Chapter 4: 02

CHAPTER TWO

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2018

I'd gotten stood up.

I wasn't even sure why I'd said yes to a blind date, so early in my freshman year of college, when I didn't know anyone and no one knew me, but the girl who sat next to me in Film History had been the first person to be genuinely nice. I couldn't say no to her; she looked like she'd never been rejected in her life, and I wasn't going to be the first to break that streak.

"Trust me, you're going to love Paul," she'd said. "He's my brother's girlfriend's little brother. He's nice, but has a bit of a crazy streak." She'd swiped her thumb against her left nostril and sniffled when my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I'm sure you'll keep him distracted long enough for him to not feel the need."

"I don't want to keep anyone distracted," I'd argued. I'd never been a dater. The fact that I'd agreed on being set up on a blind date was a novelty, but that didn't mean I was going to settle for someone who'd just use me to not give into their addiction. I wasn't a goddamn toy.

The girl, Savannah, had playfully shaken her head—silly, silly Penny didn't get her jokes. Her braids danced around her. "You get what I mean."

Thus, I'd said yes, wanting so badly to stay on her good side and actually attempt to be social and make friends. That was the reason why I was sitting at the counter of an overly fancy speakeasy, even though I wasn't old enough to drink legally and definitely didn't own a fake ID.

The place was, undoubtedly, beautiful.

I sat with my back turned to the leather armchairs and the old bookcases, careful to not attract any curious glances from the people nursing their drinks. Golden lamps hung from the high ceiling, warming up the atmosphere and intensifying the beige, brown, and burgundy palette of the bar. There was even a private section, one I clearly would never get an invitation to, and everyone who exited the room left with a strangely smug expression on their faces. The cocktail bar itself looked more modern than the study behind me, with a lower ceiling and a row of parallel marble pillars framing the sitting area. The countertops were made of the same material, albeit darker, and I was pretty certain the bartender was slowly growing fed up with me drumming my nails against them.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, when it was clear he couldn't fully ignore me any longer.

"Uh . . ." I stammered. Though everything they served looked appetizing, straight out of a drink-making TV show, I wasn't a good liar and they'd instantly see right through the rubor on my cheeks. Besides, I was still waiting for someone, and I believed it to be rude to start drinking without them. "Surprise me . . . ? I guess?"

"You strike me as a Manhattan kind of girl," he said.

"I'm actually from Brooklyn."

He chuckled. "I mean the drink."

I straightened. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I knew that. I totally knew that."

"Tell you what." He leaned across the counter separating us, arms firmly crossed over it. "I'll get you a Manhattan. On the house. In return—"

"I'm actually here on a date, so . . ."

"I was just going to ask for a generous tip by the end of the night. If you got into this place, you're probably loaded and won't miss the money that much." I sank into my seat. I'd only gotten in because Savannah had told me the password (a hushed "raspberry" into my ear as she rushed past me after class), but it was the miracle of capitalism that allowed me to pay for something. "I figured. I'll keep them coming. Are you one of those rich kids from the university upstate?"

I shrugged. I was fitting right in—blending in, much to the dismay of my parents. They wanted me to fit in, but also to stand out for my peers, to overachieve like the two of them had; however, they neglected to remember how I'd always be living in their shadow, the daughter of two people who'd always be a hundred times more successful.

Paul never showed up.

I waited for fifteen minutes, then thirty, then an hour. All the while, I sat there, wondering how someone could be so stupid and trying my hardest not to cry, as I already felt pathetic enough. The bartender stayed true to his words, keeping the drinks coming, and my reflection blurred on the surface of the rich amber beverage.

People whispered.

I recognized a few of them from college, including people who acted super nice to my face as soon as they realized who I was—Penelope Romero, the daughter of a former Hollywood actress and her famous, famous movie director husband—and I refused to think about how I was going to explain this situation the following day. Word had gotten out about the blind date I was supposed to have, although I wasn't sure how people knew about it, and they knew I'd gotten stood up.

Eventually, even they left, but I stayed.

I gave up on sitting at the bar, desperate to sit somewhere more comfortable, and retreated to the seating area, sinking into one of the couches. It shielded me from the entrance and from the VIP area, ensuring no newcomers or prestigious people would find me in my current state.

I'd switched to water by the time something happened.

"You okay?"

My head jerked up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

A man stood in front of me, holding a slide of chocolate cake on one hand and a glass of red wine on the other. Under any other circumstances, I'd be fawning over him—tall, good-looking, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes—but I was mortified he was seeing me on the verge of a meltdown over something as trivial as a blind date. I wanted so badly to look away from him and focus on my own misery, but I couldn't; the entirety of him felt magnetic, pulling me in.

His eyes, warm and intrigued, scanned every inch of me.

"Yeah," I muttered, wiping a stubborn tear from my cheek with the heel of my hand. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks."

"No offense, but you don't look too good."

