738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  She regards me steadily for a moment, her dark eyes seeming even darker against her pale skin. A redhead with brown eyes—it’s a combination I haven’t seen often.

  Then she says, “Therapist number three,” and returns to eating her strange burger concoction.

  “What?”

  “That was his suggestion. Self-defense classes,” she says with a bit of a sneer.

  “Well, yeah. What’s wrong with that?” I ask.

  She wipes her mouth with a corner of the napkin. “Nothing. If you don’t melt down every time a stranger touches you,” she says.

  I put down my half of the burger on the plate. “I’m not talking about judo or a masked guy full-on attacking you in a darkened hallway.”

  She shudders.

  “I just mean a decent punch, without breaking your fingers.” If she feels she’s got a shot at defending herself in a bad situation, maybe that would help. Plus, hitting something—or someone, in my experience—usually helps vent a little steam.

  “Sorry, they don’t teach that in PE.” She pauses. “Or, if they did, I was absent that year,” she says dryly, the corner of her mouth turning up.

  It’s that smile that pushes me into a decision. She is trying so hard not to be a victim to all the fallout, but from the outside, it looks like one of those losing battles, an endless game of Whac-a-Mole. I know that feeling.

  Yet she’s still capable of finding humor in all of this. Okay, really dark humor, but still.

  I wipe my hands on my jeans and get off the bed. “Come on. Stand up.”

  Amanda narrows her eyes at me.

  “I won’t grab you or come at you—promise.” I hold my hand palm up, like I’m swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  After a long second, she nods and puts down her burger/fry combo.

  As she slides off the bed to stand, I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the other bed. Amanda tracks it with her gaze, a faint pink blush rising in her face and neck, which I don’t understand. I’m still fully dressed.

  “Face me,” I instruct.

  She does, and we’re toe to toe, about two feet apart, an invisible line dividing us.

  “Step back with your right leg,” I say, doing the same myself. “Your other right,” I add when she moves her left.

  Glaring at me, she makes the change.

  “Now angle your body at forty-five degrees, but keep facing me,” I say.

  She frowns.

  “Ninety degrees would have you facing the wall, so half of that,” I offer, trying to help.

  “I understand basic math, thanks,” she says. “I’m trying to figure out how to both turn away from you and face you at the same time.”

  I watch her struggle to mimic my position, not quite getting it.

  “Can I help you?” I ask eventually.

  After a split second of hesitation, she nods.

  She sways slightly as I cross the invisible line into her space, but she doesn’t step away. I stand behind her, careful to keep several inches of distance. The nectarine smell of her hair is much stronger, this close to her.

  “Forty-five degrees, aim your toes and hips that way.” I point to the corner diagonal to us.

  She shifts in the right direction. But it’s still not enough.

  “Can I touch you?” I ask in the best brisk tone I have. It sounds crazy intimate to ask that and it’s not at all what I mean, but I’m determined not to make her jump away from me again.

  The pink in her face deepens, but she nods.

  “Touching your waist,” I say, then I wait until she nods before moving my hands toward her.

  Her breath catches audibly when I make contact, but she doesn’t flinch.

  I keep my grasp light, guiding rather than grabbing her hips. Her skin is warm through the fabric, and I can feel the points of her bones beneath my fingers. She really is too thin.

  She lets out a shaky breath, and some of the tension eases out of her body.

  “Now your shoulders.” I wait until she nods again, and then I settle my hands carefully on the rounded tops of her arms, angling her toward where I would be standing.

  Then I cross back to my side of the line.

  “This makes you a smaller target,” I explain, waving a hand at her now-turned body. “It’s harder for someone to land a direct hit because there’s less surface area within reach. And by facing forward, you can keep both eyes on your opponent.”

  She cocks her head to the side in curiosity. “How do you know all of this?”

  “They hired a trainer for that kickboxing scene in the second season of Starlight,” I admit.

  She stares at me blankly.

  “The shirtless scene that launched a thousand GIFs?” I prompt with an internal wince at the term. I didn’t name it that. But that’s apparently what the scene is known as.

  “I stopped watching after season one,” Amanda says.

  “Ouch.” I clutch my chest in mock pain. “Well, at least you missed the zombies. Wish I could say the same.”

  “I like beginnings,” she says with a shrug. “First books, first movies, first seasons. Everything’s a possibility, you know? Once they start making choices and narrowing things down to a specific storyline, it’s less fun.”

  I never thought about it that way, but yeah, I can see her point.

  “In any case, they brought this guy, Jason, on set to teach me kickboxing, and I liked it so I kept going for a while.” Until I got caught up in being an idiot instead. “I figured Brody was supposed to have been around for a hundred years, so he should probably be pretty good at boxing, if that was his thing.”

  “You take it seriously,” she says with some surprise. “Knowing your character.” She pauses. “Acting.”

  I set my jaw against the by-now-automatic surge of frustration. I know she doesn’t mean it the way everybody else does, like it’s so shocking that I want to be good at something. She doesn’t know me, doesn’t know how often I run into this particular attitude. To be fair, though, I can’t blame her or anyone else. My behavior for a while pretty much guaranteed that people would think the worst of me: superficial, self-destructive, stupid.

