Authors: Stacey Kade
An instinct I don’t fully understand pushes me to speak. I’m not even sure which words are coming out until I hear them, along with everyone else.
“The set visit. What if I want to go?”
Chase
The stunned silence that follows is crazy loud. No one so much as breathes. Then a refrigerator kicks on somewhere nearby, the faint hum the only clue that I haven’t suddenly lost my hearing.
I turn and find Amanda’s family frozen in place.
“What?” Mrs. Grace asks finally, her hand clutching at her throat, as if she can’t quite breathe around the word.
“You’re kidding, right?” The younger sister—Mia, I think—scoffs at Amanda. “Sometimes you can’t even leave the house without talking yourself up to it.”
I raise my eyebrows. The frustration and bitterness in Mia’s voice would corrode a brand-new battery port. Little sister is pissed about something.
“Absolutely not,” her dad thunders, and that’s exactly what it sounds like: thunder. Loud and intimidating. He’s a big dude.
“This isn’t good,” Amanda tries to explain. “You’re fighting all the time, and none of this is getting any better. I need to do something—”
“I don’t think that would be wise in terms of your recovery,” the older sister says, her mouth pinched in disapproval.
And I don’t think it’s wise for me to be here anymore. I said what I needed to say, and clearly, this situation is way more complicated than anyone knew. Even now, there’s a strange tension between Amanda and her family, with her on one side and the four of them on the other, like they’re fighting an invisible war.
Definitely time to leave. I don’t need this kind of trouble, no matter what Elise says. I’ll find another way to get publicity. There has to be something I can do, some avenue I haven’t tried yet.
The empty feeling in my gut suggests otherwise, especially considering the inevitable fallout from today’s epic and well-documented fail at the grocery store, but I reach for the door again anyway.
“What if I want to go?” Amanda repeats defiantly, but her voice is softer this time, and something in it draws my gaze to her again.
She looks as frail as she did earlier today, her frame thin in her oversized clothes. But her dark eyes are bright with challenge and her face is flushed with color; in short, she appears way more alive than she did just a few hours ago, much more like the girl from the pictures in the file.
And now that girl is meeting my gaze, waiting expectantly.
That’s when it clicks.
She’s not asking them; she’s asking
me
.
Oh, shit.
My mouth falls open, but no words come out.
“I’ll help you get the pictures you want,” she says.
“Amanda, you can’t!” her older sister bursts out.
“Honey.” Mrs. Grace steps out of line with the rest of her family, like she might approach Amanda, but she stops well short of the stairs. “I know he might seem like a friend because of … what happened.”
There’s a collective flinch from everyone but Amanda.
“But,” Mrs. Grace soldiers on, “he’s a stranger. You don’t know what his
intentions
are.” She manages to convey every possible awful sexual connotation in one word.
I straighten up. “Hey, wait a minute.” I’ll admit to some messed-up priorities, but I’m not
that
guy.
Amanda tilts her head to the side. “Mom. I doubt it’s any worse than anything that’s already been done.”
That sends a ripple of shock through them.
“Amanda Diana Grace!” Mrs. Grace is horrified.
“I mean, unless he plans to kill me, and I don’t think that’s the case.” Amanda shifts her gaze to me. “Is it?”
“No!” I manage, but it comes out half-choked with surprise. Jesus.
“Good,” she says simply.
“After everything we’ve been through, you’re crazy if you think we’re going to let this happen,” her father says. “This is insane. You’re…”
Insane.
The word hangs in the air.
“It’s our job to protect you, even when you won’t protect yourself,” he finishes. “You can’t do this.”
“I’m twenty,” she reminds her father sadly. “Maybe you missed that while you were at the office or just avoiding me in general.”
He rocks back, as if she slapped him, and then, his face white and his jaw clenched, he storms out of the foyer, heading deeper into the house.
“Amanda!” The older sister glares at her, before hurrying to follow their father.
Whoa. Amanda has sharp teeth. Good for her.
But then she turns her attention back to me. “Well?” she asks, and I can see the determination and vulnerability in her eyes. She’s looking at me like she’s out in the middle of an endless ocean and I’m the only land in sight.
