738 Days: A Novel (17 page)

I blow out a loud breath in frustration and lift a hand to rub the back of my neck. “This is not what we talked about, and you don’t have anything to prove,” I say, all too aware of the manager waiting nearby.

But Amanda just laughs and gives me that look, the one that’s older and wiser than twenty, the one that’s a little bitter and a lot tired. “Yes, I do.”

And you know it.
The words hang unspoken in the air between us, but I hear them anyway.

Even if she’s not proving it to the paparazzi and the world in general, she has something to prove to herself, which is the whole point of this exercise for her.

Damnit.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “All right.” I look to the manager. “I guess we’re leaving from here,” I say reluctantly.

He nods. “Of course. We’ll have stronger measures in place by the time you return.” He holds a card out to me. “If you’ll contact us to let us know when you’ll be arriving…”

I take his card and shove it in my back pocket with my key card.

As he departs for the counter, a white van pulls into the turnaround, and the low murmur of the photographers outside grows louder.

My stomach churns with acid. “Ready?” Even though this is what Elise wanted to happen, even though it’s what I need, I hate it. Way more than I was expecting.

Amanda nods and steps closer. Without a word, she ducks under my arm and slides her hand around my back and grips my shirt again, taking me by surprise.

“I don’t want them to know I was scared,” she says with a hint of defiance. “I’m sure they got shots of it before. I want them to think it was deliberate.”

I don’t deserve to be anywhere near this girl.

I rest my arm carefully across her shoulders, like before, although it feels different. I’m not sure where my hand should be. Closer to her neck? Or down by her shoulder? When I put my arm around her a few minutes ago, it was pure protective instinct, done without any thought other than getting her out of there.

Now, I’m aware of her warmth under two layers of shirt, the proximity of her skin to my fingertips when I rest my hand between her neck and shoulder. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She squirms closer, tucking her shoulder behind me, so our sides are pressed together, and a flare of awareness shoots through me. The memory of her this morning, hectic color rising in her cheeks when she caught me getting dressed, surfaces unexpectedly. And the urge pulses in me to see more of that. To see if I can
cause
more of that.

Shit.
I should not be thinking like this. It’s too fast. And she’s Amanda Grace.

We move toward the doors, and they slide open. “Remember, they can’t touch you,” I say, and I feel Amanda nod. “Keep your eyes focused on the van and try to smile,” I say through my own tight, forced smile. “We’ll be out of this in under a minute.”

The photo snapping and flashing starts immediately, even before we’re outside. And so does the shouting.

It’s just as blinding and overwhelming as before, maybe even more so because they feel they missed their opportunity the first time.

But it’s not a surprise this time. Amanda, to her credit, holds it together, her eyes straight ahead and a grim smile plastered to her face.

When one guy lunges too close, she shies away, curving toward me, and I stick my hand up, blocking his lens.

“Move, asshole,” I say in the most pleasant tone I can muster under the circumstances. Because shoving him is only going to get me in trouble with Max, and I’ve got enough of that coming already.

The photog glares at me and flips me the finger while continuing to shoot, but we’re still moving and he’s missed his chance at Amanda’s face.

As we approach the van, a girl in the front passenger seat pushes her door open but then freezes in place, her expression uncertain. The walkie-talkie in her hand—seemingly forgotten—tells me she’s a production assistant sent to collect me. Her hesitation says she’s probably a local, a college student, maybe. Or one of Max’s cousins. She’s not used to this, for sure.

I catch her eye and jerk my chin at the van. She gets it after a second and pulls herself back in and shuts the door.

After picking up the pace for the last few steps, I lean forward without dropping my arm from Amanda and yank open the rear passenger door.

Amanda climbs in without hesitation, but her hand catches mine as it moves away from her shoulder and she tugs me in after her, not sitting down until I’m inside.

I’m not sure if she’s continuing the act she started for the cameras or if she somehow knows I need the support. She might be right on the latter. It’s been years since I’ve done this parade of bullshit sober and never with this much riding on it. Or at this level of deception.

