Gaslighter

20

CHAPTER TWENTY

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2018

          Chase was even more nervous than I was, if that were even possible.

          We sat next to each other in my parents' living room, on the same couch, but we had to sit so far apart it felt like there was an invisible person between the two of us. I sat as straight as I possibly could, refusing to move a muscle, to inhale or exhale too deeply, while Chase was so restless he was barely able to sit still. Whenever he returned to the couch, magnetic waves pulled me towards him and tested my self-restraint, forcing me to dig my nails into the flesh of my thighs to stay put.

          Stephen Delaroux hadn't arrived yet, so it was just us and the staff, while my parents were doing something else on the opposite side of the manor. Even though the two of them weren't in the same room as us, I didn't dare to make a move to inch closer to him; there were still too many people here, too many privy eyes.

          When he was offered a drink, he refused at first, possibly out of politeness and, if he were anything like me, because his hands were shaking far too much to be able to hold such a thing like a frail cocktail glass. It was only after I asked for a glass of white wine that he followed suit, asking the staff for a Manhattan cocktail, and I brought my glass to my lips to try and hide the small smile my lips had stubbornly twisted into.

          It wasn't necessarily because of me.

          I'd hate to overestimate my importance in anyone else's life and Manhattans were common-enough cocktails around here to not be considered signature, so it could very well have been the first thing that came to mind. I shifted in my seat, steering away from him before the fabric of my clothes—another of Ingrid's dresses, this one a lot more appropriate to see my family than, say, the one I'd borrowed the night of the frat party—can brush against him and ignite the entire living room.

          The second my father entered the room following a prolonged absence, though, he deflated. He set the glass aside, being mindful enough to use a coaster before my mother could protest regarding her precious furniture, and stood up.

          He almost looked like my professor here, clothing-wise, which made me feel ridiculously overdressed for the occasion with a dress that hardly fit me and heels I shouldn't be allowed in. He wasn't even wearing a suit—the pressed shirt, chinos, loafers—and neither was my father, but my mother hadn't graced us with a dressed down look for the evening. That meant there was nowhere I could run to, inevitably bound to make a fool out of myself for trying too hard during an event that was hardly about me, if at all.

          Looking at him was physically painful, so I kept doing it. It was so easy to get burned, and so easy to not care.

          "So you're the infamous professor," my father said, in what he believed to be a proper greeting, and all I wanted to do was dig a hole and bury myself in it for all eternity. I didn't want Chase to worry and obsess about the way I'd described him to my family—I'd tried to be as vague as possible, distant, but I was beginning to second-guess everything I'd said—but he knew his name had been mentioned. It was why he was here, after all, considering my debilitating inability to stay quiet, but if this was an omen of things to come, it wasn't looking too good.

          Part of me couldn't help but think this was a strange way of introducing him to my parents. He wasn't here as my boyfriend—he was nowhere as my boyfriend, regardless of whether we'd sat down and talked about the status of our relationship (we hadn't)—and, the second I had a bit too much to drink, I just knew I'd inevitably put my foot in my mouth and try to make a joke about some PTA meeting. The joke wouldn't land, everyone would be uncomfortable over my accidental self-infantilization, and I'd stress Chase out for no reason.