738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

I force myself to maintain my smile, even though I can feel the muscles protesting. “Sure, that sounds great.” I’m proud that my tone stays mostly level.

  “I’ll make the change right now,” Shara says.

  Chase frowns at me, studying my face, and something must have shown in my expression, despite my efforts.

  “Wait,” he says, stopping Shara as she begins to type again. “The original arrangements are fine.” He hesitates. “If that’s okay with you? There’s a door between the rooms,” he adds quietly. “You can keep it locked.”

  Shara looks away, pretending not to listen, and awkwardness spills out all over the lobby. My face is hot, and I’m not even sure why. It feels like there’s a spotlight shining down on us, even though I can’t see anyone other than Shara.

  “It’s a deadbolt, so the key card won’t open—” Chase says.

  “I’m familiar with the mechanics of a deadbolt,” I say quickly and under my breath. I just want to get out of here. It feels like all my vulnerabilities and “issues” are on display.

  Shara, thankfully, seems just as relieved to be moving on to the next stage of check-in. Key cards, two, for me. She pushes them in a little envelope across the counter to me without comment, her smile dimmed a little but still firmly in place.

  “Thank you for choosing the Wescott Inn,” she calls after us as we step away from the counter.

  Chase leads the way, stalking toward the elevators without waiting for me.

  I follow him. His head is down, his shoulders hunched, his hands jammed in his pockets, and I’m not sure if that’s an unconscious defense against anyone who might be watching or if it’s just his way of pushing off any potential conversation with me. He didn’t seem angry a few seconds ago, when he offered to keep the adjoining room arrangements, but now I’m not so sure.

  I catch up to him at the elevator doors and stay quiet, just in case. He jabs at the button for the elevator with enough force that it sounds like it hurts, and suddenly, I’m leaning toward the “angry” explanation.

  Great.

  I study the mirrored doors in front of us, my reflection next to Chase’s. He is staring at the floor, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought or just avoiding me—I’m not sure which—which gives me plenty of opportunity.

  It’s like an image out of bizarro world, the two of us in one place. I know his face almost as well as my own, but this version, the real, non-Photoshopped version, is different, not just older, and I catch myself playing “find the difference.”

  The thin line of a scar above his left eyebrow. The spray of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. The dark circles under his eyes that speak to stress and sleepless nights.

  His T-shirt is rumpled. There’s a tuft of dark blond hair sticking up a little at the crown of his head, which is, frankly, kind of adorable.

  He is so … real. Which sounds completely ridiculous. Of course he’s real. He always has been. Just because I didn’t know him then didn’t make him less of an actual person.

  But it’s a strange feeling, a duality of sorts, as if the guy who posed for the poster I know so well and this man next to me are two different people.

  Despite the intimacy of the perfect Chase who lived in my head for years, talking to me and soothing me, this Chase, the one with the flaws and money problems, the one who knows about cows and mucking barns, feels so much more real, more approachable, even. He understands what it means to screw up, to be afraid and desperate.

  Without even knowing why the first-floor room bothered me—I doubt my logic about the accessibility for criminals would leap to mind for most normal people—he intervened, at the expense of his own privacy. Something he probably doesn’t get a lot of.

  And then there’s that bit of sticking-up hair that I just want to reach over and smooth into place …

  My heart gives a funny little quiver, and a vaguely familiar warmth floods through my chest. It takes me a second to place the sensation. The last time I felt this way, I was staring at C. J. Weymouth in the trumpet section of band freshman year, with my best friend, Casey, whispering in my ear about how she heard that trumpet players were the best kissers. Strong lips and all.

  No. Oh, no. No, no, no. I cannot be attracted to Chase Henry.

  I spin to face away from him, though he’s not even looking in my direction.

  This crazy plan is already shaky enough; I don’t need to take it out at the legs. And that’s exactly what letting myself be attracted to him will do.

  I don’t need this. I can’t have this.

  Someday. That’s what my mom always says with a distant smile whenever the topic of guys or relationships comes up. I mean, I have trouble leaving the house sometimes. Dating is a little out of the question.

  Besides, who in their right mind would undertake the challenge of … well, me? I still flinch when well-meaning people pat me on the shoulder.

  Not that any of that even remotely mattered. When the part of you that registers attraction is dead, or at least in a coma, for more than four years, it’s kind of a nonissue.

  Until now. Apparently.

  I cast another glance over my shoulder at Chase, who’s jabbing at the elevator button again, his jaw tight with frustration. I can see the muscles ticking beneath his skin, and the faint stubble on his cheek catches in the bright cast of the overhead light, making it glint like gold.

  And I find myself imagining what that would feel like under my fingertips.

  What is wrong with me? This is absolutely the worst time for that part of my brain or limbic system or hormones or whatever to wake up.

  Tearing my gaze away from Chase, I force myself to focus on the floor, on the random shading patterns in the tile.

  I’m not going to do this. It would look completely pathetic from the outside, maybe even to Chase himself. Like I’d transferred all my feelings generated by a poster to the real thing, regardless of the person beneath the face.

  Besides, even if I was ready, Chase Henry would be the very last person to consider a viable candidate.

