by Stacey Kade
“You ever meet someone who’s really got something different, someone who is wildly, unfairly talented, and yet it’s still not enough?” she asks.
I shake my head.
She sighs. “Yeah, well, you have now.”
“I don’t—”
“His first day on Starlight was mine, too. He’s from Texas; I’m from Alabama. Red-state refugees, you know? We bonded. We were both terrified and desperate to be there and stay there,” she says with a small reminiscent smile that triggers an ugly burst of jealousy in me. Regardless of the current status of their non-relationship, they were once close, and some part of me envies that.
Karen pauses. “I don’t know how much you know about television production, but it’s a bitch. The hours are grueling, and the pace for a weekly show is brutal. And Chase worked harder than anyone. Even harder than me,” she adds with an arched eyebrow, as if this were some impossible, herculean-type feat.
Who is this girl?
“You don’t really have time for a life outside of work, so you better have one at work.” She shrugs. “Your coworkers become your friends, your on-set family. And most of the time, that works out okay. It did for us, in the beginning. We had fun.” That fond smile returns but with sadness. “I crashed on Chase’s sofa for three weeks when my girlfriend bailed on me and the rent. He’s … he was a good guy.”
“I sense a ‘but,’” I say.
She sits back, hesitant for the first time. “I don’t know how much he’s told you about his family.”
I frown. That’s a twist I wasn’t expecting. “Not much,” I admit cautiously. “I know he has a brother, Aidan. And he grew up on a ranch.” Thank you, question-and-answer game.
Karen looks surprised. “He told you about that?”
I hate that she already seems to know the few details I have about Chase’s personal life. I bet she knows his real last name for sure, without Googling it. “Yes,” I say.
Karen fusses with her bangs, straightening a few stray strands until they fall in line with the others, all without looking in the mirror. “Look, I don’t know them, never met them, don’t want to, but something there…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. All I can say is that nothing he did was good enough.”
I open my mouth to protest.
“I don’t mean for me or the show; I mean for him. He was always pushing so hard. He was driven, but past the point of ambitious, to the point of self-destruction. He needed something he couldn’t find. Nothing was ever good enough, and that just left this huge … hole in him.”
She lifts her hands, revealing an ornate and beautiful diamond pattern on the insides of her arms. Her skin looks almost like jeweled fish scales, as if she’s secretly a mermaid underneath. “I tried to help him, when the drinking and gambling and other stupid stuff started. But Eric was louder than me.” Her mouth curls in distaste, as if just saying the name disgusts her. “You know how that is?”
I nod because I know what she means, though I’m not absolutely sure who Eric is. He’s either the one who played Skye’s overprotective brother or the goody-goody boyfriend. I can’t ask without giving away my earlier lie of being a fan.
“Eric made Chase feel like he needed Eric’s approval,” Karen says. “Eric’s dad is a producer. Rawley Stone. He’s been around forever. You know the big TV show in the mid-2000s about runway models who were also international espionage experts?”
“SpyWear?” I vaguely remember it from reruns on the higher cable channels.
She nods. “That’s Eric’s dad. And he’s had a bunch of others. Eric’s never worried about a damn thing a day in his life.” Disdain drips from her words. “I think Chase felt if he had Eric’s stamp, that would be enough. He would belong. And that would fill … whatever it is.” She waves a hand vaguely about her middle as if indicating the general location of the hole she mentioned.
She leans forward, then, her expression intense. “But I can tell you this: Eric Stone has nothing on Chase. Eric is coasting, one or two bad movies from being a lifelong has-been, famous for nothing but being Rawley’s kid, but Chase is the real deal.” Her mouth pinches in. “Or he was until he messed it up.”
For the first time, I catch a glimpse of the fear and sadness beneath her hardened exterior. She seems smaller, more vulnerable. Like someone missing a friend.
“He’s lost,” she says, staring down at her hands. “He doesn’t know how to be okay with himself, so he’s always chasing some quick fix or a better way to hide. I’ve seen it happen to other people. I watched it happen to Chase in slow motion over five years.” She looks up fiercely. “I don’t care what he says, how sorry he is, how much better he says he is now. He’s not done fucking up yet, but I’m done trying to help.”
And just like that, the bitterness and anger are back.
“So why are you telling me this if you don’t care anymore?” I ask. I can’t figure out if she’s trying to punish Chase, warn me off, or remind herself why they’re no longer friends.
“I never said I don’t care,” she says, offended and maybe a little hurt. “I just don’t believe him. I can’t. And as for why: you.”
“Me?” My hand flies up to my chest.
“He’s taking advantage of you, whether you see it or not. Maybe just for company or comfort or something bigger—who knows? I don’t want anyone else caught up in the fallout.” She levels a knowing look at me. “You’ve had enough trouble in your life. You don’t need this. Trust me.”
In the momentary gap of our conversation, words filter in from outside.
“… want me to give you another chance, but I don’t have time for this, Chase. If this is the start of more trouble—”
“It’s not. I promise.” Chase’s “I” sounds more like “Ah.” His accent is stronger when he’s upset, I think. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean for it to—”
“You never mean for it to—that’s the problem!”
