738 Days: A Novel (26 page)

Amanda says nothing, but she’s listening intently.

“We kept in contact after the show ended. By the time a year or so had gone by, some of us were having trouble finding more work. Eric suggested a reunion party of sorts.” I can picture him now, grinning at me on the other side of the pool table at his house. Weirdly enough, as angry as I still am, I also miss him.

“Calista was eighteen by then, and she’d fired her mom,” I say.

“Awkward,” Amanda says with a wince.

“Yeah. She was trying to figure out who she was outside of Skye, outside of who her mom wanted her to be.” I understood that better than anybody, probably.

I take a deep breath. “Anyway, Calista came out with me that night, the night of the reunion party. She’d been on the scene more and more, but Eric’s parties were … on the excessive side.” Which was part of what made them so awesome. Nothing says you’ve made it more than having a friend who threw house-destroying parties on a regular basis. Or so I thought at the time.

“I don’t actually know what happened that night. We got crazy wasted. The memories aren’t…” I shake my head. “I was blackout drunk,” I say flatly. “And I drove. Trying to get to another party, apparently.”

Amanda sucks in a sharp breath.

“Crashed Eric’s car. I woke up in the hospital with broken bones and a complete blank space where the night should be. Eric’s dad covered it up, paid people off, to keep it from coming back on Eric. Eric was mostly fine, cuts and bruises. He was wearing his seat belt when we hit the guardrail, I guess. But Calista’s arm was shattered. She had to have a bunch of surgeries. And the pain was bad.” I swallow hard. “Bad enough that she got hooked on the pain meds. To the point of buying illegal shit to supplement.”

“Chase.” Amanda tightens her hand on mine.

“She’s in rehab now, and her life will never be the same. Because of me.” I tighten my jaw, trying to adjust to hearing the words aloud. It never gets any easier, though. “I’m sober now, but I’m still making mistakes, no matter how hard I try.” I look to Amanda. “So, I meant what I said: I like you. I really don’t want to see you get hurt when I fuck up. Because I will. I am. A fuck-up. Okay?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Are you planning on making a mistake, planning to hurt me?”

“No, of course not!” I say. “But that doesn’t always mean it won’t—”

“Then what makes you different from anyone else?” She shifts on the bed, turning to face me.

“I don’t—”

She holds her free hand up. “Just listen.”

I shut my mouth.

“Let’s say I leave here and find someone else who makes me feel the same way you do,” she says. Her voice is careful, but I hear her doubt. “I like him, and he makes me want things I didn’t think would ever be possible for me.”

“Okay,” I grit out. I hate this hypothetical guy already. He’s probably taller than I am. Yes, it’s ridiculous. But that doesn’t stop the throbbing pulse of jealousy that’s taken up residence in my chest next to my heart.

“What happens when that guy goes to the media and sells all the details of our relationship, the good and the bad?” She lifts her shoulder. “Actually, probably more the bad than the good since that plays better. I mean, let’s face it—‘Amanda Grace is so messed up!’ is going to mean a bigger paycheck than ‘Amanda’s doing great!’”

I can feel the muscles in my jaw jumping.

“Or,” she continues, “maybe this guy just realizes he can’t deal with my hang-ups and he bails.”

Now my hands are clenched in fists.

“Chase.” With a faint smile, Amanda lifts our linked hands, showing me her fingers are turning pink from my grip. “Didn’t actually happen yet.”

I loosen up immediately. “Sorry.”

“It doesn’t even have to be anything that big or out of the ordinary. Maybe he just falls out of love with me or finds someone he likes better. Happens all the time.” She tilts her head, trying to catch my eye. “My point is that you can protect me from you, if you’re so determined to do that, but you can’t protect me from being hurt. No one can.”

This is not what I want to hear. If I stay away from her, it seems like there should be some universal agreement that she’ll be fine. Otherwise, it takes the legs out of my argument.

“But I don’t want to be the one to—”

Amanda shrugs. “So don’t.” She takes a breath. “You’ve made mistakes, and you’re living with them. I understand. We’re all doing that, to a certain extent. But please don’t treat me like I’m some kind of … damaged relic from the
Titanic.
I’m not something to be preserved in a glass case somewhere, as a living reminder of a disaster. I’m a person. I want to live. If I can’t do that, then maybe I’m better off hiding in my closet.” She laughs bitterly.