Fuck.
No. Just say no
, a panicked voice in my head says
. This has crazy mess written all over it in capital letters.
But if I say no, I’m walking away from my best chance at getting what I need. The media would be all over Amanda visiting me on set, especially after the flameout earlier today.
I shift my weight uncomfortably. Damnit. None of this has gone as planned. Amanda is not the enthusiastic fan that Elise depicted, grateful for a couple of pictures and a short, carefully monitored visit, managed by a production assistant or publicist. My only job in that scenario would be to smile politely and act interested, maybe even eat lunch with her. But this, this is something else, trouble I can’t afford, responsibility I don’t want.
But when I open my mouth to say a politer version of that, something else comes out instead. “Bring a jacket,” I say. “It’s colder now.”
Relief washes over Amanda’s face, followed immediately by what looks like uncertainty. But then she squares her shoulders. “Five minutes,” she promises and steps back from the railing, disappearing in the direction, presumably, of her room.
I grit my teeth. What have I done? This is definitely going to be one of those moments where, tomorrow, I’ll be wondering what the hell I was thinking. Actually, I’m already wondering that, and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to call out, “Sorry, never mind,” and haul ass out of there.
Mrs. Grace hurries past me and up the stairs without so much as a glance in my direction.
“So, what movie?” Mia asks, folding her arms across her chest. Her resemblance to Amanda is unmistakable, but she’s clearly younger, maybe just sixteen, and her chin and nose are more pointed, giving her a distinctly slyer appearance.
“What?”
“What movie are you filming in Wescott?” she elaborates slowly, as if I’m the stupid one for not understanding her abrupt conversation shift.
“Oh. It’s this thing,
Coal City Nights
. Max Verlucci is—”
“Season One writer, yeah.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I know. Liza has the whole
Starlight
series on DVD.”
Liza? The older sister with the permanent I-sucked-a-lemon expression?
“The zombies were cool, but the narrative went to crap in the third season.” Mia watches me, waiting for my reaction, and this somehow feels like a test.
“Yeah.” What else am I supposed to say? She’s right. Zombies on a show about a guardian angel in love with the girl he’s supposed to protect made no sense.
“You know she’s messed up,” Mia says.
It takes me a second to process another of Mia’s whip-fast topic changes. “Yeah, I’m kind of…” …
getting that
. It sounds too flip. So I just settle for repeating myself. “Yeah.”
“This is a big chance she’s taking, and she doesn’t do that very often anymore,” Mia says, eyeing me suspiciously, as though I’ve done something to trick Amanda into this.
“I … okay.” It feels much too warm in here suddenly, and I flap my jacket back and forth, trying to cool off.
“So don’t screw it up.” She fidgets with her sleeve, picking off an invisible bit of lint. “It’s not her fault, obviously, but she’s right. Everyone’s trying so hard, but it’s not getting any better. Maybe we’re making it worse—I don’t know.” She shrugs, the tight motion barely visible. “My dad wants to pretend it never happened, and my mom wants to make every second about Amanda getting better. And if one of them is right, the other one has to be wrong. It’s kind of hellish.” She pauses, staring down at some unknown point on the floor, and she seems younger, smaller than before. “It would be nice not to be trapped in the middle of that, just for a while.”
Shit. “Listen, uh, Mia? What do you think—”
Amanda reappears at the top of the stairs, struggling into a black zip-up fleece, a canvas bag dangling from one arm.
That was fast. Was it even five minutes? How is this happening so quickly? I swallow loudly.
“How will we reach you?” Mrs. Grace, wringing her hands, follows Amanda down the stairs.
“I have my cell phone.”
“Amanda, please don’t do this. You’re not ready. Dr. Knaussen—”
“Dr. Knaussen can call me, too. I’ll check in with her just like usual.” Amanda sounds confident, but her hand is trembling as she moves it along the railing in her descent. She catches me watching and tightens her grip, steadying it.
“But small steps, Amanda—” Mrs. Grace persists.
