Authors: Stacey Kade
And he’s been so … considerate. Last night was actually fun.
Until I freaked him out and he took off for the safety of his room. I’m still not sure what I did. One minute we were laughing, relaxed in each other’s presence, and the next he’s backing away, trying to get to minimum safe distance.
With a sigh, I return my attention to my choices. My plaid flannel from yesterday is my best option. It isn’t dirty exactly. But I ran home in it, in a sweaty panic—yuck—and there were pictures taken at the store, which means it’ll be obvious I’m wearing the same thing two days in a row.
Someone will notice, and it’ll be commented on, speculated about, then likely deemed a sign of dysfunction rather than limited wardrobe options. (The irony that I spent an inordinate amount of time in my closet yesterday and still managed to come away with this dilemma is not lost on me.)
But walking out with my head down and my shoulders hunched, wearing my dad’s ratty shirt that’s long enough to be a dress, is not the image I want people to have of me or for me to have of myself, either.
I want to be stronger than that.
I pick the pink, the least offensive of my options. I used to love the color. Then I spent two years in a room where everything, including me, was decorated in an obnoxious shade of bubble gum, Jakes’s version of “teen girl” decor.
I shudder involuntarily.
But this pink is so pale it barely deserves the name, which helps. And it’s a solid color, which, I vaguely remember from my TV interview days, is better for film. Not sure if that’s true for photographs, too, or not.
Unfortunately, this particular shirt, with matching pink ribbons threaded through the cuffs, also seems to scream “happy, untainted innocence.” Hello, false advertising. And wishful thinking on my mom’s part.
But without a better choice available, I add it to my pile of jeans, boyshorts, and bra to carry to the bathroom.
Next door, the distinct beep-grind of the lock releasing sounds, and I look toward the entrance to Chase’s room, my heart pumping extra hard. The doors between our rooms aren’t very thick. Noise travels.
He left about forty-five minutes ago, so early it was dark out. That’s what woke me in the first place. Not that I was sleeping all that deeply, anyway.
The anxiety of spending the night in a strange place for the first time in years had combined with the unexpected feelings Chase had stirred up.
As I lay there in bed, my mind replayed the careful way he’d touched me, arranging my fingers just so, and the steady concentration in his expression. He really thought my learning to punch would help, and he wanted me to feel better.
But because my mind is a fucked-up maze with monsters around every corner and no guiding thread out, the second I dozed off, Chase would turn into Jakes, transforming a gentle touch into an unwanted, greedy, and painful one.
That meant hours tossing and turning in sweaty sheets and misery, halfway between sleeping and awake.
So when I’d heard Chase’s door open and close earlier this morning, my eyelids snapped up. We hadn’t discussed a schedule or a meeting time.
I’d sat up sharply in bed and waited for the knock on my hall door, though it would have made more sense for him to knock on the door between our rooms.
But the knock never came.
He’s back now, though. The hall door closes with a loud thud, and then I hear the small sounds of him moving around the room. Footsteps. Mini-fridge opening. The clatter of something hard landing on a table or counter.
I fidget with the edge of my towel. Early meeting? Breakfast? Gym? Girl? I have no idea. I’m a little uncomfortable with how much I don’t like the last option.
Chase Henry doesn’t owe me anything, especially not like that.
I grab my stack of clothes to go to the bathroom and get ready.
I’m passing the door to his room when a horrible idea hits. What if he saw those feelings in my expression and that’s why he bolted?
The image of me beaming up at him, like a pathetic fifteen-year-old with a crush, completely oblivious to his discomfort, flashes front and center in my brain, and humiliation burns through me.
I’m struggling to remember exactly what I said and did and to what degree, when I hear close-up movement on the other side of the adjoining doors.
Like someone approaching, getting ready to knock.
I flee for the bathroom.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’m slightly calmer, soothed by routine. I’m dressed—in a shirt I hate—with my hair mostly dry and mascara and concealer applied, which is the extent of my makeup repertoire.
