have to feel remorse.

          I didn't know if he could feel such a thing. All evidence following the breakup suggested otherwise, and my parents, Savannah, and Ingrid had made compelling points to prove it. I didn't know where I stood, whose side I wanted to take, and that was how I'd lived my whole life—forcing myself to adopt a neutral, passive stance, letting other people make life-changing decisions in my place because I'd always been too scared of getting too involved.

          I'd gotten too involved in someone's life once, and this is where it had gotten me. He'd taken everything from me to fix himself, hadn't he? I'd tried to fix everything that was wrong, creating more problems with every breath I took, and it was exhausting. It was criminal for one person to carry that much weight on their own shoulders, but I'd done it all willingly, so I couldn't even begin to blame him for it. How could I blame someone else for a decision I'd made out of my own free will? Where was the line that separated free will and coercion?

          Had there ever been a line when it came to me and Chase? Was I being fair by questioning all of those things, like the good moments, like the moments of crystal clear happiness had never meant a thing? Hadn't he taught me to be everything that I currently was?

          Even with Stephen lying in a hospital bed, I still felt like it was me dying from finding myself in this liminal space, unsure of which path to follow. Every beat of my heart was another doubt, another question, another way of questioning what had happened, what I'd said and done and why, whether I'd been manipulated into it or not, whether it had been my fault or not, whether Chase was to blame or not. Most of all, it begged me to choose before it was too late, but I didn't know what that meant—I knew I was living on borrowed time (surviving, more precisely), but I didn't know when it would be too late.

          I felt idiotic, worrying about myself when Stephen was actively dying, but I couldn't stop. That had been my issue all along, never knowing how to do things in moderation, and it had been one of the many causes for my fall from grace. I'd loved too much, done too much, given too much, and gotten too little. I'd become a shell of myself, somehow convinced myself it was worth it, and, now that I'd lost everything I'd once held dear, every secret color and code word I'd thought to be invaluable, there was no way of saving any of it.

          I could only hope there was still some salvation left for me—if not for the girl I'd left behind, if not for the girlhood I'd tossed away like garbage, then for my potential. There had to be some potential there.

          I wanted to be allowed to be saved. I wanted to be allowed to save myself. I just didn't know where to begin, or if I'd even deserve it. That was my life, anyway, and what I'd look back on years from now—the constant mental debate on whether I deserved certain things, both the good and the bad.

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i am so sorry to all stephen enthusiasts (re: me). if you care, this was one of the first events i ever thought of back when i first started writing this book, which feels like an eternity ago (i was still writing my master's thesis, for context), so it's been a long time coming. we're v near the end. xoxo