Chapter 27: 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

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2022

My early twenties had been filled with moments of realization—realizing I'd never be what I wanted to be, realizing I would always be living in the shadow of my mother, realizing that being beautiful was the only thing I had going on for me.

If I were to be honest with myself for once in my life, I wasn't sure what dreams I was chasing. Film school kept me entertained enough in the way that I was studying something I liked, but at that point in my life, senior year and almost twenty-three, I found myself wondering how much of that had been my own decision and what had been pushed by my parents. It was no wonder I'd ended up there, living with film and movie superstars all my life, just like it wasn't shocking to anyone to see me ruin everything.

My mother would look at me, remind me of how proud of me she was as she secured the back of my dress into place with safety pins, and I'd stand there mortified, terrified of what she would do and how she would feel if she were to ever find out about everything I'd never told her. The frat party, the trial before sophomore year, Chase. Where had her little girl run off to?

Now that the party was over and all the glamour had been flushed down the sink, along with the glitter that had gotten stuck in my hair hours before, I felt the littlest like myself. There was someone else standing in front of me, locked behind the glass, and we both stared at each other in silence. When I moved, she mimicked my actions, too perfectly, too attentive to detail to be an entirely new person, but I couldn't afford to believe we were separate.

I'd found myself at a crossroad. This girl couldn't be me, but I didn't want her not to be me, either. I wasn't sure where that left me and where I could go from here, but I knew I had to find a solution; identity crises weren't ever manageable when they were mine, and I didn't need yet another thing to stress out over. I had enough on my plate as is, crumbling under self-imposed pressure and that placed on my shoulders by everyone around me, and I doubted I could break into any more minuscule pieces and be able to build myself back together again.

I felt like a stained-glass window, colorful and beautiful from a distance, but so transparent, so obviously mangled that people could see right through my cracks and my tricks.

My lies were falling flat, I was certain of it, and I no longer had the energy to dedicate proper effort into making them sound believable, but I'd promised Chase I would never stop trying to protect him—to protect us, to protect what we had. It was the sole thing I could honor, the sole thing I could do relatively well, and I owed it to him.

Tonight, I'd found myself in the spotlight against my will, a jewel my parents wanted to show off to their friends. Now that there wasn't much time left before graduation—the only thing serving as my light at the end of the tunnel, the only thing I consistently found myself working towards—it was time to start preparing my future in the real world and in the industry. They wanted to use their connections to help me out, to give me a head start in a world that was so cutthroat barely anyone made it; it was relatively easy to get in, but it didn't necessarily come with money, fame, and success.

I already had my family's money and had yet to do something so offensive to justify them cutting me off, so I wasn't concerned about that part, but I also wanted to have my own accolades, to be known for something that wasn't connected to my last name. The privileged position I was in had been mine since birth, putting me at an advantage in comparison to my peers, and opportunities would come to me without much effort, but I wanted to feel worthy of them. I wanted to be good enough on my own, but I'd never felt that way in my life; in fact, my mediocrity had reached record breaking high levels during the past few months.

It had been a New Year's Eve party, not a Penelope exposition, but I was self-centered enough to feel personally attacked by it regardless. My parents had spent weeks begging me to come, desperate they had barely seen me, and I almost didn't leave the apartment, but then I'd heard Chase would be there. My father had mentioned it in passing, a footnote in an unrelated conversation, and, normally, I wouldn't have blinked, but it had been different then.

Chase was still upset over the rejection—the quasi-rejection, anyway—and the whole thing felt like an open wound, so I wasn't sure how we'd both fare in such a tense environment. We were hardly speaking, far too busy with academics, and I only ever saw him on campus, both during lectures and for one-on-one appointments regarding my senior project, keeping things strictly professional. I was too scared to approach him, with the looming threat of my father's hypothetical suspicions, and didn't want to risk doing anything that would worsen our situation, so I kept my distance. It killed me to do so, but it was even worse that I'd somehow convinced myself Chase was pleased by this.

My father casually mentioning Chase had been invited immediately set off alarm signs in my head, but I forced myself to remain indifferent. I believed they had invited Chase as a peace offering, to try and make up with him—for whose sake, I wasn't sure—and I wasn't going to be the one to complain about how much it would inconvenience the two of us and our privacy, but I doubted either of us had been entirely comfortable about this arrangement. I'd kept my distance from him during the party, allowing my mother to introduce me to whoever she wanted, while he'd stayed put next to Stephen during the whole evening, mentor and protégé.

