738 Days: A Novel (22 page)

“But there is something,” I persist, my pulse thumping hard with dread. Laughter and conversation from the others drift over.

Lowering her hand, Amanda sighs, studying her sandwich. She looks tired, dark circles under her eyes. Her shirt, my shirt, is limp and rumpled.

“It’s stupid, but Karen was right,” she says finally. She balances her plate on her knees and folds her arms across her chest.

My breath catches in my throat. “Right about what?” I manage after a second. I never did hear exactly what Karen told her.

Amanda lifts her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “You’re good. Really good,” she says. “That’s why Adam’s trying to stir up trouble. You’re better than he is, and everyone who sees this movie is going to recognize that.” She hesitates. “Watching you today … it’s like you disappeared.”

I relax slightly. “Why does that sound so ominous?” I say, trying to joke.

“Because Smitty is kind of an asshole?” she shoots back.

I laugh. “You’re not supposed to like him. He’s basically the bad guy, the antagonist.” For most of the story, anyway. Then he gets his redemptive moment, a chance to save Keller and give him a future without Smitty, or he can take them both down. That’s why I fought for the role. Smitty does what I wish Eric would have done, what I
should
have done. Stepped up and cared more about someone else than myself. I can’t change what I’ve done, but this part feels like a step in the right direction, like blocking a scene before you do it for real.

“Yeah, I get that,” Amanda says.

I wait, but she doesn’t say more, and an inexplicable tension hangs thick in the air.

With a grimace, I keep pushing. “I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m missing something here. If I’ve done something or…”

Amanda looks up at me, her face shadowed in the dim light. “It’s one of those weird things that I…” She gives a rueful smile. “Forget it. I’m just being a freak.”

“No, tell me. Please?” I need to fix whatever it is, if I can.

She bites her lip. “I still have trouble trusting people. Actually, it’s more like trusting my judgment of people, you know?”

I nod. That’s completely understandable given what …

It clicks in my head then.

She has trouble trusting her judgment of people, and she just watched me be someone else, someone awful, selfish, and violent, for ten hours. Even worse, she knows I have a history of being all those things, at times, in real life. Probably in great detail, thanks to Karen.

So she has no idea what to trust,
whether
to trust.

I set my plate on the crumbling asphalt and turn toward her. “Amanda…” I begin, but I don’t know how to finish. She’s right.

Amanda looks at me calmly, but her dark eyes shine with tears. “I know it’s ridiculous. This is your job, and there’s nothing wrong with being good at it. It’s just … me.”

My throat aches with unexpressed emotion. I want to pull her close, wrap my arm around her, as though that would magically transfer her pain and hurt to me. But giving in to that instinct would be the worst thing I could do.

If I were a good person, the person she thinks I am, I would tell her to run from me, far, far away. But I can’t. Even worse, I don’t want to.

“I promise you, I am not being anybody but myself with you,” I say hoarsely. That much is true. I hesitate, then decide to give her the honesty she deserves in the only way I can. “Maybe a slightly better version.” I clear my throat, feeling the heat rise in my face. “More like the person I want to be. But that’s all.”

Amanda stays silent for a long moment, watching me, and I fight the urge to fidget under her gaze. Then she puts her plate on the ground and edges toward me, the narrow space between us growing smaller.

When she rests her head against my shoulder, her body is a warm solid line against mine, and I can barely breathe for fear of scaring her away.

“Thank you,” she says, looking up at me, holding my gaze.

Staring down at her, I find my attention drawn to her mouth. When she bites her lower lip, pulling it into her mouth and slowly releasing it, pinker and damp, I
feel
it in the electric zip of attraction firing through me.

The atmosphere shifts, moving from nervous tension to something softer, heavier.

Don’t do this. Just smile, look away, and pick up your food. This is a bad idea.

But I hold still, like I’ve been frozen in place.

She tilts her head up slightly more toward mine; her mouth is just a few inches from mine. Her breath moves against my skin, and on instinct, I lean in to close the gap.

“Hey, Henry, are we doing this or what?” Adam calls.

I jerk back from Amanda even as she straightens up and shifts away from me, her cheeks flushing with color.

Regret curls through me, along with the intense desire to punch Adam. I glare at him and give a wave in acknowledgment, resisting the urge to flip him off.

“I should go.” I gesture in Adam’s direction. “He wants to run a few lines before we start up again.”

“Oh, yeah.” She nods rapidly. “Sure.” She’s very carefully not looking at me, focusing instead on her dinner that she’s reclaimed.

As I scoop my plate off the ground and walk away, I tell myself this is for the best. Amanda deserves better. Better than me. Teasing, flirting a little to make her blush, that’s one thing. But more would be wrong … for both of us.

And I
almost
believe it.

15

Amanda

“You sure you’ll be all right here by yourself?” Chase asks, his arm holding the hotel’s service elevator doors open for me to exit first.

“I’ll be fine. It’s an hour,” I say, turning to face him once I’m in the hall. “Besides, I think they kind of frown on bringing random tagalongs to these meetings, don’t they? It’s sort of a members-only thing, right?”

