Gaslighter

11

          "You're angry, then."

          "I'm not angry. I'm frustrated that we're having this conversation again when I've been pretty clear about the risks we were taking and would have to take the minute we decided to go forward with this relationship. I really don't understand why you're trying to make things even harder."

          "Right."

          That was the whole point, wasn't it?

          I was the one creating tidal waves of drama when neither of us needed it, but I understood his frustration because, I, too, felt that way. My frustration, however, came from feeling like I was doing everything on my own, with no one to turn to, and I had no guidelines. I couldn't talk to my friends or to my parents and, whenever I thought I could come to Chase with my concerns and wait for him to find a magical solution for everything, he'd give me the silent treatment.

          "I'm going to bed," he eventually said. "You should come. It's late."

          "I'll take the couch," I replied.

          He huffed. "Penelope, don't be ridiculous. The bed is right there."

          "No."

          "You're being unreasonable right now. Go lie down."

          "I said I'll take the goddamn couch," I insisted, firmer this time, a lot firmer than my voice usually was. The sudden outburst caught him off guard, something I instantly regretted, but the damage was done. He stepped away, hands raised and nostrils flaring, and I pathetically sat there, bottom lip quivering.

          "Fine. Do whatever you want to do."

          I did.

          I stayed in the living room, silently accepting the blankets and pillows he handed me so I wouldn't freeze to death or snap my own neck as I slept. I stayed there, crystals of ice forming in my hair and lashes, and a clock ticked in the distance. It was the kind of cold that clung to my bones, that would fog up my thoughts until they blended together in a hazy mess.

          That mess had a name. Chase.

          Quietly, I tucked my pillows under my arm and picked up the blankets, like a child carrying a teddy bear around the house, searching for her parents after a nightmare pulled her awake. I'd done it with my own parents when I was little, up until the moment we all collectively decided I was too old to seek refuge with them and had to fight my own battles, so we built up my walls. When I pushed open the door to his bedroom, those walls immediately came crumbling down.

          I curled into the empty space next to my mess of a man. It was the kind of mess you couldn't leave.

          And you wouldn't.

▬ ▬ ▬ ▬ ▬

          I drove myself home in the morning.

          Ingrid was awake when I entered the apartment, as expected. She sat in the kitchen, cupping a mug of steaming peppermint tea between her hands, and raised her head once she heard me come in. I was far from being in the mood for conversation, after the terrible night of sleep I'd had thanks to my pounding hangover, and was determined to avoid her for the rest of the day.

          Years ago, this would have never happened.

          There used to be a time when I was so in awe of her and everything she did I never had the courage to open my mouth whenever she was around. As time went by and we became closer—undoubtedly thanks to the frat party, regardless of whether any of us wanted to admit it—she began to step down from the pedestal I'd placed her on and became more human and flawed in my eyes. That was the kindest way I had of explaining why being in the same room as her for long periods of time made me want to rip out my own hair or even saying I really, really hated her guts. She was the one person I'd never managed to keep a secret from and, if I wanted to protect Chase as much as he was protecting me, I couldn't give her any reasons to suspect there was something going on. I could no longer use Marco as a cover-up, which was more of a blessing in disguise than I'd originally thought, as I wouldn't have to bring another innocent person into my wreckage.

          "Rough night?" she asked.

          "You could say that," I said. "Lots of wine."

          "I can see that." She sipped her tea. "How's Stephen?"

          "The same, I guess." I made a move towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The longer I stayed around to open a window of opportunity for her to pry into my personal life, the higher the chances of me saying something I shouldn't. It wasn't even just about Chase; I wasn't sure whether I could say anything about Stephen Delaroux's professional life or if what had been said last night had been whispered in confidence. "He's working on something, I guess. He wouldn't get into details."

          "And my dress?"

          I sighed. "It's back in the manor. I was drunk, Ingrid. I changed clothes so I wouldn't spill wine on it or rip it. I'll go back to pick it up later, but I need to lie down for a minute." Her eyes narrowed into slits. Long gone were the days when I'd let that intimidate me. Now, it was just infuriating how she would never, ever let things go. Maybe it was a way of making up for the distant, aloof tendencies she had back in freshman year. "Am I excused? Or do you want to take me to the police station for questioning?"

          She pressed her lips into a thin line. "No, it's fine. I was just asking. Loosen up, Penny, will you? Someone might think you have something to hide."

          Oh, you had no idea.

          "That's not my fucking name," I muttered, teeth gritted, and retreated towards my bedroom.