  I saw that picture of Elise on his phone, looking warm, naked, and sated. And that was someone he worked with. It was clearly casual, coworkers with benefits. I doubt very much that he’d be interested in the kind of challenge I’d present.

  A flash of bitterness zips through my veins before vanishing. There’s no point in focusing on hating what happened to me, wishing it hadn’t. Been there, done that. I’m here to move on. Or at least try to.

  That’s what I need to concentrate on. Nothing else.

  “Amanda?”

  Chase’s voice startles me, and I turn to find him at the threshold of the now-open elevator, his arm across the door to keep it from closing.

  “You coming?” he asks, his eyebrows raised in question or possibly concern.

  “Uh-huh.” I lift my chin and do my best to pretend that my face is not red as I hurry toward him.

  He edges a step out of the way, still holding the door but making sure that I have plenty of room to pass without bumping into him.

  And the recently awakened part of myself gives a tiny appreciative flutter. How did Elise give this up? Granted, Chase wants something from me, but I don’t get a forced vibe from this. If anything, this thoughtfulness seems more like habit. A really nice habit, actually.

  “She must have been really pissed at you.” The words escape before I can stop them, and I clamp my lips together belatedly.

  He pushes the button for five and looks over at me, his brows drawn together in a frown. “Who?”

  “Elise.” It’s unavoidable now that I’ve blurted it out.

  “Yeah, she … definitely has her own agenda,” he says with distaste.

  Silence falls as the doors close.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. The space feels too small with Chase on the other side of it. I’m too aware of him now, unfortunately, and that brings with it a whole slew of thoughts and questions I don�
��t really want to contemplate.

  Like, what does he look like naked?

  Stop, stop, stop.

  How long can it possibly take for an elevator to get to the top of a five-story building? Seriously.

  “I’m sorry about not being able to take the other room,” I say, more to distract myself than anything else. “It’s just that the first floor kind of—”

  The elevator dings, interrupting me, and the doors roll back.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” Chase says shortly, holding an arm across one of the doors and gesturing for me to exit first.

  But clearly, though, I do. Or someone does. Chase has practically shut down in response to something. He was positively chatty in the car, by comparison.

  He passes me by and leads the way to our rooms. They’re in the far corner of the floor, tucked at the end of a hall. His room is to the left of mine, according to the numbers.

  I fumble in my fleece pockets for the key cards. Now that we’re here, I’m not exactly sure what’s going to happen. I mean, we talked about pictures tomorrow, and that’s fine, but what about the rest of the time?

  How exactly is being in proximity to him supposed to help? Suddenly my plan seems sort of stupid and not well thought out.

  I tug my bag higher up on my shoulder, jab the key card into the lock, and manage to shove the door open, bracing it with my foot.

  “Is this going to be okay?” Chase asks, tipping his head toward the room.

  “Oh. Yeah, I’m sure it is,” I say, confused. At first glance, it appears to be a normal, slightly upgraded hotel room. Basically like the ones my family used to stay in when we used to go on summer car trips to Gettysburg or wherever, only a little nicer. But that’s true of the entire building.

  The two beds are draped in pristine white comforters with room service menus propped against a multitude of pillows. The bathroom is dark and to the right, so I can’t really see it, but I’m assuming it has all the required facilities.

  The door to Chase’s room is immediately to my left, on the other side of the closet.

  The closet. Two sliding panels, both mirrored. Inside, there’s a safe on one half of the floor, limiting the space. The carpeting looks even newer, cleaner, which is saying something, considering it looks great in the rest of the room.

  In short, it’s a perfect little hidey-hole. And I hate myself for noticing that.

  “Good. I’ll be right here later, if you need something.” Chase gestures toward his room door in the hall. “But I need to go. I have to take care of something right now,” he says, avoiding my gaze.

  Uh-oh. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this adjoining-room thing. He can’t wait to get away. But all I say is, “Okay.”

  We stand there in silence for a long moment.

  “Do you want me to check it?” he asks eventually.

  “What?” I ask.

  He hesitates, faint color rising in his face. “The room. Do you want me to check it to make sure it’s, uh, secure?”

  It’s only then that I realize he’s been waiting for me to go inside. And now he wants to know if I need him to look under the beds for monsters and rapists?

  Oh God, how humiliating. Even if that would have made me feel better—maybe—there’s no way I can say yes now. “No, it’s … I’m fine. Just … yeah.” Clinging tighter to my bag, I cross the threshold into the room and turn to face him.

  There, I’m in. Now what?

  “Okay.” He pauses. “If you’re hungry, you should order room service, whatever you want. Charge it to the room.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  He nods and turns away without another word, striding off down the hall, the way we came.

  I stand there for a second, staring into the space he used to occupy, fighting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness and myself.

  I was worried about being attracted to him, while his primary concern, evidently, was figuring out how far away he could get from me and how quickly.

  A small snort of laughter escapes before I stop it. Well, this certainly makes things easier.

  A teeny-tiny part of me is mourning the loss, though. Because even just thinking about him that way was a step forward, albeit one I wasn’t expecting.

