738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  I shoot her a dark look. “Stop.”

  She holds up her hand, brush between her fingers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just … not you.”

  “That’s kind of the idea,” I say. “I’m not the same. Or I’m trying not to be.” The problem is, I’m still working out what that looks like, who I want to be.

  Karen processes this silently.

  “Is it a good idea?” she asks after a long moment, her dark head bent over my arm, scrupulously creating fake evidence of a serious drug addiction. Any humor in her tone is long gone.

  “No, probably not.” I consider it. “Definitely not. We don’t make sense. At all. I’m still getting my life back together, two steps short of being a total mess. She needs someone calm, stable, patient.”

  “And you want to rip his lungs out, whoever he is,” she says.

  “Yes.” The word escapes in a reluctant hiss.

  “Like I said, got it bad,” she says.

  “That’s helpful, Kare.”

  She opens her mouth and closes it again. “I don’t know what to say to you. I mean, I used to. But we’re not friends anymore. I don’t know you, and I don’t know if I want to help you.”

  Her words bring on a weariness and regret that feel permanently etched on my soul. I drop my gaze to the table. “I’m so sor—”

  “Don’t. Stop.”

  I look up, and she points a finger at me. “Don’t apologize. Not yet.” She hesitates. “I want to believe you. This time. But I wanted to believe you before, too.”

  I stiffen.

  “I’m not saying this time is like the others,” she says quickly. “It’s already different. I’m just not sure I’m ready to be friends and forgive.”

  “Okay,” I say, but the word is bitter ash, tasting of all my previous failures. Karen was my one real friend from before.

  “But if I was,” she says, turning her attention back to her work, “I’d tell you that I think the changes in you are good ones. The fact that you’re asking yourself the right questions and answering honestly is a big step in the right direction.”

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing the word out. I know where this is headed.

  But then she surprises me. “And I would also say that maybe some things don’t have to make sense to everyone else, just to the two of you.” She glances up at me, sadness moving fleetingly through her gaze, and I wonder if she’s thinking about her ex, Steph.

  “Here’s the thing, though, Chase.” She points her brush at me. “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, but you will fuck this up if you don’t believe you deserve it.”

  I try to smirk. “I don’t think that was ever a problem in the past.” But her words hit with a splash of cold water.

  She throws me an exasperated look. “There’s a difference between entitled asshole and having a genuine sense of self-worth, dumbass.”

  “I feel my self-worth improving already,” I say.

  But she ignores me. “I mean it, Chase. You’re your own worst enemy. It’s up to you to figure out if you can find a way around that. That goes for everything: acting, Amanda, all of it.”

  The idea of it being up to me alone, of it all riding on me making the right choices, sends a bolt of sheer terror through me.

  I find myself swallowing hard and wishing for a drink to smooth the rough edges and bolster my confidence. “I don’t know if I can,” I say finally.

  “Then there’s your answer, I guess,” Karen says completely unsympathetically as she stands. “But whatever you do, you better make up your mind without hurting that girl any further.”

  I wince. She’s right. “But—”

  “No,” she says sharply. “We’re done here. That’s all the non-friend friendliness I have in me today, Henry.”

  With that, she packs up her case and leaves, the trailer door banging shut after her.

  23

  Amanda

  I should have known. On the ride over to the set, I stressed to Mia repeatedly that we had to stay out of the way and be quiet. That drawing attention to ourselves could cause problems for Chase.

  But as always, I needn’t have bothered. Everyone freaking loves Mia. No matter how hideously dramatic she can be, she’s also extremely charismatic when she wants to be, one of those people who draws others into their circle, even when they don’t particularly want to be drawn.

  Right now, I’m watching her nodding and listening intently to the assistant director, who’s explaining something to her, pointing at the playback screen, while the lighting people make adjustments.

  And this is after she’s already chatted with Karen during a round of touch-ups for the actors, interrogated a gaffer, and even spoken once to Max.