  Sometimes, though, it feels like no matter how far I’ve come from that version of me, it’s never quite far enough.

  But all I say to Amanda is, “Yeah, I do.”

  Then I gesture to her in a beckoning motion. “Okay, make a fist.”

  She balls up her hands and holds them up for presentation.

  I circle her wrists with my hands, one in each, and I can feel her pulse thrumming against my fingers. “Always keep your thumb on the outside of your fist. Otherwise you’ll end up with a broken thumb if you connect.”

  I make the adjustments, moving her fingers closer together, one fist at a time. “Now, when you hit, aim with these knuckles.” I lightly touch the bones on the top of her fist. “You’re going to extend your arm, but don’t lock your elbow. Like this.”

  I pull carefully on her left wrist, as if she’s driving a punch at me. Her sleeve rides up slightly with the movement, and that’s when I feel the band of raised and rough skin beneath my fingertips. It’s a scar about a half-inch wide in a perfect circle all the way around, right at the bones where her hand connects to her arm.

  My gaze snaps to Amanda’s in question before I can stop myself.

  “The chain,” she says matter-of-factly. But her blasé tone is betrayed by a nervous swallow. “He kept me chained to the wall.”

  My reaction is instinctive, visceral and stupid—I drop her hand like it’s on fire and step back.

  She stiffens, a mix of emotions flashing across her face before vanishing behind a smooth, blank mask. It’s like watching the life drain out of someone, Amanda turning into a marble version of herself.

  I feel like a complete asshole. My mouth works for a second before words come out. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Amanda. That was shitty. I just … I wasn’t expecting that.”
/>
  “It’s okay,” she says in a flat tone that suggests this is not the first time this has happened to her.

  Except I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just hurt that I saw on her face, but disappointment as well. Like she expected better from me.

  That eats at me more than anything. I am not living up to the Chase Henry in her head. I’m not living up to anyone’s version of me, including my own.

  Amanda meets my gaze defiantly. “Bruises heal. But there’s the scar on my wrist, formerly fractured cheekbones, some cracked ribs that healed on their own over the years, and a mouth full of broken teeth. He didn’t want to do too much serious damage. I might have died before he was done with me.”

  It’s like she’s daring me to run. But she lived through it, so I’m determined to stand my ground in hearing about it. Anything less would make me the worst kind of coward, and I’ve played that role too often already.

  “And then, of course, there’s the truckload of psychological damage.” She waves a hand in a vague gesture at the table braced against the door. “Obviously.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “A dentist donated his services to fix my teeth. Made them even better, straighter than they were originally,” she says with a small smile, her gaze fixed on a distant spot somewhere over my shoulder. “A plastic surgeon offered a consultation on my wrist, too. But that’s one thing I want to keep.”

  “Why?” The question pops out before I can stop it. Why would anyone want a permanent souvenir of such a horrible time in their life?

  Her eyes refocus on me, zeroing in until I feel like she can see through me. “Because it helps me when I wake up in the middle of a panic attack. It’s proof that I got out. And because it reminds me I survived.”

  I take back anything I might have ever thought about her being messed up or weak.

  She’s a fucking warrior.

  “So.” Amanda puts her hands on her hips. “Are you going to teach me to hit or what?”

  That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one, and I’m up to it, yeah.

  I clear my throat. “So, in boxing and kickboxing, you use combinations. Left, right, left, left, whatever. Basic punches are the hook and the cross. But for right now, let’s just stick with the cross.” I demonstrate a couple times, and she follows along.

  “Feels weird to lead with the left,” she says with a frown.

  “It seems backwards, but it’s actually making the best use of your dominant hand. You get more force behind a punch from your right hand because you have more momentum from the follow-through motion,” I say.

  I walk her through throwing a couple punches to make sure she’s got the form close to right. Then I grab one of the pillows from the bed.

  I take a breath. “Okay, I know this is the douchiest thing anyone is ever going to say, but please don’t hit my face. I really need this job, and they’ll kill me if I show up tomorrow with a black eye. Real bruises are harder than hell to cover up.”

  “I know,” she says simply.

  It doesn’t take but a few tries before she’s landing some solid hits into the pillow. Nothing that would put a serious dent in someone determined to hurt her, but enough to make him think twice. More important, Amanda looks like she’s having a good time. Her forehead is furrowed with concentration, her cheeks are flushed with the effort, and she seems somehow more present in the moment, less haunted.

  “Nice,” I say, when she connects hard enough that it almost knocks the pillow from my hands.

  Panting from the exertion, she bends at the waist to catch her breath.

  “You okay?” I ask with a grin, lowering the pillow.

  She nods without looking up. “Yeah,” she says. “That was fun. Dinner and a boxing lesson. Not exactly what I had in mind when I asked to come with you.”

  I grin and toss the pillow onto her bed. “It’s a full-service operation around here.”

  She straightens up, then, and smiles at me. “Thank you.”

  It’s a broad, genuine expression that lights up her entire face, the smile that was broken but is now repaired, undimmed.

  Amanda Grace is beautiful. The realization strikes with an uncomfortable amount of force. And she’s looking at me like I deserve the gratitude she’s beaming at me. But I don’t. I so don’t.

