by Stacey Kade
My stomach roiling, now with dread on top of hunger, I twist around in his arms to follow his gaze. It takes me a second to figure it out, to realize that the paparazzo outside hadn’t just randomly asked about Chase, as I’d thought.
No, Chase Henry, our former co-star, former friend, the one whose life we accidentally turned upside down in our night of selfish stupidity, is sitting at a table in the far corner.
His blond hair is shorter than I remember, and maybe a little lighter. And he’s not alone. Directly across from him, a pale but familiar-looking redhead—Amanda Grace, I’m almost positive—speaks with animation, gesturing with her hands. He laughs at something she says.
“He seems okay,” I venture, even as guilt scrapes away at my insides. How does that old song go? We used to be friends. Do you ever get over that weird dichotomy of staring at someone who is now a stranger whose face you used to know as well as your own? I literally spent years kissing Chase Henry. We weren’t ever like that with each other off set; the chemistry we manufactured on screen didn’t exist in the real world. At all. But we were family. It’s Chase’s voice I hear in the back of my head sometimes, that slow drawl in gentle warning when I was about to do something stupid, like skinny dipping in the hotel pool on a dare: Callie. Just as I hear Eric’s urging me on, the devil in his laugh.
The two of them are older, so they spent more time together off at bars I couldn’t get into or my mother wouldn’t allow me into. But the three of us were friends.
At least until I messed it up.
“Do you think we should go over there?” I ask.
“Jesus, no. Why? He hates us.” Eric’s body is practically vibrating with tension behind me. “Well, he hates me at least,” he adds with that cocky laugh that he uses to pretend he doesn’t care.
“We owe him an apology. I do, anyway. He never would have driven that night if I hadn’t pushed him to. You know how careful he was,” I say.
“He was an alcoholic no matter what, Callie,” Eric says a little too sharply.
“Yeah, but I’m the one who almost got us all killed,” I point out, trying not to feel hurt at how quickly he dismissed Chase as an alcoholic. I’m an addict. I will be one forever, though I’m clean now and plan to stay that way. I know now, better than ever, what Chase was going through then, although he hid it well. Too well.
“It’s over now. Let’s just leave the past in the past, or whatever,” Eric says. He slides his hand down my arm to lock his fingers with mine. “Come on, let’s just go. We’ll find somewhere else to eat.”
I twist around to face him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” His gaze remains firmly fixed at a point over my head.
“Eric.”
“Nothing. Literally,” he says flatly. He tugs gently, trying to pull me toward the door.
But I stand my ground and refuse to move. Something is wrong here. I’m missing something.
Eric makes an impatient noise. “Look, he cut off contact with me back then, and he was right to do it. I was dragging him down, and I was an asshole, okay? Everybody knows this.”
“Okay, but things are different now, and you said he was one of your only real friends—”
Eric gives a bitter laugh. “Calista, I doubt he feels that way now, and even if he did, I don’t deserve it.”
I wait.
He shifts uneasily, letting go of my hand to fidget with the sunglasses hanging from the collar of his T-shirt. “There had to be a story about that night, what happened. How we ended up in the car.”
I nodded. “A story to give the police.” I’m sure Rawley had to make up something—along with whatever “favors” he had to trade in to keep Chase and possibly Eric from going to jail.
But Eric shakes his head. “Not just for the police.”
Regret and shame are etched in the lines of his face, and I can’t figure out why.
And then it clicks. Chase used to black out, easily, when he was drinking. He’d be moving around, talking and laughing just like normal, and have no memory of it in the morning. We were always having to fill him in on what happened the night before.
Oh, Eric. “What did you say to him?”
24
ERIC
The problem with making shitty decisions is that even when you think they’re well in the past, they somehow manage to come back and take a chunk out of you, destroying your future.
“Callie,” I begin, though I don’t know how I’m going to finish. She will hate me for this. I hate me for it; though at the time, it felt more like survival than anything else.
“Are you ready? Your table is right this way,” the hostess chirps at us, gesturing us forward, leather-bound menus in hand.
Neither of us move.
“What did you tell him?” Calista asks evenly. She’s not going to let me off the hook without answering.
“That he was driving us to another party.” That is, in fact, partially true. While I was trying to talk Calista down and get Chase to pull over, Chase had been rambling about finding another place to go, that it would make Calista feel better, without even knowing exactly what was wrong with her. If he’d known that, he wouldn’t have bothered going anywhere. He would have just punched me.
“I said that he insisted on it.” In my head, I can see it all over again: visiting Chase in the hospital and trying desperately to find a way to make everything go back to normal. Pretending that what I’d done that night hadn’t mattered. That we would go on like nothing had happened. It was an impulse in the moment; I had no way of knowing that he wouldn’t eventually talk to Calista and find out the truth. Though, if I’m being honest, I was fairly confident she wouldn’t give him the details. She was—and is—private that way.
Calista’s eyes go wide. “That’s … you didn’t tell him about what happened? Why I was upset and why I asked him to drive me—”
“Yeah,” I say through clenched teeth. “I know, okay?”
“You let him think it was his fault?” she asks softly, sounding wounded on his behalf. “No wonder he fell apart.”