Swallowing hard, I make myself walk out of the bathroom. After wrestling the table back into its normal place, I collect my cell phone from the charger and my key card from my jacket and step reluctantly to the doors between our rooms.
Unless you’re going to quit and go home, this is your only option.
I flip the lock on my side and pull the door open. Chase’s door is already unlocked and cracked an inch or two.
My nerves returning, I knock as loudly as I can without pushing the door open.
“Yeah. Come in.” Chase sounds muffled, distracted.
I push open his door to find a room a little larger than mine. To my right, a sofa and coffee table in front of a big flat-screen TV and mini-fridge in an entertainment center. To my left, a table and four chairs.
Straight ahead is a half-wall, dividing the living room from the sleeping area.
Chase is on the room phone in the bedroom section, the black receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he tugs an off-white shirt down over his chest.
Or tries to, anyway.
His hair is darker, damp from a shower, and sticking up in places, with water dripping down his neck.
He evidently didn’t bother much with the towels, as inadequate as they are, because his skin is visibly damp, which is why the fabric is sticking to him, giving him trouble as he attempts to pull it into place.
And giving me plenty of time to look. The hair under his arms is darker than the blond on his head, and the skin there is lighter, but what catches my attention is the curve of muscle from his side to his stomach. I don’t know what it’s called, but I like it.
He doesn’t have the ridiculous fake-looking bubbles of abs, the ones those guys in the Perfect Pushup infomercials are so proud of.
Instead, his stomach is flat with those yummy unknown muscles on the sides, calling attention to his belly button, which I’d never previously thought of as a sexy feature, and the top button of his jeans, which is, fortunately … or not, fastened and in place beneath his belt.
It’s his job to look this good. I know that. And yet, I feel the effects like an actual physical blow, taking my breath from me in a not unpleasant sensation.
What is wrong with me?
“Hey,” Chase says to me with a distant nod. “I’m on hold. I knocked on your door, but I think the hair dryer—”
I turn sideways, shifting my gaze from him to stare at the couch instead, my face warm in a whole new way. “You don’t have a tattoo.” The words come out in a horrifying squeak before I can stop them, and I wish for the dark spaces in the patterned carpet to open up and swallow me.
From the corner of my eye, I see Chase frown at me, confused. Then he looks down at himself. His expression clears, and a mischievous smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“I thought you said you didn’t watch after season one,” he says.
“I didn’t,” I say, managing a quick glance in his direction. His teasing look forces me to rally. “But I recognize the wallpaper photo from my sister’s phone when I see it.”
In that image, half of his stomach was covered in five thick black lines, like a giant hand swiped at him and missed, marking him from the lower left side of his rib cage across to the right side of his abdomen.
He laughs. “The devil’s claw was fake. Part of Brody’s backstory. I don’t have any tattoos.”
“Really?” I blurt.
“I don’t want them to get in the way of getting a part. They can cover them with makeup, but it doesn’t ever look right.” He cocks his head to one side, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Why? You want to check?”
Oh God. I want to simultaneously melt into a puddle and run away. But I make myself stay still. “I’m good, thanks,” I say, attempting to sound dry, unaffected. That’s easier now that he’s managed to get his shirt—a Henley with the top two buttons undone—down the rest of the way.
He smiles, a real, full one that crinkles the lines up by his eyes, not the broody half-smirk I’m used to from my head version of him, and I grin back at him, unable to resist the real Chase peeking out.
But then, like someone flipped a switch in him, his smile fades, and he drops his gaze from me. “I’ll be ready in a couple minutes,” he says, and it’s last night all over again. Only this time, he’s not physically retreating. Probably because he can’t get any farther from me and still be in the room.
The pleasant warmth of the past few minutes drains away. What just happened? If it was the semi-flirting—that’s what that was, right?—then that’s on him because he started it.
But before I can say any of that, his head jerks up. “No, yeah, I’m here,” he says into the phone, turning his back to me.
I’m not sure whether I should stay or go, but I figure if he didn’t want me in here, he would have said when I knocked. Plus, I’m just pissed enough at him to stay, regardless.