  I would have thought this crowd to be less susceptible, given their regular encounters with actors and other shining stars.

  But evidently not.

  Even today, when tension is running high because someone apparently vandalized the set last night, everyone seems to welcome the distraction or the opportunity to explain their work to an enthusiastically interested party.

  Only Chase seems remote and possibly unhappy. He’s stayed away from his chair, my chair, all day. And it feels deliberate. Or maybe that’s just me. After that conversation with my mom, I’m highly aware of the chance I’m taking, that I want to take, and I’m squirming with that feeling of added vulnerability.

  Now, a few minutes before the last take of the day, I find myself staring at him, watching for a hint of what he’s thinking.

  They’re shooting today in a bedroom set constructed inside one of the big open spaces of the empty warehouse building. Apparently, it’s a replica of a real room in a house here in town where the cast and crew will be filming. But something about the angles required that they have a version with only three walls for this scene. And since the homeowners weren’t especially thrilled at the idea of renovation on that level, there’s now a full-on girl’s bedroom, decorated with college pennants, posters, magazine cut-outs, and a pink feather boa draped over the mirror, springing out of nowhere in the middle of this sea of dirty concrete. It’s creepy as hell, honestly. Like the deluxe edition of Jakes’s basement bedroom.

  Chase is in Smitty mode. It’s a subtle difference, but I can see it in the way he moves, the quicker, jerkier motions. He’s consulting with Jenna, the girl who plays Iris. His dark blond head is bent over the pages, right next to hers, a few shades lighter than his. They’re absorbed in whatever they’re discussing, and it causes a weird pinching sensation in my chest. It’s not jealousy, exactly. I don’t think he’s interested in her—I’m not getting that vibe at all—but it’s more just that she has his complete and undivided attention. And quite selfishly, I want it for myself.

  For this scene, they, as Smitty and Iris, have been arguing for the last few hours, like red-faced shouting at each other, in a variety of takes, while they debate about Keller’s future.

  It doesn’t look easy or fun. And maybe that’s all it is—Chase concentrating on being Smitty.

  Either way, I kind of hate myself for the itch of worry that has settled beneath my skin.

  “Hey.”

  I look up to see Keller himself, Adam, hovering a very safe distance of five or six feet away.

  Adam as Keller is all puppy-dog eyes, rumpled hair, and wrinkled button-downs. He very much has the look of the good-guy-next-door, with a potential for greatness, but who also might end up working as a pizza delivery guy.

  “Hi,” I say cautiously.

  Adam hasn’t said much to me after yesterday’s awkwardness. I don’t think he meant any harm, but the intensity with which he sought me out was odd.

  “Long day, huh?” He jerks his chin toward the lights and cameras.

  “Not for me,” I say pointedly. I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I can feel him warming up toward something bigger than general pleasantries.

  “So you and Henry, huh?” He scuffs his feet against the gritty con
crete floor.

  I stare at him. “Seriously?”

  He starts to speak, but I’m not done yet. “Since I don’t think you’re here because you actually care about my well-being, I’m guessing this is more about Chase. So let me help. Recovering alcoholic, workaholic, and selfish bastard are already taken. Mostly by him telling on himself.”

  Adam’s regarding me with open-mouthed astonishment.

  “But a well-meaning speech about him possibly being an income tax avoider or dog-napper, if you have a shred of proof or a wisp of gossip about either, are both still available,” I say.

  Adam laughs, a little too loudly, and Chase’s head jerks up and in our direction.

  “Did it work? Is he looking over here?” Adam mumbles to me.

  I look at Adam in shock.

  “What, I can’t do something to help?” he asks, taking my stunned silence as an invitation to plop himself on the ground at my feet, but still maintaining a safe distance, which I both appreciate and find annoying.

  I narrow my eyes at him, but he just gives me a big innocent smile. That feeling that he’s up to trouble only increases. “Considering we don’t know each other at all? No, you can’t.”