I slam the door shut and drop into the seat next to Amanda. My mouth feels coated in sand, my tongue dried up and sticking to the roof of my mouth.

In the old days, I would have had a bottle stashed in my trailer. But this is not like the old days and can’t be again for so many reasons.

The older guy behind the wheel, presumably Ron from my email, turns to look at us. “Everybody okay?”

“Yes,” Amanda says, sounding surprised but calmer than earlier.

Despite the available space, her body is a solid line against mine, the two of us pressed together in the center of the bench. Her hand is still in mine, and she squeezes once in reassurance. For her or for me, I’m not sure.

She lets go after that, but it doesn’t matter. Guilt is throbbing in me like the worst hangover headache ever.

And I really want a drink.

11

Amanda

Next to me, Chase drops his head, running his hands through his hair. His body is wire-taut with tension, like any sudden movement on his part or mine might cause him to snap into pieces.

I’m not sure if touching him will help or make things worse, so I stay still.

The driver, a guy with white hair and wearing a black
Coal City Nights
baseball hat, mutters to himself and finally manages to navigate out of the turnaround without running anyone over.

As soon as we turn out onto the road, the muscles in my stomach relax a little, but dread creeps in almost immediately. Now that we’re away from the hotel, I have no idea what will happen next or even where we’re going.

My heartbeat ratchets up, and I fight the urge to scoot deeper in the van.

“So, yeah, hi, I’m Emily,” the girl in the passenger seat says uncertainly, twisting to face us.

She’s about my age, maybe a little older. She’s wearing an ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, and a black T-shirt with
Coal City Nights
in swirling cursive print. Her skin has the healthy glow of someone who goes outside, and her blond hair is pulled into a perky ponytail that brushes her shoulders.

Her gaze skates over me without recognition and dismisses me in favor of focusing on Chase.

She regards him with a mixture of awe and concern. “Are you okay, Mr. Henry?” The sugary-sweet deference in her tone makes me squirm.

“Chase.” He lifts his head and gives her a smile, but it doesn’t make his eyes crinkle and there’s strain around the edges.

Doesn’t matter, though. The desire to give her laser “back off” eyes is a steady drumbeat in my veins.

“Okay. Chase,” Emily says with a big smile, her eyelashes fluttering.

My jaw clenches so tightly I hear my new, perfect teeth squeak in protest. Batting her eyelashes? Seriously, who does that outside of cartoons?

“I’m fine, thanks, Emily,” Chase says with another tight smile.

Her face lights up, hearing her name. Should I even be here, interrupting this lovefest?

“Just thirsty,” he adds, rubbing his eyes with a harsh laugh, though nothing about what he said was funny.

I frown.

Emily doesn’t seem to notice. “I have water!” She turns and rummages at her feet and produces a small bottle damp with condensation, her face glowing with pride.

I realize suddenly this is probably what Liza would have been like around Chase yesterday, if I hadn’t been in the middle of the mess.

And if Liza’s version of flirting didn’t include harsh backhanded compliments and critiquing a guy’s grammar. I’ve seen her in action. It’s ugly. The girl equivalent of pulling pigtails.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Chase take the water with a polite nod of thanks. He cracks it open and takes a sip, but his expression is more of mirthless amusement instead of relief.

Then it clicks.

He’s a recovering alcoholic. I don’t know much about the disease; my family has plenty of issues, but not that one. I’m guessing, though, that stress—like, say, oh, trying to jump-start your career, or running an unexpected gauntlet of paparazzi with a certified head case clinging to your arm—might make things worse for someone who’s trying very hard to avoid temptation.

Emily beams at him and then produces a clipboard from somewhere.

“You’ll have about twenty minutes to change in your trailer before you’re supposed to be in Hair and Makeup,” she says with an anxious glance at Chase.

He nods with no outward indication of irritation. I have no idea if that amount of time is actually an issue or if she’s being ridiculously obsequious again.

