Gaslighter

37

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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2022

          My stomach dropped down to the ground floor of our apartment complex, sinking like a stone.

          Whatever conversation she wanted to have—or they, I wasn't sure, as Ingrid had conveniently neglected to clarify how many people were involved in it—it certainly wasn't something I'd happily partake in, especially since we'd barely said a word to each other this month. If Savannah was involved in it somehow, I had my suspicions about what they wanted to talk to me about, and I wanted to believe I was smart enough to stop myself from walking right into a trap. They wouldn't catch me in a lie, and I wouldn't have to feel even worse for alienating them any further. We'd all win, if there were any victories left for me on the horizon. I felt like I had already used up all my luck, expertly dodging every bullet that had flown my way so far.

          I'd been so good. I'd been better at hiding, lying, and running away than I'd ever been at anything else in my life and, though it was hardly the kind of stuff you could brag about to other people, especially to those you'd been avoiding and lying to all along.

          The smarter thing would be to not fight her, but also to not show any fear, as though she was a dangerous grizzly bear preparing to pounce. Unfortunately, I also couldn't bear to look at her—it hurt my eyes as though I was staring at the sun during a solar eclipse, and it wasn't just because of the way the light hit her hair—even though I needed her to think I felt quite neutral about her proposition, so the fact that I couldn't even do that right was bewildering to me.

          "What's going on?" I dared to ask, as though there was any answer that would satisfy me or, at the very least, calm my nerves. I closed my hands into fists over my desk, resting on either side of my open laptop, as that would certainly serve as an incentive to keep my cool; I wouldn't want to ruin the progress I'd made on my senior project, not after weeks and months of attempting and failing to be productive. "Is everything all right?"

          She chewed down on her bottom lip, devoid of any lipstick for once, but I couldn't decipher the expression in her eyes. "Please come talk to us, okay? I know you've been working hard on your senior project"—she nodded towards my laptop just as I rushed to delete the last five lines I'd written—"and you're super busy and preoccupied as is, so we'll leave you to it in no time, but we wouldn't be doing this if it weren't important."

          "We?"

          "Sav and I." Ingrid glanced back over her shoulder towards the living room, a crystal clear sign there was something wrong, something she wasn't telling me, and my stomach revolved, burning like spoiled milk. When her eyes focused back on mine, I was having a hard time telling which of us wanted to be there the least, which was a considerable comparison whenever I remembered how often I'd threatened to move out. "Let's just get this over with. The quicker we do it, the better."

          No matter how poetically or saccharine-y she worded it, I still knew I was in trouble. When you spent all of your waking moments second guessing yourself, mortified you had done, were doing, or would do something wrong, it was virtually impossible to stop thinking like you weren't in trouble, a skill that wasn't necessarily helpful or adaptive.

          The red flags about Ingrid's suspicious behavior glowed brighter than neon lights, but I figured that having that knowledge and awareness gave me a slight edge, even if it wouldn't be significant in the greater scheme of things. It beat the alternative of being oblivious to the whole thing, choosing to blindly believe her or the possibility that everything was okay, even if it was destroying me from the inside. If I weren't so physically and mentally exhausted already, I would've fought her and maybe kicked her out of my room, but I didn't have the strength for that any longer.