  I duck my head, my hand flying up to rub at the back of my neck. It’s a tell: Chase breaking through the role. My first acting coach did his best to hammer that home, to rid me of the habit, but he wasn’t entirely successful.

  “Sure, yeah. You’re welcome,” I mumble.

  Her smile slips a little, and she tilts her head to the side in confusion.

  I can feel the question coming, and I can’t be here to try to answer it. I’m an actor, a professional liar. But I don’t want to lie to her any more than I already am. She deserves better than that.

  “I should go,” I say. “Early day tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Amanda draws out the word, making it clear she’s not buying my excuse.

  But she doesn’t say anything more as I grab my coat from the bed and bolt for the adjoining door.

  Once safely on the other side, I close the door and lean against it, my shoulders sagging with the weight of the situation and my choices.

  This “simple” plan is only getting more and more complicated, and, if I’m being completely honest, it’s not all Elise’s fault.

  9

  Amanda

  I must have been high when I packed yesterday.

  It’s the only explanation for the array of disastrous clothing options on the bed in front of me this morning.

  With my hair dripping down my back, I pull the hotel towel—too short and too thin—tighter against my body and search through my shirts, as if a more acceptable one might have been born from two lesser choices in the few minutes I left them alone.

  Boatneck with red stripes and three-quarter-length sleeves, no. Pink with ribbons, no. The snug-fit purple V-neck with a flowered pattern, definitely not. Oversized flannel shirt that used to be my dad’s, no. A faded long-sleeved T-shirt from Liza’s college advertising a “3K Popcorn Festival Fun Run” from three years ago, no. White see-through blouse with built-in cami and short sleeves—even worse, puffed short sleeves. No, no, no.

  I rub my hand over my face, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep. Last night was a bad one, and waking up this morning to discover this problem isn’t helping.

  I brought a mishmash of the new, bold items my mom picked out for me, anticipating better days, and my absolute worst “dressing for comfort” clothes. What the hell was wrong with me yesterday?

  It had to be the adrenaline rush. With my heart thundering in my chest, five minutes to pack, and Chase Henry waiting downstairs, I felt mostly invincible, determined, and in motion, a step ahead of my fear, but cautious enough to include my feeling-vulnerable favorites.

  And now, this morning, my fear has caught up with me, clobbering me in the process, and my packing extremes have left me with nothing to wear. Nothing I want to be photographed in, anyway.

  I bite my lip. I don’t want to blow this. I’m asking Chase for a lot, and these photos are the only thing he’s getting.

  And he’s been so … considerate. Last night was actually fun.

  Until I freaked him out and he took off for the safety of his room. I’m still not sure what I did. One minute we were laughing, relaxed in each other’s presence, and the next he’s backing away, trying to get to minimum safe distance.

  With a sigh, I return my attention to my choices. My plaid flannel from yesterday is my best option. It isn’t dirty exactly. But I ran home in it, in a sweaty panic—yuck—and there were pictures taken at the store, which means it’ll be obvious I’m wearing the same thing two days in a row.

  Someone will notice, and it’ll be commented on, speculated about, then likely deemed a sign of dysfunction rather than limited wardrobe options. (The irony that I spent an inordinate amount
of time in my closet yesterday and still managed to come away with this dilemma is not lost on me.)

  But walking out with my head down and my shoulders hunched, wearing my dad’s ratty shirt that’s long enough to be a dress, is not the image I want people to have of me or for me to have of myself, either.

  I want to be stronger than that.

  I pick the pink, the least offensive of my options. I used to love the color. Then I spent two years in a room where everything, including me, was decorated in an obnoxious shade of bubble gum, Jakes’s version of “teen girl” decor.

  I shudder involuntarily.

  But this pink is so pale it barely deserves the name, which helps. And it’s a solid color, which, I vaguely remember from my TV interview days, is better for film. Not sure if that’s true for photographs, too, or not.

  Unfortunately, this particular shirt, with matching pink ribbons threaded through the cuffs, also seems to scream “happy, untainted innocence.” Hello, false advertising. And wishful thinking on my mom’s part.

  But without a better choice available, I add it to my pile of jeans, boyshorts, and bra to carry to the bathroom.

  Next door, the distinct beep-grind of the lock releasing sounds, and I look toward the entrance to Chase’s room, my heart pumping extra hard. The doors between our rooms aren’t very thick. Noise travels.

  He left about forty-five minutes ago, so early it was dark out. That’s what woke me in the first place. Not that I was sleeping all that deeply, anyway.

  The anxiety of spending the night in a strange place for the first time in years had combined with the unexpected feelings Chase had stirred up.

  As I lay there in bed, my mind replayed the careful way he’d touched me, arranging my fingers just so, and the steady concentration in his expression. He really thought my learning to punch would help, and he wanted me to feel better.

  But because my mind is a fucked-up maze with monsters around every corner and no guiding thread out, the second I dozed off, Chase would turn into Jakes, transforming a gentle touch into an unwanted, greedy, and painful one.

  That meant hours tossing and turning in sweaty sheets and misery, halfway between sleeping and awake.