While they’re preoccupied, I dig my phone out of my pocket and do a search. One good thing about being stuck in the hospital or in the house for extended periods of time is that you learn pretty quickly how to make the internet cough up anything you need, on demand.

It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for.

While Emily is going over schedules, locations, and other stuff I should probably be paying attention to, I download the app and enter what I think is the zip code for Wescott, or close enough.

When I’ve narrowed the results, I nudge Chase with my elbow.

Instantly his attention shifts to me, and I feel the weight of it like it’s a physical sensation. It’s as if I’m the only person in the world who is of any interest to him.

My face grows warm under the intensity of his gaze, and for a second, I understand exactly what Emily’s feeling when he smiles at her, even if it is forced.

Then I remember myself and shake it off, tilting my phone screen toward him.

He squints at it until I lift it a little higher:
MEETING FINDER: AA Meetings in Wescott, PA, General Area.

Relief and gratitude mix with shame on his face, and he nods.

I click on the one listed at 6:30 p.m. in the basement of the courthouse.

“Still shooting then,” Chase says to me quietly, watching over my shoulder.

Knew I should have been paying attention to Emily’s schedule rambling.

I search again and find one that’s later: 9:30 p.m. at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. I don’t know how far it is from where we will be, but Wescott’s not that big.

“Yeah,” Chase says. “That could work.” His smile is crooked and tired, but real, as far as I can gauge it.

I highlight the information to send it to him, only to realize that I have no way of doing that.

Before I can say anything, he takes my phone from me, types for a few seconds, and then hands it back.

It’s open to Contacts, and I have a new one: Chase Mroczek. And a cell phone number with a 323 area code.

Liza would know for sure, but I’m guessing that’s his real last name rather than another alias.

Something about the fact that he not only trusts me with his number but also lists himself by his real name makes me slushy with warmth.

I text him the information because he’s watching me, and I feel the buzz of his phone in his pocket against my hip.

My breathing catches, and he’s still watching me.

We are sitting
so
close, and … it’s not bothering me. It’s the opposite of bothering me.

Emily makes an obnoxious throat-clearing noise, snapping the delicate thread of the moment and startling us into looking at her.

“Sorry,” she says but mostly to Chase. “I just really need to get through this.” She waggles her clipboard in a gesture that manages to be both hurt and snippy.

“No, that’s my fault,” Chase says easily with a hand up in apology, as if vouching for his sincerity. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.” He gives her an encouraging nod.

And it’s like watching time-lapse photography: Emily blooms under his attention like a long-neglected African violet positioned under a sunlamp. Even though it’s been, what, three minutes since he last talked to her?

Geez.

With a blush and more eyelash fluttering, Emily continues her clipboard recitation. Chase keeps his full attention on her, asking questions or clarifying details just frequently enough that she can’t help but feel engaged. Engaging, even.

I lean back in the seat, watching their interaction. It’s partially an act, I think. Not insincere, but he’s working to make her feel comfortable.

He’s good at what he does. Very good. Giving pieces of himself away to her.

To me.

It makes me wonder if he gets to keep anything for himself. It also makes me wonder how much of it is real.

*   *   *

It doesn’t take us long to get to where they’re shooting.

Three beefy security guards stand over sawhorses borrowed from the Wescott police and possibly Home Depot, based on the orange color. The barricade blocks the street, holding back a cluster of photographers, who snap pictures as our vehicle passes them.

Once we’re dropped off on the other side of the barrier, Emily leads us to a row of trailers parked along a side street in a mostly deserted industrial area.

Empty—or mostly empty—warehouses with broken-out windows dominate the scenery, though there are small square houses with overgrown yards about a block away.

I shudder. It would be even creepier, but the whole area is buzzing with activity. People in the black
Coal City
crew shirts and hats are hustling with a purpose. Some of them have walkie-talkies and clipboards like Emily. Others are carrying random pieces of equipment: moving blankets, two plants in terra-cotta pots, a shiny metal screen, one of those fuzzy microphones on a long pole.