I can’t even respond. I just shake my head.
“Um, are we ready?” The hostess tries again.
“In a minute,” Calista says to her. “I’m sorry. Go ahead and take someone else.”
Her voice is chilly with politeness, and I steel myself for Calista to walk away. I deserve it.
Instead, she steps to the side, allowing another couple to reach the hostess, and waits, her arms folded carefully over her chest, favoring the right one a little in the way it’s angled.
I exhale loudly in frustration, not with her but with myself, and follow her over. “I was … not making good choices,” I say in a low voice. “I knew I’d messed up and lost you, and I knew what he would say if I told him what happened.”
“He would have hit you,” she says without an ounce of sympathy.
“Which I could have handled, but you know Chase. He wouldn’t have ever spoken to me again.” Loyalty. It’s the primary operating system for Chase—like I said, a cowboy.
After a moment, she nods.
“Of course, he stopped talking to me anyway because he, unlike me, figured out that when your life is continually going to crap, your actions might have something to do with it rather than just shitty luck. He cut me loose, and his life got better. End of story.” I draw in a breath. “Better that he think I was an asshole than a coward, okay?” It strips something away from me to admit it, but it’s true.
“You put yourself ahead of him,” she says.
“Yep, just like always.” Because how can I deny it? That is certainly who I was, who I’m trying not to be anymore. Then I force a smile. “Now, if you’re going to leave me here in a fit of moral outrage, then you’d better do it before the chick with the menus comes back and starts asking questions.” It hurts like a fresh scalding burn to imagine her walking away, but I’m not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. Why the hell would she stick around with even more proof—that she
probably didn’t need—that I’m not the person she wants me to be?
Calista rocks back, as if startled. Then her expression softens.
My heart sinks. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks, her eyes shiny with tears.
“I can see your brain clicking away,” I accuse. “You’re tallying up the missing mom and the asshole, absentee dad and the poor-little-rich-boy lonely childhood. Don’t you dare fucking feel sorry for me.”
She laughs with a sniffle, raising her hand to her nose. “Oh, fuck you, Eric. I’m allowed to feel sorry for you. When you love someone, you feel what hurts them. Plus, it’s not like you’re having any trouble feeling sorry for yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“Come on,” she says, taking my hand and leading me deeper into the restaurant. Straight for Chase’s table.
Fuck. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to apologize. Like I told you before, we both messed up that night.”
“Calista—”
“Your dad isn’t worth your time, he’s a lost cause,” she says over her shoulder. “But Chase? You screwed up with him, and instead of even trying to fix it, you just wrote him off because you were scared he wouldn’t forgive you.”
Her truth-filled words are an arrow to the soft spot I try very hard to keep hidden.
I wince. “Calista, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to—”
She stops, turning to look at me. “Would you have done the same thing to me? I mean, if you hadn’t needed me for Fly Girl?”
I want to lie and say it’s different. But if I hadn’t been forced to take the chance, and if I hadn’t had the ability to twist her arm (through her mother) to guarantee some measure of success …
“It doesn’t change how I feel about you,” I say gruffly, avoiding her gaze. “I just didn’t know—”
“I know,” she says. “That’s what makes it worse.”
But when I dare to look at her again, she’s not pissed; she’s wiping away tears. “You would have just let it go. Let me go, no matter how you felt. No matter how I felt.”
“Callie.” I try to pull her closer.
“You’re an idiot.” She shakes her head and pulls me toward the table in the corner that Chase is occupying.
“No argument there,” I mutter.
But for all her brave words, her fingers tremble in mine, and she hesitates before making the final approach.
I lean forward, her scent filling my nose. “He’s not angry with you. I guarantee that. I don’t know why he didn’t answer your letter, but he doesn’t blame you.”
She nods. Then she takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and keeps walking.
The girl with Chase—Amanda, I guess—sees us first. She pauses, her fork midway to her mouth, her eyebrows going up. “Chase,” she says, jerking her chin in our direction.
Guess she’s a fan.
Or he’s told her about us.
The latter idea makes the overwhelmingly sweet, syrupy smell in here turn my stomach. God, is this going to be a scene? That’s the last thing I need, a flare up of Eric Stone, Spoiled Brat Wreaking Havoc, when I’m trying to be Eric Stone, Producer, instead. But hell if I’m backing away now and leaving Calista here on her own.
Chase twists in his chair, his face paling as he stands. He takes in Calista first, and then me behind her.
“Hey,” Calista says hesitantly, waving with her free hand. “We saw you and thought we should say—”
She doesn’t even get the full sentence out before Chase encloses her in one of those giant bear-hug things he does, lifting her off her feet. Her hand lets go of mine so she can hug him back.
For a second, I’m transported back to set, watching the two of them together. Smoldering at each other as Brody and Skye, enough to make me act out and do or say something stupid—like chucking a pencil at them—to ruin the take, even if I didn’t at that point understand the true motivation behind my actions.
He sets her down gently, but doesn’t let go of her. “Are you okay? How are you?” His hand belatedly leaps away from her arm as if fearing that her injury is still too recent.
She laughs, and a tiny ugly part of me is jealous. “I’m fine. It’s okay, really.”