When I glance out the window again, Chase’s outline seems shrunken, like he’s pulled into himself. My heart contracts hard in sympathy.
Maybe he deserves this treatment because of his past sins, maybe he doesn’t. But he hasn’t done a damn thing wrong in front of me, and I can see him trying, so hard. Why can’t they? How are you ever supposed to start over if people won’t give you a chance?
Suddenly, I’m angry on his behalf and mine. Are we always going to be trapped by our histories? Is Chase forever going to be the guy who had it all but messed it up? Am I always going to be the girl who got taken, the innocent who was tainted? Or, worse, the girl so damaged, so ruined by what happened to her that she can’t have a real life after? Perpetually to be spoken of in solemn whispers.
Screw this.
I stand and head for the door.
Karen shakes her head, her mouth turned down. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she mutters.
“Thanks, I’ve got it covered,” I say and shove open the trailer door and head down the stairs.
The door bangs shut behind me, and I stop.
In front of me, a few feet away, Chase and Max are still arguing. Rather, Max is arguing. Chase is just standing there, shoulders stiff but his head ducked down, as if he wants to fight but knows better. Like a kid being shamed by the principal.
My anger flares immediately.
Chase has his back to me, but Max catches sight of me right away.
His mouth clamps shut, and his face flushes red, his gaze skating wildly from side to side as if he doesn’t know where to look.
And then I know exactly what to do.
As Chase turns to see what’s going on, I move toward him, keeping my pace brisk, businesslike. People like Max don’t know how to handle someone like me; they don’t know how to relate, so they pretend not to see me. But I can use that.
Chase frowns. “What’s going on?” he asks, clearly not sure why I’m out here so suddenly.
I ignore him, focusing on Max, who can barely stand still now. He’s pra
ctically vibrating with the need to leave.
“I just wanted to say thank you so much for letting me visit,” I say, forcing a smile. “I can’t wait to tell everyone about what a great experience it’s been and will be over the next couple of days.” I pause, waiting a beat for him to get it.
His forehead wrinkles in confusion.
Come on; you can do it. Put the pieces together. This can be very good or very bad for you.
“Um, yes, I … we…,” Max stutters. “Well, it’s not something we had planned so I’m not sure—”
“People magazine has been asking what I’ve been up to,” I continue. “I know they’ll be so happy to hear about my visit to the set and the good work that you’re all doing here.”
Or not. It depends on you.
Max’s gaze jerks toward me involuntarily in surprise, and I meet it without flinching.
Then, I watch as his expression shifts lightning fast from reluctance to naked avarice.
There it is. Now you’re with me.
Max gives me a grudging nod of respect. “Of course,” he says. “We’re pleased to have you here for as long as you want to stay.”
An awkward moment of silence passes among the three of us, before his attention returns to Chase. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says in a slightly less snarly tone.
Then he turns and stalks away.
Chase rubs the back of his neck, ruffling the deliberately mussed look Karen created. “You shouldn’t have to do that,” he says to me, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “You’re already doing more than—”
“He was being a jerk.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And nobody made me do anything. I decided.”
“Huh,” I hear a voice say behind me.
Startled, I turn to see Karen standing on the steps of her trailer, her expression one of surprise and faint admiration. “I guess you do.”
It takes me a second to replay our previous conversation to the last thing I said.
I’ve got it covered.
She gives Chase a hard look, then nods at me before disappearing inside.
“If people are going to judge us by our pasts,” I say to Chase, “then I’m at least going to control how it happens and make it work for us. We are not our mistakes, our tragedies. We’re more than that. And he”—I wave a hand toward where Max stood—“should know that.”
Plus, this way, Max might think twice before taking out my presence on Chase. I’m a potential asset now instead of a liability.
I expect Chase to argue further, but instead he’s looking at me oddly, his head tipped to the side.
“Amanda,” he says hesitantly. “Whatever Karen told you—”
I stiffen. “It’s fine. It doesn’t—”
“—I’m sure it’s true,” he finishes as if I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t have to come to my rescue. I deserve what I’m getting. And I’m willing to take whatever Max hands out to get a second chance. I need this chance,” he says, his eyes boring into mine, pleading with me to understand.
Tears blur my vision. He really believes what he just told me. He’ll let them say anything, do anything to him as long as he gets his “chance.”
I blink them back and step closer to him. “The whole point of a second chance is that no one ever deserves it.”
He rocks back like one of my punches from last night connected.
“Everyone messes up, Chase; the degree just varies,” I say with a weariness that feels bone deep. “And the perspective.”
No one thinks I made a mistake in the course of events that happened to me, but I did. Of course I did. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, wasn’t as smart as I should have been, maybe didn’t fight as hard as I could have in the moment because I didn’t believe the world was that messed up. That doesn’t mean it was my fault, but I have to live with all of those things, the choices I didn’t make and the ones I did.
Chase opens his mouth and closes it without saying anything, emotion writ large on his face: regret, shame, despair, and determination. And I’m familiar with every damn one of them.
“I have to believe that we’re all on our second or third or fourteenth chance, one way or another,” I say. “And anybody who says otherwise and tries to make us feel bad about it”—I jerk my chin in the direction Max took—“is fucking lying to himself and everybody else.”