The mention of the closet catches my attention, and I look up. “What is that about? The closet thing. I heard you talking about it.”

Her gaze drops to the floor. “I do okay most days now. But on bad days, in really bad moments,” she says carefully, “sometimes I have to work hard not to retreat to the closet.” An ugly red floods her face at the admission.

And in spite of that, she’s here, and she’s trying. I want to stare at her in awe, but that will, I know, only make her self-conscious.

I clear my throat and bump her arm with mine. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

Her hand still in mine, she shifts closer to me, resting her head against my shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I hate it; I wish I wasn’t. But I am.”

“Still the bravest person I know,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. I press my mouth to the top of her head, her warm soft hair.

Her throat works audibly. “Thanks,” she says after a moment. “And you’re not a fuck-up,” she adds.

I give a tired laugh. “Wait till you know me better.”

“No,” she says, her voice gaining ferocity. “By definition, a fuck-up doesn’t care, somebody who’s given up. That’s not you.”

She pulls away from my shoulder, sitting up straight. “I think you’re just scared.”

I look at her sharply. “Maybe,” I allow after a moment. “But if so, it’s with good reason.” The litany of my failures is burned into my brain from frequent repetition, and it’s not short.

“Being scared isn’t a bad thing,” she says, reaching a hand toward my face. Her dark eyes are intense, but her fingertips are light against the corner of my mouth, the lines I’ve noticed cropping up by the sides of my eyes, and the edge of my eyebrow—the one with the scar. All my flaws.

“Means you’re just like the rest of us.” Her mouth quirks in a smile. “But you have to decide if you’re going to let it stop you. Other people may give you chances, but that doesn’t matter if you won’t let yourself take them.”

My eyes are burning in spite of myself. No one has been this forgiving, probably because I’ve never deserved it.

Amanda starts to pull her hand away, but I catch it and press an open-mouthed kiss against her palm. And then, watching to gauge her reaction, I move down to her wrist, against the line of the scar there. Kissing it, not to make it better, but so she knows she doesn’t have to hide it from me.

She sucks in a breath, and I have the distinct pleasure of watching her eyes change, the pupils expand to deep pools.

“You have to tell me. You have to talk to me. If it’s going too fast or a direction you don’t like,” I whisper to her.

“Yes.” She nods quickly, a tremor running through her, but I’m shaking as hard as she is.

I let go of her hands to frame her face, which is small and fine-boned beneath my fingertips. Her breath moves against my skin before I lean in and brush my mouth against hers, my fingers tangling in her hair.

Her lips part, a soft sound escaping.

That’s an invitation I can’t ignore. I lick the soft line of her lower lip, just on the inside of her mouth.

She moans, and I feel the vibration as much as hear the noise. I deepen the kiss, sweeping my tongue over hers, and she clutches at my arms, her hands warm against my bare skin.

I freeze for a second, not sure.

“It’s okay,” she says against my mouth, panting. “I just wanted to touch.”

God. “Yeah, okay,” I say, in a strangled voice.

Her hands skim over my biceps. “That’s … yeah.” Her touch has rendered me basically incoherent, and she knows it, by the mischievous look in her eye when she smiles at me.

Then she presses her mouth to mine again, her tongue sliding hesitantly between my lips, and I’m the one groaning now.

Pulling my hands from her hair, I move them to her hips and tug her closer, until she’s half in my lap, and then she throws her leg over both of mine.

Her heat is radiating against my hip, and it’s hard not to rock against her. To pull her fully on top of me until we’re lined up and rubbing against each other. Those tiny boxer sleep shorts she’s wearing wouldn’t be much between us and neither are my shorts.

It’s instinct and that desire to feel her moving against me that has me shifting, turning toward her and pulling us up higher on the bed.

The motion settles me between her legs and brings her breasts against my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me tighter.

I press my hands against the bed to support my weight, but when I start to lower my arms to bring us both to the mattress, she stiffens suddenly and pushes her hands against my chest. “No. Wait.”

