738 Days: A Novel (41 page)

“Go,” Karen says to me with a softer expression than I’ve seen from her in a while. “I’ll finish in here while she answers whatever questions Leon has.”

The big man looks up from taking pictures of the petals and chain with his phone, unfazed by the drama unfolding around him, and just nods.

“I’ll bring her over when I come to set,” Karen says.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Amanda gives Karen a hostile look, which means she has more balls than I do.

I wait for the explosion.

But Karen just shrugs. “Then don’t call it that,” she says. “Think of me more like an anti-stalker solution. Because I will cut a bitch if she thinks she’s coming near any of us again. Especially my trailer.”

We all stare at her.

“What? She ruined my favorite set of brushes.” Karen snaps the cape I was wearing in the air with ruthless efficiency and then hangs it on a hook on the wall.

A snort of laughter escapes from Amanda, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stop it. And, to my surprise, Karen winks at her.

“You guys are crazy,” I say in disbelief. I have no idea how this conversation derailed so badly and so quickly. I blame Karen. I glare at her, which only makes her shake her head at me mockingly.

“We’re not done talking,” I warn Amanda as I head for the door and Emily impatiently waiting for me.

“I am,” Amanda says.

And with Emily practically pulling me down the stairs and Max and the others waiting on me, there’s nothing more I can say or do.

29

Amanda

“You know they’re not really hurting him,” Karen whispers in my ear as the actor playing Carl, the arresting officer, slams Chase against the trunk of the police car. There’s a pad on the car, beneath the camera’s line of sight, to protect Chase, and another on the ground. But it doesn’t seem like enough.

“Well, not much,” she says as Max calls, “Cut!” and yells for the medic to look at Chase’s hand again.

Evidently, Max wasn’t too upset about the injury—something I hadn’t thought of until Karen mentioned it on our way over. Or at least, Max wasn’t upset enough not to use it in the scene. Now Chase’s bruised knuckles appear to be the result of being shoved to the ground before he can catch himself.

It’s Smitty’s big redemption scene. He’s not fighting back. Instead, he’s taking the fall for Keller, who got caught in a drug buy—the kind of fun Smitty has spent the entire movie/day trying to talk Keller into—so Keller can leave town, go to college, and have a future. It hurts to see the pain on Smitty/Chase’s face when he realizes that he’s losing his dream of the future and the only true friend he has left, even as he’s doing the right thing.

“I know,” I say to Karen. But it doesn’t feel that way. I feel like they’re busy beating up the outside of him while I took my shots at his feelings earlier today, making him the total damaged package.

“You did what you needed to do for you. He’ll figure it out. He’s just scared.” She shrugs, one arm wrapped over her waist in the rapidly cooling evening air. I can see my breath now. They’ve been at this scene a dozen different ways, and we’re about to lose the light, apparently. So the tension is running high, a silent, thick cloud choking out any of the conversations and laughter I’ve witnessed on previous days.

“It’s partially our fault,” Karen says conversationally as everybody resets, including the gloved medic, wiping Chase’s blood off the spotless white paint of the squad car.

“What?” I ask, distracted as I watch Chase shake out his hand, stretching his fingers like they hurt. I hope they’re not broken. He hit that wall so hard.

“His friends, his agent, his manager … his former manager. His assistant, Evan. All of us,” Karen says. “He’s messed up so many times before, his head is full of voices, including mine, shouting at him that he’s going to fail, that he’s going to fuck up. So he’s not going to leave you alone about going home. He doesn’t want to make another mistake.”

“But I’m the one arguing to take the risk,” I point out.

“I know. I’m just telling you, no matter what you say, you’re swimming upstream against all of that.”

Great.

“So you’re in love with him, huh?” she says without looking at me.

I open my mouth and close it without speaking. I’m not ready to talk about that yet.

Karen snorts. “Please—I’ve been watching you watching him for hours. You flinch every time he hits the ground.”

“It looks like it hurts,” I argue.