“Good, I’m so glad,” he says, shaking his head. “I really thought that it might—” He cuts himself off abruptly, swinging around to face the girl at the table.
“I’m sorry,” he says to her quickly, that drawl that used to drop panties left and right around us surfacing. Then he turns to us again. “Calista, this is Amanda. Amanda, this is Calista.” He hesitates and then adds, “And Eric.”
Ouch. Guess I know where I stand now.
“We used to work together,” Chase finishes.
“I’m aware,” Amanda says, amused. “It’s nice to meet you both.” She waves but doesn’t get up to shake our hands.
And Chase, as much as he’s standing to speak to Calista, also appears to be protecting Amanda from anyone getting any closer.
Yeah, like I thought. Baggage. But justifiably so, given what I remember of her story, and as much as the cowboy, moral-code-of-honor shit used to get under my skin sometimes, it’s legit with Chase. He’s a good guy.
“I’m so happy you’re doing all right,” Chase says to Calista. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought maybe—”
Calista holds up her hand. “Wait, what?”
He frowns. “I wrote you when you were in … Safe Haven.” He lowers his voice in deference.
She shakes her head. “I wrote to you when I was in Safe Haven. You didn’t get my letter?” she asks. “They said they would mail it for me.”
He looks confused. “I was moving around a lot then, but no.”
Suddenly, a possible answer is quite clear to me.
“Cal, did anyone censor your mail while you were there?” I ask.
“No. I mean, I don’t think—”
“Did someone have to give a list of approved contacts?” I press. “People you were allowed to have contact with?”
Over her head, Chase meets my eyes, his mouth tightening. He gives a short nod. He knows what I’m thinking.
It clicks for Calista just a second later. “My mom … I guess.”
Her mom, who already thought we were bad influences, who wouldn’t have hesitated to limit Callie’s contact with the outside world if it would strengthen her control over her daughter. Control that was, at that point, court-ordered.
“Shit,” Calista mutters, much to the disapproval of the elderly couple at the nearest table.
“It’s fine. You’re here, you’re doing all right. That’s all that matters,” Chase says soothingly.
I give in to the petty impulse of marking my territory and reach out to take her hand.
Chase notices, as does Amanda. Her eyebrows go up.
“Would you like to join us?” Amanda asks, and Chase looks back at her in surprise.
“I’m sure they have other places to—” he begins, and she shakes her head at him, a tiny motion that seems to deflate his objection.
“Amanda is right. We should be going,” I say. There is no possible way this can end well, and the sooner we get out of here the better.
Callie’s hand tightens on mine. “Just for a minute,” she says to them. “We don’t want to interfere.”
Shit. Even after that not-awesome revelation about Lori, Callie’s still going to make me go through with this. Fine, but it’s only going to be that much worse and last that much longer if we have to abandon our seats and possibly our meals as well.
It takes only a few seconds for Chase, wearing an expression of patient resignation, to signal to the very-eager-to-please server, who hustles over two additional chairs. Amanda scoots her chair to the far side of the table to make room, and Calista drops neatly into the seat next to Chase—putting herself between us, which is probably smart.
Then she takes my hand again, linking it with hers and resting them both on the table top, which is probably not smart.
“Please tell me you’re not serious with this,” he says to Calista, nodding at our hands.
I tense. “None of your business, Henry.”
He ignores me. “It’s a bad idea, Callie,” he says, like I’m not even there.
“Chase,” Amanda says, tapping him on the shoulder in warning.
I take a more direct approach. “Shut the fuck up, Henry.”
“Both of you, stop,” Calista snaps. “I’m an adult now, remember? Capable of making my own decisions.”
Making her own mistakes. I can read it in Chase’s expression even if he doesn’t say it aloud. And you know what, he’s probably right. But screw him anyway for thinking it.
Amanda clears her throat loudly. “So are you here in town for the holidays?” she asks, directing the question toward Calista. “I read somewhere that you were in college now. In the Midwest, I think?”
Calista nods. “I am. Or … I was. Things are little complicated right now. But I’m working on a web series with Eric at the moment.” She turns to Chase. “Remember that book that I used to read and reread? Fly Girl? Eric bought the rights. I’m playing Evie, and he’s producing it.” The pride in her voice makes me want to cry.
Chase sits up straighter. “I thought you weren’t acting anymore.” He sounds suspicious, shooting a glance at me.
Calista hesitates. “I wasn’t. But this was a project I couldn’t pass up.” Her voice is too cheerful, too much like her mother’s in that moment. It’s as much of a tell as Calista has for when she’s lying.
Shit. I shift uneasily in my seat.
Chase is quiet for a long moment, and Amanda, who seems cool, tries to fill in the awkward gap. “That’s so exciting! So are you—”
“Jesus Christ, Eric, are you making her do this?” he demands.
His words sting, even though they’re not far from the truth. Or perhaps because they’re not far from the truth as it was in the beginning, anyway. But hell if I’m going to show it. I force a smile. “Yeah, that’s me, the puppet master.”
“Eric,” Calista says sharply in reprimand. Then she turns to Chase. “Nobody’s making me do anything.” But she sounds tired.