CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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2018
Against my better judgment, I followed Ingrid and Savannah to the potential shared apartment right before Christmas break. I did it mostly to get Ingrid off my back, as it was getting hard to get to Chase with her constantly hovering around me and wanting to know where I was at all times, under the guise of being 'concerned about my safety', and it worked.
I repeatedly had to force myself to remember to bite my tongue until I tasted blood, to keep my mouth shut, just so I wouldn't remind her that she hadn't seemed too concerned about my safety before and all of this had been triggered and fueled by guilt, not by a genuine desire to ensure I stay safe. It sounded mean to even think about it and it was then my turn to cower away in shame at my own thoughts, especially when they were so far away from the truth. Hadn't she come back for me later? Hadn't she followed me and Chase to the hospital? How much of it had it been guilt, and how much had it been true remorse?
To give her some credit, the apartment wasn't half bad.
I didn't say that out loud, knowing damn well I'd come off as a snob because I'd grown up in a manor, and this was still technically student housing, lodged on campus, but it was way out of a regular student's budget. We had a few people on scholarships, but most of the student body came from exorbitant houses and even richer families, something they had no qualms about exploiting, and the majority lived in the dorms or student housing for the sake of convenience.
My loft was a comfortable place away from campus, innocent enough to not stand out from every other building in the vicinity, and everyone in my building kept to themselves, myself included. I was used to being by myself, even though the weight of my unbearable loneliness sometimes felt so heavy it was suffocating, but this wasn't necessarily a better alternative.
The apartment itself was fine. There was barely any furniture besides the absolute necessities like basic appliances—a fridge, a stove, and a kitchen sink—and the plumbing in the bathroom, but Ingrid assured me everything else wouldn't be a problem, that her mother would be thrilled to help us out furnish the place so it wouldn't look as barebones. It still looked fancier than a regular student apartment elsewhere—would any other student apartment feature steel blue walls?—with its dark wood flooring, and the windows were tall and wide in the living room, bringing in the light and giving us a beautiful view of the city in the distance and the campus down there. This could work, but I wasn't too excited about living with other people.
For starters, I liked the little independence I had, having no one to answer to but myself when it came to how early I left or how late I returned, and the ability to have visitors and privacy was something I highly valued.
Secondly, with them being around, I would never dare to ask Chase to come over; as though it wasn't dangerous enough to ask him to stop by while living on campus, I'd have two other people paying attention to whoever came in through the front door.
"So, what do you think?" Ingrid asked me, perched up on one of the marble-topped counters. Those already came with the apartment, I figured. Next to her, Savannah struggled with opening a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which wouldn't be my drink of choice for the middle of the afternoon. "I know there's not much here yet, but I think the place has potential once it's properly furnished and decorated."
"I suppose," I retorted, hands tucked safely inside my coat's pockets. The heating system hadn't been activated, as it was a vacant apartment, and my low temperature tolerance left much to be desired. My poor fingers were red and swollen from the harsh winter and I could barely close my hands into fists. "It looks expensive, though, even for a student apartment."
"Well, yeah. This isn't a cheap university, is it? Even the coffee is expensive."
Neither was the wine bottle Savannah was fighting the battle of her life against, and it would truly be a disaster if she were to accidentally break it and spill its contents all over the floor. The fact that I was far more worried about that than anything else—namely, trying to decide whether I wanted to live with two people who couldn't stand each other or not—said plenty about the kind of person I was.
This was not the kind of person I wanted to be.
I'd never been much of a fan of alcohol, but I drank whenever my parents urged me to join them at prestigious events, where they could introduce me to people in the industry that could help launch my career, and I needed to look older, more mature than I was to show they I could fit in. It was the furthest I'd go, vehemently refusing to indulge in harder things, and I knew my parents would never excuse such behavior, so I happily stuck to my silly little drinks, glasses too big for someone who was as small as I was around the industry giants. There, I was a child, trying harder than ever to fit in, trying so desperately to be someone I was not.
With my stiletto heels, designer dresses, and face caked with makeup, I looked everything like my mother. Even when she looked glamorous and my lipstick was smeared by the corners of my lips, from touching them to glasses of champagne for hours on hand, I still looked like her—my beautiful, successful, confident mother. It was the only sliver of hope I had, that one day I'd be something I'd be proud of; at least, I was still beautiful.
