by Stacey Kade
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here.”
“Me, too,” he says softly, and I feel the words vibrate in his chest, next to the too-rapid thumping of his heart.
But then he steps back abruptly and uncertainty rises to swamp me. Am I reading him wrong? Getting this, whatever it is, wrong?
“I should go,” he says, turning toward his door.
I open my mouth to say … something. I don’t know what. But my phone starts to ring again then, and my time is up. I have to answer.
When I shut the door to my room, though, I lean against it, taking an extra second or two to gather myself.
Then I answer my phone. “Hi, Dr. Knaussen.”
“Amanda? I was worried there might have been a miscommunication,” she says with that faint hint of reproof.
“No, sorry; I just couldn’t answer quickly enough.” Eh, sort of true.
I’m lying to my therapist. This has to be a new low and probably a sign that it’s time to move on to number eight.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’m just glad we didn’t miss one another.”
I frown. She sounds almost excited. Which doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it’s my imagination.
“How are you?” she asks, with even more of that cooing sympathy I’ve come to expect from her.
“I’m fine.” I clutch the phone tighter against my ear, hating the defensive tone in my voice.
“Mmm-hmm.”
I know this tactic, a bid to make me fill the silence, and I keep my mouth shut.
“And how is Mr. Henry? Are you finding him to be as you expected?” she continues in a carefully neutral tone.
Oh, come on. Is she really expecting me to swing at that?
“Yes, he’s fine, too,” I say. He would have to threaten to eat soup out of my rib cage before I’d admit to trouble now. Shouldn’t she, as the trained professional, know that?
“I understand that there were some photos taken today,” she says.
I tense. I was so focused on the right people in Chase’s life seeing them that I forgot that people I knew would see them as well.
I pace at the foot of the bed. How widespread are those images for her to have seen them? Were they on the news or one of those entertainment shows again? I wince, imagining my family subjected once more to endless Miracle Girl coverage and speculation. My dad disconnected our cable at one point as well as our home phone. Are there reporters camped in front of our yard again?
Pausing by the dresser, I run my finger along a scrape in the finish. “The photos weren’t a big deal. It was fine.” I’m using the word “fine” a lot, and accordingly, I brace myself for a gentle chiding. “Fine,” according to Dr. Knaussen, is an empty word. It’s the one we use when we can’t bring ourselves to say something positive but we know that “okay” often encourages questions we don’t want to answer.
Whatever. “Fine” is a perfectly descriptive word in my book. I’m not good, not great—I would never say that. But I’m not falling apart at the moment, either. So how else would you describe that other than fine?
Fortunately, Dr. Knaussen’s pursuing a different scent at the moment. “If you don’t mind me saying, I’ve seen the pictures and you didn’t seem fine. You seemed frightened.” I hear her clicking her pen open and closed, open and closed.
I sigh and decide to give a little. She actually has helped more than any of her predecessors. “Yeah, it was scary,” I admit. “It’s been a couple years since I’ve been around cameras like that, and there were more than I expected. More than we expected,” I corrected, remember the shock on Chase’s face. “But we handled it.”
There’s a long silence on the other end, then: “I’m interested to hear you describing you and Mr. Henry as a ‘we.’”
It’s the deliberate casualness in her tone that tips me off. This is what she was after.
I exhale loudly. “Yes, ‘we.’ We’re…” What are we? I have no idea. That moment at dinner and the echo of it in the hallway a few minutes ago didn’t feel like something that happened between random strangers. But I’m not 100 percent sure I trust my instincts on this matter. Chase certainly moved away from me fast enough.
“… friends,” I finish lamely. I make a face at myself in the mirror over the dresser. After months of suggesting, unsuccessfully, that I expand my “comfort zone and social circle,” she’s going to have a field day with me labeling a guy I’ve known for barely twenty-four hours as a “friend.” Especially when that guy is Chase Henry, the face of my pretend savior.
But I know I like him. And I think he likes me. What other word for that is there? “Happy allies”? “Pleasant acquaintances” doesn’t seem to quite cover it. And neither of those terms even takes into account my other feelings for him—toward him?—which I am not going to bring up right now.
I close my eyes and wait for Dr. Knaussen’s response.
She takes a deep breath.
Here we go.
“Amanda, at this point, I’d like to let you know that your parents are here with me, and after today, they have some additional concerns they’d like to share with you on this matter,” Dr. Knaussen says.
My eyes snap open. That’s why she was okay with rescheduling. That also explains the overly solicitous tone and hidden excitement in her voice. Family “conversations” are her groove. She’s convinced I can’t be completely healed without everyone on board. She’s met with my mom and Mia, and Liza, even. My dad was the lone holdout. Apparently not anymore.
I hear some quiet murmuring in the background. Then my mom says, “Amanda?” Her voice sounds small, worried.
My free hand immediately flies to the scar on my wrist, tracing the line with my index finger. “I’m here,” I say.