"No offense, but I'm not in the mood to let you take advantage of me when I'm like this just to hit on me." He quirked an eyebrow. Though that was definitely what I meant, I didn't mean for it to come out as rude as it did. "Sorry. Sorry. Bad day. You can sit down, if you'd like."

"There are empty tables, too."

"It's fine."

He looked around the room, pensive, and ultimately occupied the seat in front of me. I had no idea why I'd just invited a total stranger to sit with me, especially after being so downright rude for no reason, but I was already breaking every single one of my rules that day.

The stranger sat in silence for a long while, casually sipping his wine, while I sniffled quietly on my side of the table. I refused to look at him—into his eyes, at the very least—so I kept my stare focused on his hands, the one that held the glass of wine and the one he kept over the table.

"I know it's none of my business, but what happened?" he asked.

"I got stood up," I grumbled, through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry. That guy sounds like a jackass."

"I wouldn't know. I haven't actually met him."

"Oh?"

"It's a blind date. Was a blind date."

"Ah." He leaned back, twirling his glass. "Make sure to inform the person who set you up that they should probably retire. Friend of yours?"

"Not quite. Just a girl I met; she's been sitting next to me in Film History and we both thought it would be a good idea." I sighed. "Look at where that got me—crying alone in a speakeasy."

His face lit up like the sun. "You're a film major?" I nodded. "So was I."

"Really? Where did you go to school?"

"Upstate. Best years of my life, if we decide to ignore those horrendous chairs." I found myself laughing. The chairs in the lecture halls were, by far, the most uncomfortable ones I'd ever sat on. "I had this professor, Stephen Delaroux, that I really liked, but haven't managed to get in touch. I had him for Film History when I was a freshman, but he has a really odd way of flying under the radar."

"He's friends with my father, I think," I commented. "He says he learned a lot from him. He's just . . . spectacular."

"Spectacular," he echoed, then reached out a hand towards me. "Chase Steele."

"Hi." I took his hand, warmth spreading across my arm, and he threw me a gentle smile. "Penelope Romero. I usually go by Penn. Penny sounds overly condescending, but it doesn't stop people from using it."

His eyes sparkled in recognition and I knew he knew who I was, especially after learning I was a film student, but he didn't utter a word about my parents. It was easy to assume I'd only gone to film school because of my parents, even though I had spent my entire life trying to escape from their shadow, but they had also taught me well. I was deeply attracted to the intricate world of cinema, passionate about documentaries, a tendency to retreat to the sidelines instead of embracing the spotlight.

My father had once promised to direct and produce a movie written by me. My mother would star in it. I held onto that promise, that dream as desperately as I could.

"So, Penn," Chase continued. "Mind if I buy you a drink?"

"A Manhattan, please."

As he stood by the bar and waited for our drinks, courtesy of my newfound love for Manhattan cocktails, I was giddy and giggling like a schoolgirl, astounded by the sudden change in atmosphere. Being around Chase made me calmer, lighter. He couldn't be that much older than I was—four, maybe five or six years—and I'd turned nineteen in January. He spoke about college as a recent thing, not distant, and it was merely friendly chatter.

His gaze lingered on me from across the room. Such a simple gesture was enough to bring heat to my cheeks and I shifted in my seat, wondering if he could tell the effect he was having on me. His entire presence was electrifying and my brain swallowed every single one of his words, refusing to let any of them out of my sight.

It had been a goddamn long while since the last time I'd felt intellectually stimulated outside of my college lectures, regardless of how pretentious that sounded. We had been taught by the same professors, yet he was miles ahead of me.

"What are you reading?" he questioned, as he returned to our table, and pointed towards my bag with his chin.

"The Bell Jar," I admitted. "It's my mom's favorite book."

"Sylvia," he mused. "So much talent. Such a big tragedy."

"I don't think she'd want to be seen as a tragedy. She was very sick, but she also wrote such beautiful things, don't you think? Something good came out of all of it; sucks that it was at the cost of her own mental health. Had people paid more attention, had mental health been more of a priority . . ."

Chase raised his hands next to his shoulders. "No, I get it. What we're not going to do is romanticize someone's depression. I meant that it's a shame we lost her so soon. She deserved more."

"Indeed."

We kept talking—for how long, I wasn't sure.

All the while, I was completely mesmerized by him. I had never met anyone quite like him; he dropped intelligence out of every pore, was soft-spoken but so eloquent, so funny and snarky when he needed to be but with the skills to be understanding and kind at the same time. I didn't know it was even possible to be enamored with a person I had just met, but he kept pulling me in.

It went without saying, but I was immensely, stupidly, undeniably attracted to him. It wasn't just his brain and speaking skills that were drawing me in; there was no running from the primal, physical attraction I felt. He was all sharp angles and broad shoulders, chiselled jaw and unruly dark hair.

"I should get going," he eventually said. "I have a big day tomorrow."

"Sure." I pulled out my wallet and he immediately raised a hand. "What?"

"I'll pay. Don't worry."