Then, college came and I hadn't found my place. Not yet. Savannah and I didn't stand on steady ground and I had my reservations about the type of people both she and Ingrid associated themselves with—party people, people who could hook you up with anything, anytime—and I wasn't stupid. I knew all about the alcohol culture contaminating college life, and I'd be naive to think I'd be able to escape it or look the other way. I was no longer comfortable drinking around strangers and kept an eye on my cup at all times, only relaxing when it was just me and Chase. Even when things about us felt fickle and uncertain, there was still the reassurance that I could trust him.
A loud popping sound to my right brought me back to reality with a reluctant start. Savannah had finally succeeded in opening the bottle, as though it was celebratory champagne, and I didn't even know what we were celebrating, exactly. I hadn't agreed to move in with them, and I'd been expertly dodging any and every attempt at full reconciliation.
I wasn't entirely sure why I was doing it, why I was still so ambivalent. It was far from being the worst thing someone could have done to me, so all this anger and resentment felt misplaced, but it was safer to be angry at them than at the actual people who had hurt me—Paul, the stranger. If I played into this animosity, if I gave in to my emotions and publicly expressed my anger and disgust at them, I feared it would ruin the entire case by making it look like a petty vendetta. Even with all the evidence and testimonies, things could still be twisted.
I didn't want to ruin another thing. It was bigger than just me.
"We don't actually have any wine glasses here," Ingrid told Savannah. "We're not technically living here." She glanced at me. "Yet."
"I know, but I brought some." Savannah rummaged through her handbag until her face lit up and she pulled out a small bag containing three shot glasses. Ingrid groaned. "See? I thought everything through."
"Wow."
I could sense the sarcasm dripping from Ingrid's words like snake venom, but, if Savannah also noticed, she didn't give it any acknowledgment. As she carefully poured each of us a shot of Pinot Grigio, Ingrid glanced at me, grimacing like it was an apology, but I rushed to look away, out of the window. Refusing to be dragged into their conflicts included being firm in not wanting to be treated as some sort of moral compass whenever they were at each other's throats.
I downed my shot fine, with the expertise of a seasoned drinker, and pushed my empty glass towards Savannah, who had yet to touch hers. That was not the person I was, nor the person I wanted to be, but it was what I had to do and who I had to be. Ignoring the puzzled look she threw my way, I poured myself another drink.
"This is too weak," I commented, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, like silly, nineteen-year-old little me knew a single thing about wine. "This is what you'd order at Sunday brunch."
"Ouch," she replied. "We could go to Sunday brunch this weekend, though. You'll have your mimosas."
"Does Penny look like the mimosa type to you?" Ingrid questioned, downing her shot, while I internally grimaced. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I begged, people refused to drop that stupid nickname, as though it didn't matter to them how small it made me feel. Maybe that had been their goal all along, like I was occupying way too much space.
"I'm not really sure what her type is."
They both looked at me, expectingly, like that answer would make or break our friendship going forward. In that moment of hesitation, I somehow had enough time to weigh the pros and cons of both walking out on them and extending an olive branch, regardless of whether they deserved either outcome. I didn't want to think about what they would think or feel thanks to my decision; I wanted to make it for myself, based on what I wanted.
My stomach clenched. I wasn't used to holding this much power in my frail hands—having my friendship with two people depend on what I chose to do with it, having the secrecy of my relationship with Chase, whatever its nature was, depend on my ability to keep my mouth shut and make good decisions—and I didn't know what to do with it.
"I like Manhattan cocktails," I replied, going for the third shot. Savannah shot me a bright grin, while Ingrid smiled behind her glass, red lips staining the rim. "Do you think they serve those at Sunday brunch?"
I'd made my choice. The three of us were stuck with each other now.
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Christmas with my family was normal, uneventful.
Manors that big felt criminally empty during the holidays, as most of our extended family was abroad, and a long time had passed since the last time I'd seen a full table. It used to bother me when I was younger, as people slowly started leaving, and there weren't any staff members present because my parents would insist they went home to their families, so I'd come home to Christmas in a nearly abandoned house.
Other than my mother's quips about my appearance—I wasn't sleeping much and could barely hide the exhaustion with makeup, and coursework and keeping secrets and lying from everybody were stressing me out to the point I'd lost my appetite—things worked out generally fine.
I expertly dodged each and every question about my relationship status, rolling my eyes like a teenager whenever an aunt commented I was certainly turning boys' heads, and fought so hard to think about how I was, in fact, a teenager. In theory, at least. There was still a teen attached to the end of my age, and it would remain there until January, and I'd hardly lived through my girlhood, spending the vast majority of it pretending and wishing to be older than I was. All that time wasted, and I'd done nothing to properly enjoy myself or the world around me while I had the time.