He stayed. I don't know why or how, especially considering how eager he had always been about leaving this manor, like lingering for too long would immediately raise any suspicions, but he did, and my heartbeat was making the entire house shake. Even though I had my bathroom sink to keep me upright, my legs felt too weak to hold me up, whereas my grip on the porcelain edges was so tight I feared the sink would shatter.

If anything, I felt ridiculous.

I'd never had the energy to be paraded around and shown off to dozens of people I had to somehow find a way of impressing, and I was so drained from forcing my facial muscles into a poor excuse for a smile all night. Chase was the only person I didn't have to act differently around, at least when it was just the two of us in the room, and the effort of having to sort through different personas in my head before interacting with anyone who wasn't my Chase was daunting.

When I thought I'd finally caught my breath after fifteen minutes of crying, heaving, and ruining my makeup, I took a step back to examine the damage. My mascara ran down my cheeks in black trails, and my lipstick smeared around my lips, like a child who'd had too much strawberry jam. I was awfully sober at that point, having only had one glass of champagne at midnight and nothing else during the entire evening, which explained why I'd had such an adverse reaction to the party; though it sounded horrible to even think, let alone say aloud, casually drinking during parties helped me get through them. However, I was too nauseous to even consider going for a second flute or even a different beverage.

Letting out a humiliatingly shaky sigh, I fixed the neckline of my satin dress, pulled up the thin straps, and inhaled sharply. I would get my shit together. Even though the party was already over, I still had the walk of shame towards my car ahead of me, and I was bound to run into someone. Even if I somehow escaped my parents' eagle-eyed stares, there were still other guests and staff around, not to mention Chase.

"Let's go, Penn," I murmured, acutely aware of the humiliation I was willing to put myself through because I refused to spend the night in my parents' manor. I'd convinced myself I'd outgrown it, outgrown them, and I was too old for this. I was so proud to be acting older than I was, not even twenty-three yet, that I barely even remembered the time I looked back on my girlhood and how I'd tossed it all away. I remembered the time I lamented how easily I'd turned my back on my younger years, how I'd never allowed myself to act my age, how I'd started acting older than I was when I was still a young teen. It felt like an eternity had passed since I last allowed myself to grieve that girl. "It's time to go."

I left my bathroom and swiftly moved into my bedroom to pick up a warmer coat, as Ingrid had insisted I didn't need to feel warm at a party where everyone would break their back to offer me their coat. I'd trusted her, because of course I did, and staying on her good side was a sure way of keeping her off my back and satisfied. January was brutal, I knew that, and I was certain I'd be freezing in the car, even with the heater on.

A knock on the door interrupted my search for my long trench coat, something I must have left at my loft—it was getting harder to keep up with which pieces of clothing I kept at each of the apartments I spent a considerable amount of time at and this house—and my heart flatlined the moment Chase walked inside.

It was a line he hadn't crossed yet, as we'd both decided this particular bedroom was off-limits with all the privy eyes around the manor, and I immediately straightened, sirens blaring in my ears. My mind attempted to recall every waking moment of the evening, musing about what I could've done wrong—I was bound to mess up eventually, with how nervous I was, always on the verge of throwing up all over my mother's precious tapestries—but I couldn't. He wouldn't have come up to see me unless there was a catastrophe going on downstairs or he was so livid about my mistakes he couldn't wait until we left the premises.

"No one saw me," he rushed to say, taking the panic in my face for fear of breaking the secrecy. It had crossed my mind, obviously, but self-preservation had kicked in by instinct, a fact that left me cowering in embarrassment over my selfishness. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," I lied. He saw right through me, as always. I found some twisted comfort in that realization, feeling like it was the one thing I could take for granted; no one in the world would ever know me the way he did. "How did you like the party?"

"It was fun." He closed the door behind him. The air around us was paper thin, yet heavy with tension, and I gave up on trying to find what I'd been looking for. With him in the same room as me, in a place he'd never been before, nothing else seemed to matter anymore. "A bit awkward at times."

"I saw you and Stephen. At least you had someone on your side."

