CHAPTER SIX
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2018
I was determined to take things slow and not rush anything.
Part of me didn't really want to, as I didn't want to risk coming across as someone who didn't know what they wanted; after all, I had been the one to force him into a dangerous situation that could very well ruin his life and mark the end of what could be a brilliant career. On the other hand, I also didn't want things between me and Chase to fly by at the speed of light, freak him out, and drive him away.
My mind felt like a broken record, constantly rewinding to the moment when I realized just how treacherous our state of affairs truly was, and it was utterly agonizing. I'd lie in bed at night, alone and wide awake, unable to press pause when I wanted to. My brain replayed the same hypothetical scenario, over and over again, reminding me once more I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
To ease my guilt, I forced myself to set some boundaries, under the pretense of wanting even more safety.
I decided we had to get to know each other better first, just so both of us could be all in completely and realize whether we were worth fighting for and risk losing everything. There was no denying he was so attractive I melted into a puddle at the mere sight of him, my brain turning into mush, and it took every ounce of self-control I still had left by that point to not take him to bed. Physical appearance aside, there were other aspects that drew me to him, the ones that mattered the most and explained just why I couldn't stay away from him like he had advised.
It was hard to remember he wasn't that much older than me, even if the age difference had been pointed out by him. He looked young for his age, but his brain was something else entirely, like he belonged to a different time period and had experienced so much already at twenty-six, whereas I was still nineteen, still stuck in the shadow of my parents.
Getting to know the person you were interested in was a vital part of any relationship, but our relationship was far from ordinary. While other people could afford the luxury of going out on dates, we couldn't be seen together in public, at least in places where we would be recognized, and I was recognized everywhere I went. The Romero surname meant something, after all, and I'd grown up with cameras shoved in front of my face. So, at first, we alternated between his apartment and my loft, the two safest places we could think of.
"I'll take you somewhere beautiful someday," he'd promised once, half-asleep, half-drunk on my couch. "Once things settle."
I couldn't not believe him.
It was October now, darker and colder, and my loft was warm with Chase's presence. He was grading homework, a frigid reminder that he was my superior when it came to college, and I forced myself to not look at what he was writing. I couldn't even turn on the TV to distract myself, afraid it would disturb him, so I shifted my focus back to the Introduction to Media paper I desperately needed to finish. I could have been done with it weeks ago, had I not spent so much time obsessing over Chase, but even he had managed to not fall behind on his schedule.
He had friends, a job, a life. I only had him, even if it was just under very specific conditions and circumstances.
I was beginning to feel like I was a little bit too much for him. I'd fallen, and I'd fallen hard, never knowing how to do anything in moderation, and, for some reason my brain couldn't comprehend, he had taken an interest in me. However small it might be, it was enough for me. In such a short amount of time, he'd seen past all my smoke and mirrors, at least part of it, and he had really seen me—me, out of all people. It wasn't like I could ignore that.
I could tell he was scared. I was well aware of the way he glanced at me during lectures, quickly looking away as though someone could guess what was going on between us just by that one gesture, and I wanted so badly to be able to do the same. He was iridescent and everyone looked at him, everyone stared, drunkenly mesmerized. Why did he expect me to be any different? Was he not aware of the effect he had on people? Was he not aware of the effect he had on me?
"What do you want to do once you finish college?" he asked, breaking the silence, and I looked up from my laptop. He didn't return the look, still staring down at his own screen and typing furiously.
"I'm not sure," I replied. "Do you?"
"Well, I do have a PhD." He flashed me a quick smug grin for added dramatic effect. Though I knew it was just a joke, my heart was tight, being squeezed by an invisible hand, as it always was whenever I was reminded of the massive chasm between us. It made it almost impossible to believe that, one day, he would love me. I didn't want to think about it in terms of loving me too, not wanting to create expectations and fall flat on my face with nothing to steady my fall besides my heartbreak and heartache as soon as I fell in love with a seemingly unattainable man. "I did spend most of my college years not knowing what to do next, though. All I knew was that I loved film, and really wanted a degree. Then, I applied for a master's degree. Not satisfied, perhaps too ambitious for my own good, I decided to get a doctorate. Stephen Delaroux always said I'd always be welcome home in case I wanted to try out academia, but I kind of want to . . . see the world. Capture it. Remember it forever. I've always wanted to do something memorable, you know? I just don't know how. Do I want to direct? Do I want to produce? Do I want to write? Do I want to do all three? I know I have the theoretical knowledge, but I've never really explored the practical side of it all. Maybe I'll try directing or producing; I think I've had enough of writing after two theses."