  “Such a distrustful view of the world,” he says in a teasing tone. “What would ever make you think so badly of…” He flushes red, apparently remembering who he’s talking to. “Never mind,” he mutters.

  That makes me like him slightly better, which still isn’t saying a whole lot. “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Honestly?”

  “I doubt it, but you can try.”

  “Funny.” Adam sighs. “All right, I can see you’re a cards-on-the-table type of person.”

  “More like low tolerance for happy bullshit,” I say, “but continue.”

  He laughs again, and this time it sounds genuine. Chase is now staring at us, even as Jenna talks to him.

  “I’m going to take back some of the stuff I thought about you,” he says, sounding insultingly impressed and surprised. “You’re not what I expected.” He jerks his chin in my direction. “I like you.”

  If Mia were over here, she’d probably be able to rattle off his IMDb entry with awe. But I have no idea who he is, so Adam’s stamp of approval means less than he’d probably like.

  “What do you want?” I repeat, emphasizing each word.

  He eyes me with consideration and then seems to come to a decision. “Petty ambition, frankly.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I’m bored, and he’s trying so hard to avoid looking over here, I thought it would be fun to get under his skin.” He grins at me. “You know, the amazing Chase Henry, the great washup trying to make a comeback—”

  “Hey,” I say sharply, glaring at him.

  He holds his hands up in a protest of innocence. “I’m just repeating what others are saying.”

  Chase stalks toward us, closing the distance in a few long strides. Then he’s looming over Adam. Adam would be taller if he were standing, but Chase is broader, more threatening by a long shot, especially with the frown on his face and the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, revealing tensed forearms.

  “Is everything okay here?” he asks me.

  Unaware of Chase’s presence until then, Adam jumps, unease and surprise skating across his expression.

  I feel a greedy bit of pleasure at that reaction. For all Adam’s smarmy confidence and smack talk about Chase, he’s not 100 percent sure that Chase won’t kick his ass. And I find I’m kind of okay with Adam’s uncertainty on this issue.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say with a smile. “Adam decided he wanted to chat. But if you want to—”

  “I better get back,” Chase says, jerking a thumb toward Jenna. He turns and walks away before I even have a chance to nod.

  Hurt throbs in my chest. Is this because of Mia? Because she arrived unexpectedly? Because I brought her to the set? Or did I do something I’m not aware of?

  When he left the hotel this morning, everything was fine, as far as I knew.

  God, get over it, Amanda. He’s not your boyfriend. You’re friends in a mutually beneficial situation. That’s all.

  A mutually beneficial situation that involves taking me on the most romantic 5:30 a.m. date ever?

  “Well, that worked better than I thought,” Adam says as soon as Chase is out of hearing distance. “You might try not looking quite so crushed, though, when he walks away.”

  “Are you seriously trying to engineer some kind of jealousy freakout?” I ask in disbelief. Good luck with that, today especially.

  “Oh, come on; he’s not the only one allowed to play the system?” He gives me that boyish, aren’t-I-such-a-scamp smile that probably tugs at the heartstrings (and ovaries) of every other female in swooning distance.

  I stiffen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Adam snorts. “Right. Last week, Chase Henry was a name that sounded only sort of familiar to everybody but the most die-hard Starlight fans, but this week he’s trending as part of the top-three hashtags on … well, everywhere.” He’s working hard to hide it, but I can hear the envy in his voice.

  And I still don’t know what he means.

  Adam pauses and cocks his head to the side. “You haven’t seen it.”

  “Social media and I don’t get along,” I say. I had a Facebook page and Twitter account, both of which were co-opted for the search (#findAmandaGrace). I’ve never bothered to reclaim them or start new ones. I have a hard enough time dealing with the real world, where most people try to respond to me with some sensitivity. On the internet, deliberate, anonymous cruelty is a sport. It only took accidentally reading a few comments after an interview—ones that suggested I should consider being abducted a compliment to my hotness—to convince me to stay away.

