by Stacey Kade
“I know,” I say before I can cave. Because I want to. I really want to. And then because I’m a coward, I take the easy way out. “I’m just afraid it’s kind of fast,” I say, studying the blank screen of the television to avoid looking at her. “You’re still trying to figure out what you want, what works for you. I don’t want you to regret anything.” That last part, at least, is true.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lurch back.
When I dare to glance at her, her expression is cold, remote. “You can say no to me for any reason you want,” she says. “Because you’re not interested or attracted to me.”
We both know that’s not an issue.
“Because you don’t want the hassle or you think it’s creepy or messed up or gross.” Her eyes are shiny with tears, but she blinks rapidly, refusing to let them fall. “Or that I am those things because of what happened.”
My jaw drops. “Amanda, no,” I say. “That’s not—”
“But you don’t get to say no for me,” she says, pushing off the couch to stand up, fire in her gaze. “Do you understand that, Chase? I’m my own person. I have enough people telling me what I can’t do, what I should and shouldn’t want, whether it’s too fast or long overdue. Pick any reason you want, but not that one. It’s mine.” She steps around the coffee table, moving rapidly for the door.
“Wait.” I sit forward and reach a hand out to stop her, though I’m not sure what I can say.
But she skirts me without so much as a glance in my direction and stalks to her room, closing the door softly after her.
It would have been better if she slammed it. Anger I could deal with. But that? That was straight-up hurt and disappointment. In me.
I flop back and bang my head against the sofa. Fuck. Could that have gone any worse?
My phone gives a sharp buzz, shivering against the wood of the coffee table.
The gray bubble is easy to read from where I sit.
Elise Prescott: Waiting …
I can hear her impatience in the spaces between the periods. Because I haven’t posted anything yet.
It’s only the knowledge that I can’t afford to be without a phone that keeps me from throwing it against the wall as hard as I can.
Before Amanda knocked, I was looking through the apps Elise added to my phone and the “drafts” she talked about. Elise didn’t miss a trick. She actually staged photos. There was one of my running shoes on the floor, one kicked over next to the other, like I’d just taken them off, which means she went through my closet. The accompanying text: Nuthin like a good run rite?
Complete with deliberate misspellings. Does she seriously think that was something I would think? Or that I would spell it that way, even if I did? I didn’t go to college like she did—lots of people don’t—but that wasn’t the same thing as being or sounding like an idiot. People hold that shit against you.
The next one was worse. It looked like a misfire at first, focused mostly on the movie selection page on the hotel television in my living room. The text was her suggested, Quiet nite in is da best.
But then at the edge of the photo, on the corner of the sofa, like it’s been shed casually, is Amanda’s plaid shirt, the one I sent through the laundry.
The shirt is hanging in my closet. I can see the edge of it from here, still in the clear plastic protective bag from the service. Which means Elise borrowed it, set the scene, and returned it.
She really has no boundaries, no lines she won’t cross. I guess I knew that before—it’s one of the reasons I wanted to work with her, besides the fact that no one else would take me on—but this is the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of that pushiness.
And I don’t like it.
However, it does seem to be working.
I drop my glasses on the coffee table and scrub my hands across my face in frustration, hating myself, Elise, Rick, everyone who will read these posts and decide I’m worthy of interest again, regardless of any possible talent.
Damnit. I don’t want to do this. I want my career back, I want to do what I love, but I don’t know if I want to become the person that requires me to be.
Not if it means more of this sneaky, underhanded bullshit. There’s already been enough of that.
I look up and catch a blurry glimpse of my reflection in the television screen in the entertainment center—the first time I’ve been “on” television in a long while. My features are blurred, dark holes where my eyes should be. Haunted, empty, a shell of a person.
I don’t want to be that guy. The one who, like Elise, has no boundaries, who will literally do anything. I’ve been there and it’s not a good place to visit, let alone to live. Half of my issues with alcohol were drowning loneliness and insecurity, but the other part of it was my attempt to choke out the shame from some pretty shady decisions.