That was the most I'd heard him say outside of a lecture ever since I first met him and I was well aware I was gaping at him like an idiot with mashed potatoes for a brain.
Even though his plans weren't concrete, even though he still felt lost, he still knew what options there were and the ones he knew he didn't want to pursue. I, on the other hand, had only developed a passion for film because of my parents and there were times when I wondered whether that love was genuine. After all, like Chase had said, I was a Romero and I was doing exactly what was expected of me—I was getting a film degree at the best university in the country for film enthusiasts, the alma mater of so many people who had gone and done wondrous things, and I'd do great things myself.
Hopefully. I had no idea what I wanted to do with a film degree; I liked documentaries and short films, but I couldn't imagine myself being involved in cinema, for example. I thought I was meant for festivals, maybe Sundance, not necessarily Cannes, and the indie life felt so much more appealing to me than delivering blockbuster after blockbuster.
"How are you liking academia so far?" I questioned, even though there was a high probability of regret overpowering every other emotion I'd feel after hearing his response.
"It's okay." He reached out for his glass of Merlot. The gurgling sound echoed around us, my heartbeat racing in anticipation, and nausea wrapped around my entrails. "They pay me really well, that's for sure, and I suppose it's nice to pass along the knowledge I've acquired throughout the years, but it's not my passion. It feels like I'm trying to fill Stephen's shoes, even though I know I'll never come close to matching his genius."
"You don't have to be him," I reminded him, as he brought the glass to his lips. The sleeves of his black shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, while I was shivering under the weight of my knit sweater. "I don't think he wants you to be a miniature Stephen Delaroux. Men like that can never be replicated. If you ask me, you're doing a wonderful job at being yourself and doing whatever the hell you want to do."
Chase paused to look at me over his glasses and none of us said anything for a while. Mortified, heat rising to my cheeks, I immediately grabbed my hot chocolate mug and returned to my half-written paper. I was bullshitting my way through it, unable to occupy my mind with any thoughts that weren't about Chase and the blaring siren in the back of my head that feared someone would come bursting through my front door at any moment. It was thrilling and, in a way, I liked the adrenaline. I liked feeling wanted, feeling desired, even just for a fleeting moment, but it was conflicting.
I was so contradictory. No wonder Chase had second thoughts about us.
"This is what makes my job harder," he eventually confessed, keeping his voice low, as though he was ashamed. My breath got hitched in my throat as I risked a glance at the door, wondering if it would be too pathetic of me to beg him not to leave, leave me. "I love my job. I love the theory of my job, Penn, and thought it was going to be a walk in the park. I was there not that long ago, and I know how to teach. I know how to keep a crowd entertained, I know how to keep them interested in what I have to say, and I know I'm damn good at what I do. All it takes is one simple glance at you during a lecture, in a hallway, in the parking lot, doing something as simple as absentmindedly brushing your hair away from your face, and I'm done for. It would be so easy for me to lose control, but that would imply . . . well, it is a huge risk. We know that."
He could have hit me square in the face and it wouldn't have hurt nearly as much.
It was one thing for me to think about it. I'd never been one to see the glass as half-full, ready to consider any catastrophic possibilities, but I usually kept quiet about it and agonized in silence. My tears, my pain were exclusively my own. It was different to hear him say it, use his own words. How was I supposed to handle this, now that we had both admitted I was the cause of all of it?
I'd combust him, turn him to ash. People weren't phoenixes, so there wouldn't be a way to come back from that. And then, then, I'd lose him forever.
"I'm sorry," I said. I kept my voice low, even though we were the only two people in the loft. The place wasn't bugged—my paranoid parents had searched the entire place before and after they bought it—and we were high up above the ground, so no one and their prying ears could hear us. He hadn't parked his car anywhere near the front door. He wasn't seen. I hadn't been as careful as I should have been.
If we were starcrossed, I was destined to be Juliet. Stupid, naive, Juliet.
There wasn't anything romantic about that. There wasn't anything poetic or beautiful about the shrinking of my lungs or the dimming of my vision. There wasn't anything special about the way the room spun around me. Still sitting down, I was losing my axis.