"Oh, I don't mind—"

"Come on, Penn." Chase rose from his seat, shooting me an enigmatic smile. "Just because not all of us have famous parents, it doesn't mean we don't have money."

I left a generous tip on my way out.

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Chase insisted on walking me home to ensure I'd get there safe.

I lived in one of the campus' dorms, but, following a gas leak earlier that week, I'd escaped to one of my parents' many lofts. There wasn't much there, considering we didn't spend a lot of time there, anyway, and it wasn't upstate or remotely near my university, but it was useful enough while my current situation didn't get solved.

We walked close enough for our shoulders to brush. Now that we were both standing next to each other, it was easy to see just how tall he was—he easily stood at six feet, towering over me and my five foot nine height. We talked like we'd known each other since forever, bantered like friends, moved in sync like lovers.

"Never got a chance to ask you before, but just how old are you?" I questioned, fixing my jacket around my shoulders.

"Twenty-six. My birthday was in August." A shift in my steps made us fall out of tune, which he noticed. That was a seven-year difference. "Wait. Hold on. How old are you?"

"Nineteen. Have been since January." I bit my bottom lip. "Is that . . . not okay?"

"Listen, I, uh . . . I don't want to make you feel like I'm taking advantage of you. I just wanted to check on you at the speakeasy, and things kind of flowed from there." He paused when I did, just outside of my loft. "If you don't want to, we'll never see each other again. I don't want to overstep."

I looked up at him, illuminated by the streetlights, and watched as my fingers involuntarily curled around the lapels of his leather jacket. "No. I want to see you. I had a lot of fun with you once I stopped crying."

He mused, examining me, then leaned forward just the tiniest bit. "I want to see you, too." His hands found their way towards my waist, pulling me to him, and shivers ran down my spine in anticipation. I shuddered when his breath brushed against my mouth, so close, yet so far, and the wait and the tension were killing me. "Dinner tomorrow?"

"I'll pay this time. Famous parents, and all."

He chuckled, then took a step back. "Night, Penn."

Before he could escape, before he could break free from me and my chains, I held on tighter. "You're not leaving me hanging."

He raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Kissing him was like catching on fire. All of me ignited, all of him consumed me. My body easily molded to fit against his, pressed against his chest, his stomach, his thighs, a hand holding him by the back of the head. I swore I could combust when his tongue slipped into my mouth, him backing me against the door, and my heart erupted.

If this was what it would be like to be with him, I was intrigued. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself—my brain screamed at me that I had only just met him—but he felt so passionate, burned so bright I didn't know how to not step closer and risk a glance.

He spent the night, but left early in the morning. I didn't question it.

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"I heard they hired this new Introduction to Film Theory professor, and he's like, really, really young. Like, fresh out of his doctorate young," Savannah informed me. I still hadn't gathered the courage to tell her about yesterday's failed blind date, out of fear she had played me. "It'll either be the best idea they've ever had, or these lectures are going to be a joke. Personally, I think I've had enough of being surrounded by old people."

"They know a lot about the industry," I pointed out, as we walked towards our usual seats on the front row. "Though it probably might be nice to hire some new, fresh voices. They offer a different perspective."

She kept talking about the new professor, whoever he was, while I took the time to pull out my phone and open the group chat with my parents, asking them to invite Stephen Delaroux for dinner soon. I could easily let slip I'd met one of his former students, who had, additionally, spoken highly of him.

"Do you know Stephen Delaroux?" I asked Savannah. "The professor."

"I've heard of him. The dude's kind of secluded, not that sociable. Why?"

I shook my head. "No reason."

People shuffled into the lecture hall, occupying their seats, and everyone was still groggy from it being so early in the morning. Signing up for morning lectures hadn't been one of my finest ideas, but I knew I'd never get anything done if I started lectures in the middle of the afternoon.

The new professor entered the hall as I searched for a pen—ironically—inside the mess that was my college bag. I knew this because people greeted him with a cheerful 'hey, Professor', while Savannah squeezed my arm to let me know he was, apparently, 'smoking hot'. I chuckled at that comment, still unable to find the goddamn pen, even as class started.

"Good morning," a male voice greeted. It was awfully familiar and my head immediately followed the source of the sound. Chase Steele stood behind the desk at the front of the auditorium, back turned to the white board, and I was lucky he hadn't noticed me yet. Cold sweat ran down the nape of my neck, getting woven into my hair. "My name is Chase Steele. PhD. Yes, that means you can call me Doc." Some people laughed, while Savannah stared at him with starry eyes. "I'll be introducing you to Film Theory this semester, and we'll get deeper into it in the Spring. If all goes well, we'll keep seeing more of each other throughout your degree, if you're so inclined."

They were all instantly smitten with him, just like I'd been yesterday. It was so easy to fall for his words, fall for him, and I couldn't blame anyone but myself for getting into this situation.

"I think I'm in love," Savannah whispered.

I wanted to say something, anything, but then his eyes found me, wide open in sheer horror.