With the mention of Stephen's name, something crossed his eyes, an emotion I failed to decipher. Cold pooled at the bottom of my stomach, rumbling like thunder, but I barely got a chance to dwell on that, as he crossed my bedroom in quick strides to eliminate the distance between us.

Three whole years had passed, and I couldn't quite get used to his mere presence, let alone his touch or the way his eyes lingered on me whenever he looked around a room. I didn't feel deserving of any of this, when there were so many other women he could devote his attention to, women who were at an equal playing field and wouldn't have to bother him with childish nonsense. I especially didn't feel deserving of this when I'd been partially responsible for all the chaos he'd found himself involved in during the past couple of months, and no attempts at distancing myself from it would ever make it okay.

His hand slid into my hair, carefully holding the back of my head, and he stood so close to me I was unsure which of our heartbeats was echoing so loud in my ears, reverberating off the walls in my bedroom. I didn't dare to breathe—I couldn't—out of fear I'd blow all of this away, out of fear I'd break the illusion only to realize he had never been here in the first place. Even after all this time, having this man in my arms was still a fever dream.

There were many times I had to stop to remember the power I held in my hands, how much responsibility I had to keep my end of the deal, but he, too, was powerful. He had me on my toes at all times, bending and breaking at will, and I'd convinced myself I would die for him if it came down to it, a desperate state to find myself in. I would eagerly cancel my personal plans for his sake—that night in at my apartment to console Savannah had been the sole exception to this—and I was embarrassed to admit how often I checked my phone to ensure I hadn't missed any notifications thanks to the obligation of deleting every message we sent.

It was a moment like this, of strange normalcy, that reassured me we would be okay. Even with the gnawing, lingering fear that each of these moments was the last we'd ever get to share, thanks to my inability to fully trust us to know what we were doing and debilitating phobia of being left alone, left behind, these were the moments I held on to. My fingers curled around his wrists to keep him in place, his lips pressing softly against my forehead—the man I loved, in spite of it all.

"Come with me," he asked. "Come to the apartment."

"There's a party going on at my apartment," I replied. The tension between us immediately increased, making him step back, and the icy sensation returned to my stomach. Though I tried to reach out for him once more, my hand fell limp in the empty space separating us. "I'm not saying I want to go; I was just saying it's happening, and I should probably let them know I won't be stopping by and that they shouldn't wait up. I'll say I'll sleep at the loft because I've had too much to drink, feel a bit woozy, and don't want them to end the party early to spare my feelings."

I sounded ridiculous.

I sounded like I was begging for something and, in a way, I supposed I was.

I begged him to not think too little of me, to not roll his eyes at my silly friends and their silly parties—no college party would ever compare to one thrown by my parents, with a strict, secretive guest list—but begging would only take me so far. It felt manipulative to plead for a different outcome, like he wasn't allowed to draw his own conclusions and make decisions by himself, and I'd hate to invalidate his feelings or his free will.

"Give me a five-minute head start, and I'll meet you at the apartment," he said, without ever touching me. He was already standing by the door, like he was counting down the seconds to leave, leave me, and my throat closed in agony—it was so easy to ruin things. It was like second nature to me.

I doubted he'd ever understand how much this hurt me, how I doubted my heart could keep surviving all these beatings, but it wasn't his job to take care of my mental health. If I couldn't handle rejection, how was I supposed to ever survive the film industry?

It's not like he's that much better at it than you, a malicious voice in the back of my head chimed in. Wasn't he having a meltdown for being rejected once in his life, and it wasn't even a proper rejection?

If shame could kill, there would be a dead body in my bedroom. Even after Chase left and I fell to my bedroom floor, wrinkling my beautiful dress and ruining whatever was left of my makeup with childlike tears, I felt disgusted with myself, with these thoughts that were surfacing and couldn't be fully blamed on stress and anxiety. I downed one of my mother's Diazepam pills, which wasn't the smartest idea, and couldn't stop the room from spinning around me, even on the floor, like the walls got closer and closer.

That wasn't me. Those weren't my thoughts, but whose were they? There was no one living in my head, but I couldn't allow myself to think such vile things about Chase, the love of my life, especially after witnessing first-hand how badly it had affected him.

Surely he'd been rejected before, and I understood why this one had stung that hard—he'd been compared to Stephen, his biggest inspiration, and called unoriginal, the worst thing you could be in the business. With everyone constantly trying to one-up one another, creativity and boldness were key traits and skills to have.