Despite how terrible it sounded, the world around me felt dull and boring, even under the glittering lights of the bright city and the camera flashes. It should be glamorous, especially with all the effort I'd put into fitting in, but I spent most of my time chasing something unattainable. The harsh reality, hitting me like a train at full force, was that I'd never be like my parents, as though my brain was wired differently from theirs, and I didn't find joy in the same things they did.
I genuinely liked film, but I knew myself just enough to be certain I wouldn't survive in certain parts of the industry, so I couldn't get too involved. With my inability to take criticism, even constructive criticism, I was certain I'd break down the second I got a negative review or if something I wrote, directed, or produced wasn't to the liking of a company. I would never be able to handle the rejection, an inevitable part of the process and life in the film industry, and that made me weak.
Chase had been right all along.
I was a kid, regardless of the image I wanted to give off to the world, and I was crumbling under pressure without having done a single thing of value. Hearing that reminder come out of his mouth, said in his voice, had been like being burned alive, but it only made it sting harder; it didn't make it a lie. The truth was often like that. I was a kid, way in over my head, but I had known that from the start. I'd been made well aware of everything my future leading up from that night entailed, and I'd marched on.
That should have made me grow up, evolve, adapt, but I felt more inadequate than ever, like a little girl wearing her mother's fancy clothes and shoes and looking absolutely ridiculous, only now it was more embarrassing than endearing. Even with this type of responsibility on my hands and shoulders, I continued to make one mistake after the other, immature and naive, and that made it so easy to be on edge around everyone, even Chase. I'd seen it happen countless times; luckily for me, he kept his head cool enough to point out when I was jumping to conclusions or blowing things out of proportion, but we could no longer blame it on my youth. The years would pass us by, and I'd still be failing to properly behave.
Then, the frat party had happened, and it didn't make me any stronger. It might have made me smarter, at the expense of my seven hours of sleep and ability to walk around without feeling as though there were eyes glued to the back of my head, or that to drink around strangers. I couldn't bear being touched by people I wasn't close to, and I'd found myself involuntarily flinching moments before Chase reached out a hand towards me, even though he'd been the one to get me out of that house, and I had to dodge every physical greeting from my extended family during the holidays. It had made me smarter, but less trusting, more jaded, like any of those events had been my fault, but sometimes I struggled with convincing myself of that.
So, I'd fought with teeth and nails against attending a New Year's Eve party.
I didn't want to associate myself with these people, people who were either blaming me for what had happened to me or crucifying me for not doing more. I didn't want to put myself through the draining burden of being in the same space as Paul and the rest of his friends, who still held a massive grudge against me—and Ingrid, by extension—and I'd grown quite tired of walking everywhere with a flash target on my back.
I'd fought with Savannah and Ingrid about attending the party, although we all knew there would be faculty members present, most likely to prevent another frat party fiasco now that the whole campus was aware of the ongoing investigation. I didn't want to go. I didn't feel ready to take that step just yet, and I expected Ingrid, out of all people, to understand why I couldn't do it.
I'd cried, pleaded with them to be reasonable, to think of me, and I almost succeeded. There had been some hesitation in their eyes, in the way they glanced at each other and then back at me, a sobbing mess wearing a coat two sizes too big, and I almost thought I'd convinced them. After they'd gone quiet, guilt sank in, and I'd backed away, hyper aware that I was ruining their holiday plans.
"You can't stay inside forever," Ingrid had eventually muttered, never meeting my eyes. "I understand you're scared, but you can't stop living your life. It's what he wants. He wants you to be scared."
"What about what I want?" I'd argued, hands balled into fists. "Why doesn't that matter?"
"I don't think it's good to isolate yourself. It's just a party, Penny; plus, everyone will be there, including the staff. It's an official event, so it's far safer than a frat party."
"If everyone's going to be there, then—"
"They're under investigation," Savannah had pointed out, in a murmur. "They're not even allowed to come to school."
I'd had to do a double take then, wondering if it all had been in my head—I'd seen them on campus, almost all of them, countless times, and I vividly remembered that. Most of all, I remembered the erratic beating of my heart, so hard it would leave me nauseous, and I remembered the sheer terror spreading across my chest and along my veins. I knew I'd felt those things, so why were they telling me this had never happened?
My silence had been interpreted as consent, as compliance, and they'd dragged me to the party regardless of my wishes.