“Amanda, we’re worried about you. I know you’re an adult, and your decisions are your own,” she says with a care that suggests she fears I might hang up at any second. “But those photos today—”
“You don’t know what it looks like,” my dad bursts in.
I jolt. It’s one thing for my dad to be in the room but to jump in on the conversation? I picture him standing over Dr. Knaussen’s desk, glowering. “Am I on speakerphone?” I demand.
“He’s taking advantage,” my dad continues as if I haven’t spoken. “He sees that you’re not well enough to make smart decisions about your—”
“Mark, shhh,” my mom says. “We just don’t want you getting hurt again. We saw the photos. You were wearing his shirt, and he was touching you—”
“It’s not the same thing,” I snap. “Not even close. It’s okay when he touches me.” Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s more than okay. I like it.
That revelation stops me in my tracks for a moment. Somehow, somewhere, I crossed the line from tolerating to enjoying being touched. Granted, it’s a phenomenon limited strictly to Chase Henry at the moment, but still.
My mouth is open in shock. I’ve managed to surprise myself.
How? When? Walking out to the van this morning, when he made me feel safe in spite of the cameras? When we were pressed together in that seat on the way to the set? Clearly, it was probably before I nearly kissed him at dinner.
I scramble to remember the exact moment it happened, this huge, monumental step for me, but I can’t pin it down. It apparently wasn’t a big Hollywood moment with trumpets blaring, but a smaller, more subtle transition.
“Amanda? Are you there?” My mother’s voice breaks into my thoughts and I remember I’m supposed to be paying attention.
“Yes, sorry,” I say quickly.
“I said, we’re just concerned to see such a dramatic change in you so suddenly. You’ve been so resistant to anyone … and I understand that victims … of what happened to you sometimes—”
An old frustration rapidly overtakes my newfound astonishment. “Rape, Mom,” I say. “Rape survivors.”
“Everyone has your best interests in mind, Amanda,” Liza says, barging into the con
versation. “There’s no need to be harsh.”
My head jerks up. She’s there, too?
“Who else is listening?” I demand. “Mia?”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Mia protests. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead where a headache is developing.
“I think what Mom was trying to say is that studies show that sexual assault survivors may react in a variety of ways, including celibacy or promiscuity, sometimes vacillating between periods of each,” Liza pronounces. “And you seem to be moving to—”
My patience evaporates. “Liza, I’m not sleeping with Chase Henry, but if I was, it would be my choice and nobody’s business but mine. I don’t need a study to tell me that.”
The other end of the phone explodes with voices, all of them talking at once.
“Amanda!” my mom says, her voice choked. “You can’t!”
“Don’t take that tone with your sister. She’s just trying to—”
“—understand your anger, but it’s misdirected—”
“—go home now?” Mia asks, fury clear beneath her plaintive tone.
“Okay, everyone,” Dr. Knaussen tries to interject. “Let’s calm down and circle together. We’re here for Amanda and—”
“—setting a good example for Mia—”
“Actors are notoriously unreliable, and Chase Henry has a reputation for—”
“—don’t pretend this is about me. Like I even exist except when Amanda’s—”
“—taking stupid risks, endangering yourself further. You should just come home!”
I listen to them talking over one another, and tears well in my eyes. I love them, and I’m certain they love me or they wouldn’t try this hard.
But I can’t do this. Not now.
“I have to go,” I say loudly into the phone.
“Amanda, wait,” my mom pleads.
“I don’t think running away from this conversation is going to help,” Liza says, oh so reasonably.
At that, my hand squeezes so tight around the phone that my knuckles ache.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” I say, working to keep my voice calm.
Then, before the rest of them, including Dr. Knaussen, can chime in, I hang up and turn my phone to do not disturb.
16
Chase
Once I’m in my room, I shut the hall door behind me firmly.
My heartbeat is still thrumming hard, and I feel a ghost impression of the heat between us at every point of contact: Amanda’s breasts brushing against my ribs every time one of us breathed, her legs bumping mine.
It was the least amount of body contact I’ve ever had in a hug, no hands involved anywhere, but it was also somehow the most intimate. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and pull her tight against me. I had to step back from her just to get myself under control.
A glance ahead of me reveals that Housekeeping closed the adjoining door to Amanda’s room, and I’m both relieved and disappointed.
I would have shut it anyway to give her privacy for her conversation, but removing my action from the equation also removes temptation. Temptation to eavesdrop, temptation to stick my head in and see if she’ll look at me like that again, temptation to ask her something dumb just to see her smile.
“Come on, Mroczek.” I rub my forehead, feeling the greasy remnants of the makeup I missed removing. “Get in the shower, get cleaned up, and get your head back in the game.”
I move toward the table to empty out my pockets.
“Aww, what’s the matter? Things not going so well with Little Miss Tragedy USA?” a familiar female voice calls out coyly.
I freeze.
There’s a rustle of fabric, and then Elise emerges from the bedroom half of the suite, leaning against the half-wall, her legs bare beneath one of my shirts. It’s held together by a single button in the middle, revealing the curves of her breasts at the top and the juncture of her thighs at the bottom. She’s not wearing anything underneath it.