Chase laughs, but it’s a choked sound. “Thanks.” He lifts his arm and, after making certain I see the gesture coming, wraps it around my shoulders, pulling me close. “Thank you for that.”
My cheek rests against his chest lightly. His arm is warm and comforting across the back of my neck, and his fingers on the cap of my shoulder seep heat through my shirts. Beneath the faint scent of sulfur, like old eggs, that clings to his hoodie, I smell him, the shampoo and soap from the hotel … and his skin.
My heart is thumping in my chest like a rabbit on crack, but it’s not fear I’m feeling. I want to curl closer to him, press full-on against him, and possibly stretch up to press my mouth against the side of his throat.
I can actually feel my toes tensing, as if they’re preparing to lift me up for that last item, with or without my consent.
“Sure,” I mumble and pull away.
He lets me go immediately. I rub my arms up and down, trying simultaneously to retain his warmth and also banish the goose bumps.
The shivers aren’t unpleasant except in their newness and what I know they mean. Want. Lust. Everything I can’t have right now.
Chase frowns and opens his mouth to say something.
But I beat him to it. “We should go, right?” I ask brightly.
Involuntarily, his head swivels in the direction of the cameras, the lights, and the activity. “Yeah.”
“Good. Because you smell kind of horrible,” I tease. It’s an exaggeration but an effective change of topic. I wrinkle my nose. “Does this fight you’re in take place in a pile of garbage?”
He raises his eyebrows and lifts a sleeve to sniff at it. He grimaces but tries to hide it. Then he grins at me. “We are committed to authenticity here,” he says in mock solemnity.
“Awesome. Could you maybe be authentic more downwind of me?” I ask.
He laughs and stretches his arm toward me, looping it loosely around my neck as we start to walk. “You just don’t understand dedication to the craft.”
I make a face. “I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”
“I don’t know—maybe you just need another whiff,” he says in pretend thoughtfulness.
Another hug? Another ten seconds of closeness with him? Yes. I’m already turning toward his chest.
But then, with a teasing grin, he raises his other arm as if he’s going to hold it in front of my nose, and disappointment flashes through me before I can clamp down on it.
Playing my part, I lift my hands quickly to cover my nose. “No, thank you!”
“Oh, well, your loss,” he says with a shrug, releasing my shoulders and dropping his arms to his sides to stuff his hands in his pockets.
Yes—yes, it is. A surge of wistfulness overwhelms me momentarily, and I catch my breath.
A fearful impulse tells me to push the emotion away, box it up for safety and send it to the farthest reaches of my mind. At the same time, some part of me wants to hold it up to the light and examine it, to feel the wonder of wanting again.
I don’t have much time to consider either option, though. Because once we’re on the set, I learn a couple things very quickly.
The first is that, despite my initial worries, after a few curious glances, absolutely no one seems to care about my presence. They’re too busy, all of them moving in a hundred different directions at once. The set is an anthill that’s been stomped on and then lit on fire for good measure. Which is a relief because if I can’t hide from so many strangers, being invisible to them is the next best thing.
Chase settles me in the chair with his name on it and heads to the relatively calm epicenter, an open sp
ace where a battered car, a cooler full of ice and beer, two ragged lawn chairs, and the other two actors are waiting beneath the lights and the watchful eyes of the cameras.
I watch as Chase and the others run through the scene, under Max’s direction, trying different approaches with the same words. It’s fascinating to see the shades of character emerge without knowing anything about the overall story. There’s the push-pull of old friendship and envy between Chase and the other guy, and simmering resentment and bitterness between Chase and the girl.
But that’s when I learn the second thing: Karen was right to warn me. Chase is extremely talented. So much so that he disappears into Smitty in front of my eyes. The Chase I knew, or thought I knew, is gone and in his place is a temperamental addict with shaking hands and a short temper. Even his gestures, the way he moves his body, are different. It’s like watching a stranger with Chase’s face.
It wedges a tiny crack in the little bit of confidence I’ve regained, letting in a chill. Because, in spite of my fierce defense of Chase only a short while ago, I have no choice but to recognize that someone this good at pretending to be another person might be impossible to ever really know. Or trust.
14
Chase
I forgot what it was like, having someone on your side.
I don’t like how Amanda did it, sacrificing herself on the altar of more unwanted media attention, but that she was willing to means a lot. The warmth of that belief, deserved or not, stays with me, and I catch myself staring at her off and on while we rehearse.
She’s taking in the sights around her, the hive of activity, the strange and new in what is so familiar to me. Her hair looks redder in the sunlight, and the pink shirt she hates, the one she wears under mine, adds color to her pale skin.
When I check on her, she asks questions—quietly at first, worried about making too much noise in case the cameras are already rolling—wanting to know the purpose of that piece of equipment that looks more like it belongs on a construction site or what that person with a harness does.
She’s observant, smart, wry … and beautiful.
The moony tenor of my thoughts sets off an internal alarm. I know, better than others, the dangers of falling for your own fiction, believing the lies you had a hand in making.