  Adam pulls his phone from his pocket, taps into it, and then lifts it up to show me.

  I lean forward in Chase’s chair to see. And sure enough, the first three items on the Trending list are #AmandaGrace, #ChaseHenry, and …

  “Hashtag AMASE?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  “It’s your ‘couple name,’ a mash-up of your—”

  “I know what it is,” I say. I’m just stunned to learn of its existence. “I was only in a basement for two years, not the last century.”

  Adam flinches, but my words don’t dissuade him from continuing. “I think they’re saying it like Amaze,” he says with a casual shrug that seems a little forced. “But you can always ask Chase.”

  Now, there it is. This is what his windup has been leading to. I can feel it, like I can feel tension emanating from him, despite his relaxed position on the floor. And yet, I have to ask, the words burbling up like vomit, “Why would Chase know or care?”

  Adam blinks at me, all innocence again. “Because he’s the one who started it.”

  With another tap, he has a profile up for Chase Henry on his phone’s tiny screen. The small photo in the header is definitely Chase, but taken from the side. He’s wearing sunglasses, the same ones from this morning. His head is tilted back in laughter, his face lit by what appears to be either late afternoon or early morning sun. It is a surprisingly intimate picture. He seems relaxed, happy in the presence of whoever is taking the photo.

  “Verified” is stamped across the upper left, taking away the possibility of an imitator trying to convince the world otherwise.

  The most recent posts are mostly benign—talking about going for a run or staying in for a quiet night with lots of misspelled words. Each contains the #amase tag, though.

  And the first one, just a day ago, is nothing but #amase, #amase, #amase, #amase, #amase, #amase. Just the hashtag repeated over and over again, to start the trending process.

  That causes something in me to shift, metal tearing into soft vulnerable flesh. My heart pushed into an oversized meat grinder. Chase was on his phone last night when I came to talk to him. But he put it aside, telling me it was nothing.

&nb
sp; It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. It’s just part of the process, no different than boosting his profile with the pictures of us. But we never talked about this, and somehow that makes it feel more exploitative, instead of the partnership I thought we had.

  “I mean, I think it’s awesome how much you’re willing to help him. But I’m just wondering what you’re getting out of it, especially when you’re just sitting over here by yourself.” Again, his studied mix of casual concern and indifference hits the wrong note in me.

  I eye him carefully. “It is awfully considerate of you to be so concerned with my feelings, Adam.”

  He gives an aw-shucks shrug. He doesn’t know me well enough to hear the sarcasm underneath. Too bad for him.

  “So, what’s in it for you?” I ask.

  His mouth works silently in surprise. Then he shakes his head. “I’m just thinking about you and that it’s not fair—”

  “Not fair to me or to you?” I persist. I might have been naive and trusting enough once to miss the selfish motives at play here, but I am not that stupid anymore.

  Anger flashes across his face, then vanishes beneath precisely cultivated amusement with a touch of condescension. “You think I’m making it up? Oh, honey.” He reaches out as though he would pat my knee, but stops himself.

  I shift away anyway. “No, I don’t.” Sadly, that is the truth: the posts exist under Chase’s verified name and that’s an uncomfortable reality that I’ll have to absorb somehow. But that’s not what I’m after right now.

  His forehead creases with confusion. “Then why are you giving me—”

  “I know why he’s doing what he’s doing. Why are you?”

  But I’ve given him too much time to rally. He just looks at me with distaste. “Sad that you can’t even recognize the good from the bad anymore.”

  His words strike home, an extra slap on an already sore spot, and I draw back, pulling in a sharp breath.

  As Adam pushes himself up and walks away, Chase’s gaze finds mine, his eyebrows raising in question.

  Okay? he mouths.

  I don’t know how to answer that right now. My head is full of questions, and the sensation that I’m missing something, if I could just pull back enough to see it.