I was wearing a silver dress, too sparkly for my liking, reflecting every light that hit me and, therefore, drawing too much undesired attention my way. I kept to myself, refusing to leave Ingrid and Savannah's side, and covered the opening of my cup by holding it from above, ensuring my hand would hide any possible gaps. My pulse thudded at the bottom of my throat and I was shivering, both from nerves and from the low temperatures, mentally cursing myself for wearing this dress. It was too thin, too short, too revealing, and I only had myself to blame.
"You look hot," Savannah told me, playfully bumping her hip into mine once Ingrid had left to get a refill. "Don't worry."
I didn't want to look hot. The less attractive I looked that night, the better, but she refused to grasp that.
The only thing about the party that soothed me in the slightest was the possibility of seeing Chase, even though I knew I'd spend the entire time agonizing over not being able to touch him or talk to him. He'd be there as a member of the faculty, professional and responsible, and I was just a freshman with a drink in my hand and a sparkly dress. I hadn't spotted him yet, but the building was packed, and I hardly thought this would be the sort of thing he'd voluntarily choose to waste his precious time on.
"Look, let's go get drinks," she suggested, lacing her arm through mine. While Ingrid had been quick to drag me to the party, held in one of the communal buildings on campus, Sav had always stopped to check on me, even when it became a bit too overbearing. "Ingrid is taking far too long, and I'm getting more and more dehydrated by the minute. It's a good excuse to show you the decorations."
Whoever had been planning the party had done a good job with the place, to give them some credit where it was due, and I wouldn't be the one to criticize them just because it didn't adhere to my specific needs (namely: stay home, drink by myself, pretend the outside world didn't exist, and force myself to not drunk dial Chase after midnight). The whole building was illuminated with string lights, a perfect backdrop for whoever wanted to document the evening, and I appreciated that the bar and the buffet were being carefully supervised, not to mention the tight security. It gave me a false sense of security whenever I managed to forget where I was and what had happened last time; regardless of what Ingrid and Savannah had told me, I was convinced I'd seen the group on campus fairly recently.
The wooden floors beneath my feet didn't creak, like they did on the older buildings, and one of the walls was covered in mirrors, so I could never escape the girl staring back at me. She looked ghastly, courtesy of not having seen the sun in what felt like an eternity, a terrifying sight to everyone who set their sights on me, and I couldn't understand what about me looked hot to Savannah, but maybe she was just trying to be nice.
Objectively, I looked good, if one ignored individual details. My lipstick wasn't smudged and neither was my mascara, but I looked ridiculous in this dress, far too overdressed in comparison to everyone else in the room. I felt like Godzilla, about to stomp its way towards innocent civilians.
"Look, there she is," Savannah said, walking in front of me, but never dropping my wrist. "She's talking to someone, because of course she is . . . look, I told her tonight was about us, and no one was going back to their room with a guy. Am I surprised she didn't listen? No."
"It's fine, Sav."
"No, it's not! It's the one thing I asked her to do and—oh."
I hated that I did, but I still followed her stare to see what she was looking at, and I regretted every portion of it. Like a tidal wave, everything inside me came crashing down, with the floor wobbling underneath my feet, and I supposed I would've fallen over had it not been for Savannah's steady hand on my arm.
Though Ingrid leaned forward when she spoke—she did that to everyone, a facet of her personality—Chase backed away, keeping a safe distance between them. She didn't wear her flirting smile and had her arms firmly crossed in front of her chest, a hip leaning against the bar, while Chase kept his hands tucked inside his pockets, leather jacket swung over his shoulder. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and hadn't bothered to fully gel back his hair, so there was a lock of dark hair curling in front of his eyes, but he made it look so good my stomach clenched. I didn't want to stare at him for too long, afraid I'd burn him with the intensity, with how badly I wanted him, with how badly I wanted to call him mine.
What tipped me off the most was the look on both their faces. Ingrid looked pissed off, the way she always looked when she was demanding answers out of somebody, and Chase looked frankly bored, like this was the last thing he wanted to do and the last place where he wanted to be. I couldn't come to his rescue, though every nerve in me urged me to move forward, so I remained rooted to where I was.
When he glanced at me, I feared I'd combust. One of the corners of his mouth twitched, but that alerted Ingrid to our presence, and she dramatically turned to us.
"Penny!" she greeted, showing off all her pearly whites. "We were just talking about you."
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yes hello
this chapter is brought to you by a trip to new york city that was the best thing that had ever happened to be but that has since been ruined considering i was broken up with a few days ago and i don't want to think about it
anyway. stuff is about to happen. brace yourselves