But the only way out of that—or past it—is to stop making decisions that make me feel like shit. Or at least stop making them intentionally.
That means I owe Amanda a better explanation, or at least a more honest one.
The thought of facing her, though, tightens my gut. I’m good at fighting, but I suck at confrontation when it comes to feelings. And words. And words about feelings.
Far easier to throw a punch or pretend to be someone else (and read someone else’s words) than it is to open my mouth and tell an unpleasant truth.
Putting my glasses back on, I push myself up from the couch, listening for signs of movement next door.
There’s nothing. Which probably isn’t good. But neither is she throwing things around and yelling.
That doesn’t really seem like Amanda anyway.
Then it hits me: she could be packing. Folding all her clothes and jamming them in her bag, gathering her shampoo and stuff from the bathroom. She could be leaving right now.
I wouldn’t blame her, not after that showing.
The thought of opening the door to find her gone makes me feel panicky, like my last chance has slipped away. I like who I am better when she’s around. So, I don’t want her to go, not just like this, but in general.
I open my door and knock on hers, which is closed. No surprise there, I guess. I find myself hoping it’s not locked, as that would be a true sign of how much I fucked up the last few minutes.
But there’s no scrape of the deadbolt when she pulls open the door a second later.
Hey,” I say with relief. The lights are on in her room, but she’s still in her pajamas, not dressed and ready to walk out.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just stands there in the doorway, not quite meeting my eyes.
“I thought maybe you were leaving,” I blurt into the silence.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Are you asking me to?”
“No!” I say immediately, louder than I meant to, and she jumps a little.
I shake my head, frustrated at myself. “No,” I say in a calmer voice. With my hands on my hips, like I’ve been running some exhausting marathon, I force myself to take a deep breath. “Can I come in?”
She steps back and holds her hand out in a limp gesture of welcome.
I step into the room and turn to face her. “I want to start this conversation over.”
“I’m not sure there’s a point.” Her tone is not cruel or cutting, just matter-of-fact.
I can feel the urge to be defensive rising in me, demanding that I throw something back in her face, something that will make it her fault instead of mine. But I clamp down on that urge, my hands clenched in fists. It’s not her fault. She didn’t do anything wrong. I did.
Accept responsibility for your mistakes promptly. That was kind of one of the big ones in recovery.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s where I should have started. I’m sorry.”
When I dare to look up at her, she’s watching me with a cautious expression, her arms folded across her chest. “Okay.”
I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door. “I was wrong to
make my answer about you instead of me. That was bullshit.”
She nods slowly and moves to sit next to me, leaving several feet of bed between us. “Thanks.” Her toes poke into the carpet.
“I’m not…” I struggle to find the right words. “I’m not good at this kind of thing, at talking about stuff.”
The edges of her mouth curve up reluctantly. “I’ve noticed.”
“Right?” I say in relief. “So, just, uh, bear with me, okay?” I slide my hand across the comforter and space between us, palm up. And after a second of hesitation, she rests her hand on mine.
I slip my fingers between hers and squeeze gently. “I want to say yes; I really want to say yes.”
She blushes, ducking her head, her hair sliding forward to hide her face.
“But I’m not the guy you think I am. I’ve made mistakes, some of which you know. Others you don’t,” I say evenly.
“Calista,” Amanda says.
I jolt. “Did Karen—”
“No,” she admits. “I could just tell there was something when you guys were talking about it earlier.”
I hesitate. I don’t ever talk about this with anyone, but if it makes her understand what I’m trying to save her from, then maybe it’s worth forcing the words out now.
“Eric, Calista, and I spent a lot of time together when the show was filming,” I say slowly. “But Calista was even younger than me. She was the only one playing her character’s age. Her mom was her manager, kept her separate from the rest of us. Bad influences.” I shrug. “She was right about that.”
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.
