Gaslighter

02

CHAPTER TWO

▬ ▬ ▬ ▬ ▬

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?"