  I step back from the door, letting it shut. As soon as the latch clicks into place, I throw the deadbolt and the U-shaped security-lock thing.

  I look around the room, noticing for the first time the strong, impersonal smell of newish carpeting and cleaning supplies. It reminds me of the hospital a little, which sends a shiver through me.

  Even though the room isn’t that big, it feels empty and exposed somehow. I remember suddenly an article I read online a few months ago about a guy who installed secret cameras in hotel room heater / air-conditioning units to creep on the guests.

  Key cards aren’t that secure, you know. The evil voice pops up in the back of my head. Someone might still be able to get in with an old one. And the security latches aren’t that hard to beat.

  With an effort, I push those thoughts away and go about turning on all the lights I can find and pulling the drapes tightly closed.

  I have a small moment of indecision when trying to decide which bed, the one closer to the door or the window. Where is the greatest threat?

  After deciding that anyone leaning a five-story ladder against the outside of a hotel is bound to be noticed, I settle on the bed farthest from the door.

  I perch carefully on the edge of the bed with my bag on my lap, the fluffy white comforter rising up to surround me, and try to ignore the unfamiliar silence and the rapid beat of my heart, which is only getting faster.

  8

  Chase

  GO WITH IT.

  Find me later. Room 222.

  The note is crumpled from where I stuffed it in my pocket, but Elise’s message, in her smooth, curling cursive, is still legible.

  It doesn’t take but a few minutes to find her room on the second floor. The bar latch is flipped, keeping the door from locking. She’s expecting me to show up here, as ordered, and that just pisses me off further.

  I shove open the door to find her pacing at the foot of the double bed in the much smaller, non-luxury room, her phone pressed to her ear. Her laptop and tablet are both set up on the desk and glowing—she’s working.

  On what, though? That’s the question. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “What the hell, Elise?” I demand as the door bangs shut behind me.

  She holds up her finger in the classic “wait” sign and gives me a patronizing wink.

  “No, no, I totally agree,” she says into the phone. “I think you should wait until tomorrow. There’ll be more to work with then.”

  Why does that fill my stomach with dread?

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Yep, exciting, I know! Tomorrow.” She hangs up, puts the phone down on the desk, and turns to face me with a seductive smile. “Sweetie.” She looks as sleek and pulled together as she did this morning, which feels like eons ago. Her skirt is one of those that hugs her curves and yet looks smooth and untouchable.

  Usually, that only makes me want to touch her, to rumple her, even more. Right now, though, I’m too angry.

  She makes a production of sitting on the edge of the bed and patting a spot next to her, each individual motion calculated for maximum allure.

  I don’t move. “What are you doing?” I ask darkly.

  She makes an innocent face, her hand resting on her chest and playing with the buttons on her blouse, until one of them pops free “accidentally.” “Who, me?”

  I’m beyond allowing myself to be distracted. “The rooms?” I press. “Whatever you told that girl at the front desk?”

  Her hand drops to her lap with a definitive slap, and she gives me an exasperated look, all hint of temptress vanishing. “Okay, before you get all rah-led up,” she mocks my accent, “just listen for a minute.”

  I glare at her.

  “No, seriously, I want you to thin
k about this.” She sits forward. “We knew that photos of you and Amanda would attract some attention.”

  I nod grudgingly.

  “So, after you told me you got her to come here, all I could think was, imagine what kind of response we’d get if people thought you two were … together?” She smooths a nonexistent wrinkle out of the comforter.

  “Together?” I stare at her, my brain refusing to compute what she’s just said. Then I get it. The adjoining rooms. The way the front desk girl watched Amanda and me, her cheeks flushed with excitement, like she was in on a secret. “As in, together? You’re fucking kidding me.”

  Elise stands up, following me as I take a step back and locking her hand on the front of my shirt. “No, think about it. It’s so meta! Your poster saved her in that room and now, you save her in real life.” She smiles up at me.

  “What happened in that room was real life for Amanda,” I point out. Very real. Too real.

  “Right. Of course.” Elise taps her finger lightly against my chest. “But you know I’m right. The media will eat it up, and all those teen girls who watched Starlight will remember why they fell in love with you in the first place.”

  More like, why they fell in love with my image or the character of a guardian angel. Not exactly the same thing, but for Elise’s intents and purposes, it’s one and the same.

  “Elise,” I say, my jaw tight. “You saw what happened at the store. Amanda … she’s messed up.” I feel vaguely guilty telling Elise this, as though everything that Amanda told me in the car is somehow protected by confessional status or something. But it’s true, and Amanda would be the first to admit it.

  “And yet she managed to make it here,” Elise says wryly, her mouth quirked in amusement.

  “You think she’s faking?” I ask in disbelief. Maybe Elise was too far away when Amanda panicked at the store, but my seat was front and center. You can’t fake that kind of terror. And there were plenty of us who tried for a living.

  “No,” Elise says, sliding up against me, back in temptation mode. “I just think this face is awfully persuasive.” She cups my chin, running her thumb over my lower lip. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Chase,” she says softly, her breath touching my mouth. “She doesn’t have to know. The rumors will take care of most of it. You just stand a little closer to her, maybe put your arm around her shoulders—”