“Uh-huh, yes. That’s exactly it,” Chase says, and if he was a bit chilly with me, he’s downright arctic with whoever is on the other end of that phone.
Somebody’s in trouble.
I wonder if it’s the publicist, though I don’t know why she’d call the hotel phone when she has his cell.
“It
is
unfortunate,” he says, biting off the words. “You know what else would be extremely unfortunate? If I had to bring this up during every interview between now and the premiere next year.”
I can’t hear the person on the other end of the phone, but I sense frantic backpedaling.
“Thank you,” Chase says after a moment, sounding more frustrated than grateful. “I appreciate you taking care of it.”
He hangs up the phone with a sharp clack, then lets out a loud breath, raking a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up in more spikes.
“You ready to go?” he asks, with barely a glance in my direction. He moves to the table near me, gathering up a rumpled stack of folded pages—script, maybe?—his room key card, and his cell phone, after pulling the earbuds from it.
He means: go outside, find the photographers, get our picture taken.
Strangers. Wide-open space. No place to hide. People staring.
Right now.
Somehow I managed to put this moment out of my head in favor of worrying about what Chase was or was not thinking about me. But now my anxiety comes roaring back, drowning out my temper.
I shift from foot to foot in the doorway between our rooms. “Um, yeah?”
This was part of our deal, and I’m not about to renege. But my hotel room has, in the last twelve hours or so, become a relatively safe space. And now, we’re leaving, breaking the bubble.
Suddenly, I feel ridiculous. The ribbons on this shirt make it too frilly, as if it were a costume or disguise. And as loose as it is, it’s still more form-fitting than anything I’ve worn in years. I want to fold my arms across my chest to keep people from mentally stripping me.
“You know, maybe I should change,” I say to Chase as he tucks his phone and key card in separate pockets, my voice coming out too high. “I have the plaid shirt I wore yesterday, which I know isn’t the perfect solution. But this shirt is pink and kind of tight.”
Chase turns to stare at me.
I tug at the bottom of the hem, feeling a nervous sweat break out at my elbows and knees. “It’s just short sleeves are out because the scar makes people panic. And bright colors draw too much attention.”
I can hear the irrational panic in my words, but I can’t stop them from tumbling out any more than I can stop the purely illogical conviction that if I just had the right shirt, I would be okay.
It’s like people who are convinced that turning a light switch on and off seven times keeps them safe. I’ve been in enough therapy to recognize what’s happening—my attempt to control what is uncontrollable.
But the worst part is that
knowing
it’s ridiculous—
knowing
it doesn’t matter what I wear (within reason), that it’s just my brain pushing out a cocktail of neurochemicals to make me feel this way—doesn’t change anything.
Damnit.
“Never mind,” I say, my face flushing and tears burning in my eyes. “It’s stupid.”
Chases hesitates. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say sharply. “But I’m going to. It’s just … I did a shitty job packing.” Lame, but true. Actually, the truth would be that no matter what I’d brought, I’d feel this way. Because focusing on my clothing is just a dodge, a substitute, for what’s really bothering me.
Consciously engage your rational mind,
Dr. Knaussen would say.
What are the odds of your being taken or harmed in front of witnesses, including Chase Henry, a celebrity?
Fairly small.
But my issue with that exercise is that the odds of me being taken in the first place were pretty small. Just because they’re smaller now isn’t all that reassuring.
“Okay.” Chase nods slowly, watching me.
I squirm under his scrutiny. “Let’s just go. I’m fine.” I knew Chase would not be a magical solution, but I guess some part of me was hoping it would be easier with him here.
He frowns, and I brace myself for the polite, brittle brush-off:
Maybe it would be for the best if you went home.
“Hang on,” Chase says instead. He turns away from me and crosses the room in a couple of long strides to his closet.
The wooden hangers clatter, and then he’s back in front of me with a white button-down.
“Here.” He holds it out to me. “Fold up the cuffs, and do that thing with the ends that girls do.” He mimes a bow at his waist with an awkward gesture that, in spite of everything, makes me choke out a laugh.