Breathless, I pull back.

She pushes herself upright and away from me, shoving her hair back, which is messy from my hands in it.

“Too much, too fast,” I say. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” she says quickly, her breathing still uneven. “Don’t apologize. Please.” Her eyes beg me not to make a big deal out of it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just me.” She gives a rueful eye roll. “It’s like there’s a level in my head, you know, with the bubble?”

I know what she’s talking about; my grandfather had one in his wood workshop in the barn.

“Only in my head, the center is green, and the bubble tipped from the green to red. I’m not sure I can do … that. You on top of me.” She flinches.

“Maybe that’s enough for tonight,” I say, backing toward the edge of the bed.

“Maybe,” Amanda admits reluctantly. But she won’t look at me, her gaze focused at some undefined point on the dresser instead. “I was just hoping…”

Her sadness and disappointment pull at me. “Hey,” I say gently. I move to kneel on the floor in front of the dresser, so she’ll look at me. “This kind of stuff is going to take time, figuring out what you like. What’s okay for you.”

She opens her mouth to object.

“Not just for you, either,” I add. “Everyone.” I hesitate, not sure how much she wants to hear, but oh, what the hell.

“I’ve been with a few girls, women,” I begin.

“A few?” Amanda smirks.

I hold my hands up. “I’m not trying to brag here, just make a point,” I say. “None of them have been exactly the same, the things they liked, the things they didn’t. It’s just more complicated for you is all.”

She nods, still looking too solemn and down on herself.

“But I could brag, if I wanted,” I say, more to get her reaction than anything.

Amanda scowls at me.

I hold her gaze steadily. “I promise you, before we’re done, you’re going to know exactly what you love, exactly what you want. And you’ll be asking me for it.”

Her mouth opens slightly, and heat flickers in her gaze again, pushing back the fear and discouragement.

Mission accomplished.

“Okay?” I ask, standing up.

“Yeah,” she says, watching me move with a hunger that sends pride streaking through me.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, turning toward the door. I’m already looking forward to it, to more time with her. My head is full of Amanda—her courage, how she smiles at me, the calm, reasoned way she talks, and that soft noise she made when I kissed her and how I might get her to do that again. All of that should probably scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.

“Chase?”

I glance back at her.

“Thanks,” she says with a shy smile.

And then, I remember all that I’ve done to use her and her name. All that I’m still doing, technically, and guilt slams into me hard.

“Don’t. I’m not a saint, and this isn’t an act of charity.” It comes out sounding harsher than I mean it to, so I try to smile. “I like you, remember?”

She plays with the edge of the comforter, and I expect her to object but she just nods.

Once I’m back in my room, I discover my phone has vibrated halfway across the coffee table, thanks to the texts from Elise that fill the screen. At a glance, each one is angrier and pushier than the last.

But her plan is already working, as she has so frequently pointed out. And with the email from Rick in my inbox, I know she’s right.

It doesn’t have to go any further. Who cares if people think Amanda and I are made up? It’s probably better, given what just happened, if they do.

And if Elise gets pissed, what can she really do? She’ll find a way to take it out on me, I’m sure. But she won’t go public with what we did because that would only hurt her career. Make her look bad, too. Worse, maybe, even than me. I was just the pretty face following her orders, or that’s how it’ll seem anyway. Because that’s always what people think of me, and she knows it.

I tap my phone against my palm, thinking of Amanda and that smile. The kind of guy she thinks I am. The person I want to be. After a second of hesitation, I click on the latest text from Elise and without reading it, I type,
No, I’m done. We’re done.

Then I delete all the apps and Elise’s ridiculous drafts before I can second-guess myself, and I put in a call to the front desk to have new room keys sent up.

For a moment, it’s like I’m free-falling with the ground rushing up at me. But the weight on my shoulders is gone.

19

Amanda

“Amanda?” Chase’s voice intrudes, softer than normal.

I hear him, but I can’t see him. I’m in the middle of a crowd, and I’m lost or I’ve lost someone. I’m not sure which. And it doesn’t seem to matter against the rising tide of panic in my gut. People are shoving against me, their elbows in my sides, their shoulders pressed in my face, until I feel like I can’t breathe.