His forehead furrows. “I don’t have to go.”

“I was kidding. You should go. You
need
to go,” I say.

Chase bobs his head in agreement as we walk toward our rooms, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Ever since dinner, ever since that almost-moment at dinner, he’s been extra considerate. Warm, friendly, checking on me during every break through the final three hours of filming … all while keeping a distinct physical distance.

In the van on the way back here, he kept a very circumspect two feet between us on the bench seat. Emily could have fit in that space. She probably would have liked to.

I’m not sure what to make of it. I keep replaying that moment at dinner over and over in my head, trying to understand it from every angle.

I almost kissed Chase Henry. I know that for sure.

I’m a little less sure if he meant to kiss me.

Leaning my head against his shoulder felt completely natural and the right thing to do. And when he looked down at me, the moment snagged and held. My head moved toward his like it was on a track or a wire, drawn along on a path without conscious thought on my part. I just felt this … pull toward him. But was it just me? I don’t know.

“Amanda?” Chase asks, interrupting my thoughts.

My face flushes hot. “Sorry?”

“I said, I’m going to grab a shower first before I head out so I’ll be here for a few more minutes. But after that, I’ll have my phone with me at the meeting if you need anything,” he says.

I shake my head. “Chase. It’s fine. I’m going to find some boring television to watch and hopefully fall asleep at some point. The History Channel is usually pretty good for that.” I shrug. “If not, there’s always infomercial bingo.”

He gives me a strange look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he takes his key card out of his back pocket. “What is infomercial bingo?”

“Based on the name of the infomercial, you pick ten words that you think the host is going to use within the first fifteen minutes. But the name of the product doesn’t count,” I add sternly.

“Seriously?” he asks, amused.

“I invented it in the hospital when I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “Sometimes I still have trouble.”

Everyone assures me nightmares are completely normal. But the weird part is the worst ones, the ones where I wake up struggling to breathe, take place on the porch, not in the basement. I’m standing just outside the front door, seconds before I make that choice to move my foot forward and change my world forever. Only this time, I know what’s going to happen. I try to run away or cry for help. But I can’t move and no noise comes out. All I can feel is that same paralyzing pressure in my throat and chest, robbing me of my voice.

I can’t scream, even when his fist tangles in my hair and he drags me toward the basement, and in that way, the dreams parallel what actually happened.

I clear my throat. “Trust me when I tell you there’s nothing on between three and four in the morning, no matter what cable package you have.”

“Yep, been there,” Chase says as we reach our rooms. “When I was drinking and even now sometimes.” He lifts a shoulder. “I never sleep well in hotels, especially the first few nights.”

“Okay, then infomercial bingo might work for you too. If I’m still awake when you get back, I’ll teach you the finer arts of the game.” I hold my breath, waiting for him to get that polite, panicky look that I’d expect from someone who was almost accidentally kissed the last time we were alone-ish together.

But he just smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”

When he meets my gaze, the moment holds a beat too long, and I feel that same pull again. Like I might be able to step closer and wrap my arms around him.

“Chase—” I begin.

The
Starlight
theme song plays, tinny and violently loud in the hallway, making both of us jump.

I wince. “Sorry, I need to change that.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and consult the screen, though I already know who it is. I send it to voicemail for the moment.

“Your therapist,” Chase says.

“Yeah. She made ‘special arrangements’ to speak to me after hours tonight,” I say, digging out my key card.

“That’ll probably be her chapter heading,” he mutters. “‘Special Arrangements.’”

I stop, surprised.

He makes an apologetic face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” I say. “You’ve got it all wrong. This?” I wave my key card, indicating the space between us. “Easily sequel material for the Miracle Girl story.”

He gapes at me.

“I mean,” I shrug, “if she’s going to get mileage out of me, it should be
at least
a two-book deal,” I say with mock affront. “I think that’s the going rate for Miracle Girl–related stories these days.”

He throws his head back and laughs, and the sound of it warms me.

But it doesn’t change reality, which is Dr. Knaussen waiting. So I slide the key card into the lock and push my door open.

“Do you want me to come in?” Chase asks.

I look at him, startled.

“I mean, to check the room before I leave,” he adds quickly.

Oh.
I glance into the room, confirming that everything is as I left it, with the exception of the bed now being made. “No, I think I’m good but … thank you.”

“Right.” But he doesn’t move, just stands there watching me with that same intensity I remember from the moment at dinner.

Before I can stop myself, I step toward him, testing him, testing me.

Something that might be desire flickers in his gaze, along with wariness, as I approach, but I keep my hands—and my mouth—to myself.

He lets me enter his personal space, so close I can feel the heat of his body, the brush of his legs against mine. It makes me feel shaky, but not in a bad way.

I lean forward, and his breath catches in his throat. Never would I have thought that to be a sexy sound, but it’s such an involuntary desire response, I shiver with a wave of
want
.

But then I chicken out at the last second, and instead of lifting my chin toward his, I turn my head to the side to rest it against his chest. Which is a smaller victory, but a victory all the same.

“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?