“Aren’t cutting it, Mom.” Amanda stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to face her mother. “I’m not making any progress that way, not anymore. And I want to have a life someday,” she says in a softer voice, a quiet plea for understanding. “Besides, you’re the one who keeps saying I should do whatever I feel like I’m ready to do.”
Except I’m not entirely sure Amanda’s all that ready. As soon as I pull the door open and step out of the way to let her lead, she freezes up, like someone terrified of heights balancing on the edge of the high dive.
I can feel the tension behind me from Mia, from Mrs. Grace, who are both, undoubtedly, watching this play out.
Maybe this’ll be over before it even begins. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Relieved, I think. A sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be, as my agent used to say. You know, before he stopped taking my calls. “Is everything—”
“Fine. It’s fine,” Amanda says shortly, tugging her bag up higher on her shoulder, and then, with a deep breath that seems more appropriate for someone about to face a ravenous and rabid grizzly bear, she pushes forward and out the door.
Oh yeah, she’s definitely not ready. And neither am I.
This is such a bad idea.
Amanda
I just left the house. To stay with a stranger. Overnight.
My chest constricts painfully at the thought.
Behind me, the screen door slams shut, and I can hear the sound of Chase’s footsteps on the porch steps and then behind me on the path to the driveway. Is it possible for footsteps to sound reluctant and/or resigned? Because if so, his do.
I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth, trying to count, four in and eight out, and do both the breathing and counting quietly enough so as not to attract even more attention. The truth is, I don’t have time to freak out right now because I’m pretty sure I’ve got about thirty seconds before Chase finds a polite excuse to back out. I need to think this through and come up with a way to convince him this is still a good idea.
But it’s hard to think when my skin is buzzing. The sun is down, and it’s really getting dark now, the automatic porch lights providing the only illumination. On a bad day, this is usually when my anxiety kicks into high gear, for some reason. Combine that with the unpredictability that comes with being outside—branches moving in the wind like arms reaching out for me and dead leaves skittering at my feet like small crabbed creatures—and I should be a wreck.
Except this doesn’t feel exactly like one of my tsunami waves of anxiety or even the start of a panic attack. This is more like I’m plugged in, connected in some weird way. Like I’ve taken a leap over the edge of a cliff, and I’m enjoying the fall, for the moment. I’m hyperaware of everything, the scrape of my shoes on the concrete, the faint ticking of the engine cooling in the car on the driveway, the birds chirping and fluttering as they settle in for the night.
A hand lands solidly on my shoulder, and my heart catapults into my throat. I jerk away violently, tipping myself off balance and nearly landing backward in one of the evergreen bushes that line the sidewalk.
Chase jumps back from me, his face almost comical in shock. I’m not sure who is more surprised. “Sorry!” he says, his hands up as if he’s under arrest. The light from the porch catches on the car keys in his palm, making them gleam. “I just thought … your bag.” He tips his head toward the bag that’s now hanging from my wrist, the bottom of it dragging on the ground.
Oh. Yeah.
I want to close my eyes in defeat. That makes more sense than some random attacker sprinting up between us and grabbing me, which, of course, is what my brain signaled.
Again, there’s very little space between stimulus and panic for rational thought. “Sorry,” I say, straightening up and pulling my bag onto my shoulder.
“No, I’m sorry,” Chase says quickly. He looks toward my house, as if expecting someone to come charging out. He might not be wrong. “I should have realized—”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just … I’m a little jumpy. When people touch me unexpectedly,” I say, fumbling for the words that will make this not weird. It’s not uncommon for rape survivors to have trouble with being touched, but most people just don’t think it through. Touch is human instinct, an attempt to comfort, even.
A pained expression crosses Chase’s face, and he takes a step back, as if I’m a ticking emotional time bomb and might explode in messy tears and gibbering nonsense right then and there.
Really? I’m the one who lived through it, but he can’t stand to hear me reference it, even obliquely? God. He’s not “my” Chase, and that is so screamingly obvious. But I suppose that’s better than if he were like the people who are eager to hear every detail. There are definitely those, too.
Still, all my awkward damage is fully on display, and I can feel panic bubbling up in my throat. In a second, Chase isn’t even going to bother with the polite excuse.