Even then, in the rare flashes of light around him, I still found him. I wanted so badly to believe I could keep fighting for this, for him, for us, but I couldn't do that unless he wanted to. I'd let him in, not just through my front door, and he'd known the way without me telling him anything. How was I supposed to let go of that?
"I didn't mean to make you cry," Chase said, almost apologetic. I hadn't even realized I was crying until he pointed it out. There were plenty of things I hadn't ever seen before him. I rushed to wipe the stubborn tears from my cheeks and the corners of my eyes with my sleeve, pulled halfway over my hands. "It's just hard. It's like we have to be two different people all at once; you live this perfect life with your perfect family—"
"It's not perfect," I corrected, through gritted teeth. I hated, hated whenever someone used that word to describe anything related to me. My parents had their own demons to battle, and I'd spent my entire life trying to be my own person, trying to force myself to believe I didn't have to be perfect or one-up myself every time. Every time someone called me perfect, memories of everything I had done to get to where I was came rushing in. My hands were scarred and dirty. "It's not. I'm just good at faking it."
"Still. It hurts, Penn. I'm not saying I don't want this—"
"It's beginning to sound a lot like you don't."
He straightened. I cowered against the back of my chair.
"No, it doesn't. You're putting words into my mouth, seeing things where they don't exist."
The corners of my eyes were scalding with tears that almost came pouring out. "I get that you're scared. I'm terrified, too, but I've been doing my goddamn best to make this work. I'm careful, Chase, I promise you I'll be even more careful going forward, but you'll have to trust me. I can't just . . . stop showing up to class. I can't not be in the parking lot. It would be more suspicious if I just vanished, so we're going to have to work with what we have. Haven't we been doing enough? Haven't I—haven't I been enough?"
He didn't answer for a long time. I waited patiently for him to say something, anything, but he never did. Instead, he gathered his belongings in silence, put on his coat, and I carried his empty glass and wine bottle to the kitchen. I wondered what my neighbors would think if they saw me throwing out the trash in the middle of the night and all the empty bottles I was suddenly adding to the pile.
I walked him to the door with heavy steps. The floorboards creaked under my boots.
"I didn't say I didn't want to try," Chase muttered. "I like you, Penn. Perfect or not."
When he was about to turn around, open the door, and leave, possibly forever, I found myself reaching out for him, stepping closer, then wrapped my arms around his waist. I stood there, resting my head against his chest, and his heartbeat echoed in my bloodstream, and maybe he knew what I was trying to say. Maybe not. I wasn't sure.
Night could have fallen after how long we stood there. I wouldn't have noticed. All I cared about was not letting go, holding on for dear life.
"Let me try," I whispered, risking a glance up at him. His face was so close to mine that all I had to do was tilt my head up. "Let me try to be better. Don't give up just yet."
He sighed softly, then moved to kiss me. My hands trailed up his chest, stopping at the back of his neck to pull him closer to me, and my own heart felt about to burst out of my rib-cage. Having feelings for this man hurt, but I didn't know how to be without him now. His fingers tangled in my hair as mine took off his coat, a silent plea to convince him to stay a little while longer, and he let me. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown.
My fingertips, so shaky, traced the outline of his jaw. I could still feel his hesitance, his ambivalence; though his body wanted to stay, though it wanted me, I still knew his mind was somewhere entirely, like we were wired in different frequencies. I didn't want to start crying again, a clear signal I was doing a shitty job at hiding my frustration and despair, so I fully leaned into the comfort of his arms, snaked around my torso.
"Penn," he sighed again, moments later. My sweater had been tossed aside, allowing the chill air to raise goosebumps on my skin, and I was standing in jeans and a bralette. It was telling, I thought, the fact that I was baring myself to him and he refused to bring his walls down, but I didn't want to beg. I had never begged for anything in my life. "What are you doing to me?"
I didn't know. To be fair, I didn't know what I was doing to myself, either.
I didn't feel like myself anymore, and barely any time had passed ever since I started sneaking around with Chase. No one around me seemed to have noticed any changes in my behavior, which I highly appreciated, but I wasn't going to bend and break and destroy myself over this. I valued myself more, and I still knew I could change things.
"Lie down," I said. He quirked an eyebrow, but still retreated towards my bed, curious about the change in my attitude. "Stop talking."
I meant that for myself. The longer I kept talking, the higher the likelihood of saying something stupid. The longer I stayed occupied, the lower the chance any of us would do something they regretted.
It was easier. I could do this.