Worst of all, my name had also been dropped, and being compared to 1) a college student, 2) the daughter of the director you were trying to impress, and 3) your girlfriend had to have been the final nail in the coffin. Naturally, my father didn't know about the latter characteristic—I was praying to every saint he didn't, but, if he did, he would've made it known by now—but Chase did, and we both knew his talent far outshone mine. The fact that it had been questioned brought a bitter taste to my mouth.

Exhaling, I got up from the floor with wobbly legs, wiped away my tears, and stared back at my reflection. I looked barely better than a train wreck after all the weeping, and, if this was an omen of things to come, I'd much rather travel back in time and stay in 2021.

I left without a coat. It didn't matter.

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Chase was waiting for me in his bedroom when I got to his apartment, having left the front door ajar. I was still lucid enough to remember to close and lock it, having successfully dodged any probing neighbors, but most of them had been too preoccupied with their own parties to even notice me moving alongside the shadows.

I didn't have it in me to refuse the drink he offered me, the ultimate gesture to prove I trusted him, in spite of my frail stomach or the Diazepam, so I didn't. It was just champagne, like there was anything to celebrate when everything was crumbling and I couldn't hold what I loved in my hands, and he was watching me carefully, like one watched an impending disaster.

There was something off about the way he kissed me, the way he held me—he felt more distant than usual, even with how hard his grip on my hips, on my waist was, like the negative space between us was still too much. I clung to him for dear life, though there wasn't much of a change there, wishing I could melt into him somehow, turn us into one single being even if his entire existence had molded mine already.

"Beautiful," he whispered, against my lips, as he reached up a hand to undo the bow on the back of my neck holding my dress' straps in place. I allowed myself to exhale then, as his free hand brushed my hair away from my face, and found myself wishing all my memories of him, of us could be like this—just us, closed off from the world in our own tiny bubble, and everything was okay. I could fool myself for a while longer, but there was only so far delusion could take me.

"I love you," I whispered back, tilting my head up to crash my lips against his before he could even muster a response. The last time I'd said those three words to him, he'd scoffed. I'd blamed it on the alcohol and the events of that evening, but those memories had never left me and they hurt just the same. Sometimes, I had to save myself from potential heartache.

I decided I didn't need to hear those words to feel loved. Love involved sacrifice, and he'd already sacrificed enough for me.

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When a gray morning arrived, I slipped out of bed for a shower, tiptoeing across the room towards the bathroom as carefully as I could. The chill air bit into my skin, the hot water from the shower doing little to help return my body temperature to an acceptable level or to ease my permanently guilty conscience. That was the thing about all the secrecy—it was isolating, sure, but the adrenaline that came with doing something supposedly wrong had run out a long time ago. Most of the time, I felt exhausted.

Just a few more months, I reminded myself. Graduation is just a few months away. It will be over soon.

The bathroom mirror was fogged up, fighting against my feeble attempts to clear it by wiping my hand across the glass surface. My distorted reflection stared back at me, ghastly pale against the bright walls of the bathroom and the monochrome light coming from the small window gave me a sickly, gaunt look. My health was deteriorating from the stress, from the sneaking around, and there were times I failed to recognize myself, but I wanted to believe it would be worth it one day. All of this suffering would pay off after graduation, after I no longer had to lie about everything regarding Chase, and I would move on with my life.

I didn't miss who I used to be. I couldn't allow myself to.

That girl was dead and buried, killed by my own hand, and I refused to go back to her. I'd left her buried six feet under in the Film Theory lecture hall years ago, with no hesitation, and I'd accepted the risks. Hell, I'd welcomed them, believing them to be a pleasant change from the monotony of my careful life, always following every rule imposed by other people, and being with Chase had been the tiniest taste of rebellion on the tip of my tongue.

I was in too deep now, far too deep to ever turn back, and I'd had an opportunity to do so years ago. I wouldn't turn my back on him and on what we had after everything we'd been through, after every obstacle that lay ahead of us still.

"Go away," I told nineteen-year-old me. "I don't want you here."

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i could give like 20 excuses as to why this took so long to be posted, but the main one is that i needed to finish final room. i finished it. we're going back to this one. dating someone who's actually my age has been doing wonders

if you're still here, you're stuck with me. sorry. please drop me a comment if you're still here. i really do appreciate all of you. xo