She ignores my weak attempt at rationalizing. “Just be careful with him, okay? There aren’t many people in his life.”

I wait for her to finish that sentence. There aren’t many people in his life looking out for him, people who care about him, who love him?

But she doesn’t.
There aren’t many people in his life.
The words hang in the air, making me unbearably sad. That this guy who took the time to teach me to punch, to make me feel good, to research pancake places with a bizarre number of syrups doesn’t have anyone else to share that with. It seems like a loss for the world.

My throat swells with a lump, and I want to cry for him.

“His family cut him off when he came out here instead of staying in Texas to help at the ranch. Most of the ass kissers fell off when he couldn’t get steady visible work. The rest of us got fed up with his bullshit when he was drinking.” Her mouth tightens. “I stand by that decision, but that doesn’t mean it was easy to watch him hit the bottom all by himself.”

My heart sends up a sharp pang. “Yes, I love him,” I say quietly, even as I realize it should be something I say to Chase.

“Good,” she says, whether for the sentiment or that I voiced it aloud, I’m not sure. “Life is too short to hold yourself back.” A sad expression flickers on her face before vanishing into the smooth, hard look she wears so well. I don’t know what caused it, other than a broken heart in her past—Karen holding herself back or someone else holding back from Karen. It doesn’t matter in the end. It’s true either way.

Life is too short to hold yourself back.
From love, from happiness, from the fear of falling when you could have the joy of jumping.

And I, of all people, should know that.

*   *   *

Chase doesn’t say much in the van on the way home. He has a cold pack bound to his sore hand with an ACE bandage, but as soon as I slide in next to him, he lifts his arm so I can curl up next to him.

I hesitate for a second, just long enough for the wounded expression to flash across his face. He looks away from me to stare out the side window and starts to lower his arm.

Catching him in mid-motion, I duck beneath his arm, moving so quickly that my shoulder connects with the side of his body harder than I meant.

But he doesn’t protest, beyond the surprised grunt.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer, as the van starts off. All I can think of is what Karen said earlier: that he’s trying to save himself by saving me, trying to not be the failure everyone has told him he is, in one way or another.

I’m bracing myself for round two of our earlier argument. I can practically feel him gearing up to talk to me again, but he’s evidently waiting for his moment, which is not now.

Emily makes quiet, idle chitchat with the driver, who murmurs replies that I can’t quite hear.

It’s dim and warm in here, a cozy cocoon of safety.

I snuggle into Chase, moving past his open jacket to rest my head on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the more distant thump-thump of his heart.

I could stay like this forever.

But the van arrives at the hotel in what seems like seconds, dropping us off at the service entrance in the rear of the building without any discussion.

The night manager, a woman this time in a blue suit coat, is waiting at the kitchen to hand us new keys to our existing rooms, per arrangements made with Leon.

I remain glued to Chase’s side through this, my arm wrapped around his waist, inside his jacket. I want to soak up every moment of him, of this temporary peace between us and the idea of what we
could
be. Before he tries again to send me home for my own good and shatters the moment.

Upstairs, we nod hello to the security guard, one of Leon’s contacts, stationed a few feet away from our door. I didn’t like the idea of a stranger being so close when Leon first suggested it to me in the makeup trailer, but now, I find the presence of someone who is definitively on our side, paid to be there, reassuring.

Chase uses one of the new keys to access my room and bolts the door behind us. Then he searches my room and his, including the closets and the tubs, and bolts his door before letting go of me in his living room area.

He stands near the dining table and pulls at the ACE bandage around his hand, unwinding it so he can remove the cold pack.

Dread spirals from my heart down to my stomach. I recognize this tactic for what it is: he’s stalling, working out the words he feels he needs to say.

“Amanda,” he begins.

I knew it.

Panic sprints through me. “I’m going to shower,” I say, turning toward my room. I can’t have this argument right now. I won’t.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“No, I’m going to shower.”

He sighs, his face a mask of grim determination, but I move past him, heading for the door to my room, where I pause, a belated thought occurring to me.