“Jesus, Elise,” I hiss, trying to look only at her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You did such a good job today, baby,” she says with a sly smile. “You deserve a reward.” She wiggles her index finger at me in a come-hither gesture. “You should have seen the pictures. Giving her your shirt was a stroke of genius.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the door to Amanda’s room. It’s shut, but the lock is not engaged. I think I can hear the faint murmur of her on the phone. “Get dressed.”
Her hand drops, and her expression goes icy. “Excuse me?”
Careful. Elise holds the keys to my future and possibly my destruction if I don’t play this right.
“The doors are thin,” I say. “You’re the one who’s all about selling the story.” I tip my head in Amanda’s direction, hating myself. “What do you think she’ll say if she finds my ‘fired’ publicist in here half naked?”
Elise flips her hair over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at me. “I wasn’t aware that, after twenty-four hours, the two of you had the type of relationship where she might walk in unannounced.”
Trap. There was no way to respond to that without landing in more trouble, for doing what she told me to too well or not well enough.
“Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised,” she says with that calm but dangerous tone I recognize from previous fights, “since you were so enamored today you didn’t even have time to respond to my texts.”
“I was a little busy working,” I snap, which is both true and not. I drop my key card, script pages, and phone on the table. “Thanks, by the way, for the ambush this morning.”
“I had to. Your reaction looked more natural that way,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “If you’d read my texts today, you’d know that. You couldn’t slip away for thirty seconds to answer me?”
Yes, I could have. But it felt wrong, shady, especially with Amanda right there.
“Then I wouldn’t have to risk a personal visit.” Elise toys with the one engaged button. “Though why you wouldn’t want this, I’m not sure.”
Elise, the seducer, is back, but the hard look in her eyes tells me that the pissed-off version is lurking beneath the surface, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.
I’m caught. If she starts yelling, Amanda will hear it even if she’s on the phone. She won’t know who it is or why, but she’ll know there is an angry woman in my room. And there just aren’t that many reasons—beyond pissed-off girlfriend—for that to be the case.
That would be the end of Amanda smiling at me like I deserve her respect, the end of her looking at me like she trusts me.
I should want that—wanting otherwise is a dangerous game—but I don’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was just a long day.” I hope the door on Amanda’s side is shut, too. Or that she’s preoccupied talking to her therapist.
I’m the shittiest human being alive.
Elise’s expression softens slightly, her lips puffing out in sympathy. “I know, it’s a lot on you, Chase, dealing with her damage and drama.” She waves a hand in the direction of Amanda’s room with an eye roll.
“It’s not…” I catch myself. “It’s fine.”
“And it’s working.” The excited gleam is back in her eyes. “Did you check your email?”
“No.”
She nods toward my phone on the table. “Do it.”
I reluctantly follow her direction. It takes me only a second to see what she’s talking about. At the top of my inbox, I have an e-mail from Rick, my agent. Complimenting me on the buzz around Coal City and suggesting that we touch base early next week.
Holy shit.
“Then there’s this.” As I put my phone down, Elise reaches for hers, charging on the half-wall behind her. “You have to see.”
She flips through open links on her phone, showing me the photos of Amanda and me in prominent locations on all t
he various entertainment/celebrity news sites. The pictures look exactly like what Elise wanted: I appear flustered and protective with my arm around Amanda, who, despite her best efforts, has a deer-in-headlights look. Neither of us is smiling, and the tension is palpable. But the effect of being surrounded by the crowd is that we very much appear together, facing off against a common enemy.
Several shots focus on her hand clutching the back of my shirt.
The headlines are, as expected, awful. “True Love from Trauma.” “Pity Party for Two?” “Amanda’s ‘Angel’ in Real Life.”
I make a face.
“And then…” Elise pulls up a video clip from Access Hollywood.
It’s basically a short rundown of everything covered in the articles. First, the photos from this morning, while the host explains that Coal City Nights is filming in Pennsylvania near Amanda’s home. Then a review of Amanda’s story and her connection to me, or, rather, my poster.
But when the screen returns to focus on the host, my picture is in the upper left corner with the graphic From Poster to Poser? stamped over it. Which I don’t understand until the last few seconds of the clip.
“But the suddenness of this ‘relationship’”—the overly loud host pauses to make air quotes—“and Chase Henry’s troubled reputation with the media, has some questioning whether it’s all a publicity stunt orchestrated by Henry’s team.” His voice deepens to help demonstrate the seriousness of this charge.
“Oh,” his female coanchor says, placing a hand over her chest in showy empathy, “that would be terrible.”
Elise clicks away as the screen fades to black.
“That guy has never liked me,” I say, my mouth tight. “He’s still pissed I mixed him up with that other guy, the one on ET or whatever.” Never mind that he’s actually right.
“It doesn’t matter,” Elise says, curling her arms around me, her phone still in her hand. “Speculation fuels the fire. We just want to make sure it’s burning our way.” She rises to her tiptoes and plants a kiss near my mouth.