“If you’re thinking you’re going to pack up my stuff for me in some kind of heavy-handed tactic to try to force me to leave, then you’d better be prepared to share whatever clothes you have left in your room.” In the doorway, I fold my arms over my chest. I’m taking a stand.

He frowns at me, but doesn’t deny the possibility.

“In fact, gimme.” I wave my fingers at him in a summoning gesture.

He stares at me like I’ve taken sudden trauma to the head. “Give you what? My shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asks, even as he’s shrugging out of his jacket. God, I love this man.

“I have an incomplete collection.” Because I want it. Because no matter what happens, I need another piece of him to carry away from this place.

He gives me an exasperated look but pulls his T-shirt over his head.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he reminds me, as he tosses me his shirt.

I catch it easily, but I’m momentarily distracted. He is just as beautiful as he was when I first saw him without his shirt that first morning. But he’s not preening now, tempting me to look at the work he’s put into his appearance.

Instead, he rubs a hand self-consciously over his chest and down to his stomach, where the edge of his black boxer briefs peeks out over the top of his jeans. And that only makes me love him more. This is the real Chase, and I want him. For as long as he’ll let me have him.

“It does,” I say. “I want to have a shower because I didn’t get one this morning. Then I want to go to bed, with you.”

Chase opens his mouth to object.

“In the morning, I want to wake up with you.” My voice breaks a little, but I push on. “I want to go have pancakes with orange–goji berry–caramel syrup.”

In spite of himself, Chase makes a disgusted face.

“Ha!” I point at him. “Yes, see? Told you. It doesn’t work for everything. Good individually, not so good together.”

He rolls his eyes.

“But I want all of that,” I say, trying not to plead. “There will be plenty of time to fight tomorrow morning, after that. Right?” I’m working hard to play to the rational since I know that’s what he’ll respond to, but it’s also true. How long will it take for him to tear us apart in his need to protect me, in his need to be a better person than he was before? A few minutes to crush something so delicate, so carefully but fragilely constructed.

Chase hesitates.

Screw it. Pleading works sometimes, too.

I swallow hard and meet his eyes unflinchingly. “I just want tonight. Please?”

He drops his gaze, but not before I see the flash of guilt and uncertainty. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, dragging his jeans lower. “Amanda, I don’t know—”

“I do,” I say with as much firmness as I can manage. And that is huge for me, a victory I want to celebrate
with
him. Then, before he can respond or I break down in tears, I turn and walk away.

With his shirt in hand, I hurry to my bathroom, shut the door, lock it. I’m not worried about the crazy stalker person. Well, not as much with Leon’s guy in the hallway and Chase right next door.

I’m more worried that Chase is going to follow and try to talk to me. Even through the door, those words can’t be unheard. And if we have this conversation tonight, I’m afraid I might give in and agree to leave. Then I’ll never forgive him or myself for it. And yet, if I keep fighting him on this, he might begin to resent me for being stubborn, for putting myself at risk, for making him take the chance of what he sees as failure.

Reaching for the tub faucet, I crank it full blast, drowning out everything but the white-noise roar of water pouring into the basin.

Then, and only then, when I know Chase won’t hear, when I can barely hear myself, I sit on the edge of the tub and let myself cry. Great racking sobs that I held in earlier when I opened that stupid box; when Chase told Leon to take me home; when I watched Chase hit the ground, over and over; when I listened to the beat of his heart in the van and wished I could stop time to live in that moment.

For the first time in forever, I know what I want. And instead of it being a negative—an absence of pain, fear, or anxiety—it’s something positive. Love, belonging, acceptance.

But I’m going to lose all of that before I even really have it. Frustration and despair swell in me in equal parts. Because what am I supposed to do? What can I do?

Why does it have to be so complicated? Haven’t I earned something simple? I survived, damnit. I’m Miracle Girl, a title I never wanted, never felt like I deserved. But I’d take it right now if it meant I could have this without all the pitfalls, trip wires, and nooses.