by Stacey Kade
“I left,” I say flatly. “The night I graduated from high school. Took what little money I had and went to crash on the couch of a friend of a friend in L.A.”
“But what—”
“I left even though they needed me, my dad, my grandpa. Aidan was just a little kid. The drought was killing us, and we couldn’t afford the help we needed. They were talking about selling off land, which was technically more my problem than theirs, because I was ‘the future.’ But I didn’t care.”
She glances back at me, and I smile tightly. “I told you, I’m a selfish asshole. I did what I wanted—fuck everyone else. If the ranch failed…” I shake my head. “I had to get out of there. I couldn’t breathe.” I search for the words to explain. “La Estrella … it’s not just the family business, it’s your whole life. No extracurriculars, no late nights out because you have to be up early the next morning. Football might have been okay because, hell, it’s Texas, but forget acting in plays or musicals, the rehearsals, the performances.”
You expect someone else to pick up your slack because you want to sing and dance around in a pair of tights? You can do that here.
That’s what my dad said when I told him I got the lead in Our Town my junior year. Never mind that acting was the only time I ever felt like I was in the right place, the only time I ever felt like I had found a home. His disdain for anything in the arts was corrosive.
“You were, what, eighteen?” Amanda asks, pulling me out of the memory. Her sympathetic frown eases something tight inside me.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter,” I say, waggling my finger at her as I move to set up my shot. “‘Every Mroczek son knows his responsibility from the time he’s able to walk to the barn.’” That’s another Dad-ism, and this one almost makes me gag. I can hear myself saying it to another kid. Maybe even to Aidan, and I just can’t do it, couldn’t do it.
“You didn’t ask to be born into that life, that responsibility, though,” Amanda says.
I’m struck by what a difference it must be, raised by someone for whom work is a job, maybe one you’re passionate about, but not a family heritage.
“I tried that argument, believe me,” I say. “It didn’t work. Then I told him I thought I would die if I had to stay there, which apparently was what my mom said when she left.” I grimace. “That didn’t help.” I steady the club and start to swing.
“Elbows,” she says quietly.
I stop mid-swing and make the correction. “And the fact that I wanted to move to Hollywood and be an actor … now that really pissed him off.”
“Because of your mom? Because she’s an artist?” Amanda asks.
“Maybe. He never said. Duty, responsibility, loyalty—those are the only things worth anything, according to him. That and hard work, not playing around with make-believe and relying on your looks to get by.”
“Ouch,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.” I hit the ball harder than I should have, and it thunks into the side of the tower instead of the tunnel through it, then slowly rolls down the pity ramp to the lower part of the green, to join Amanda’s.
“Plus, as he liked to point out every time we fought about it, it wasn’t like I was going to be doing Shakespeare or Schindler’s List,” I say, bitter and tired, even after all these years. And who knows, maybe he had a point back then and now. What did I have to show for the last few years but a series of fuck-ups? A good start followed by a mess, mostly of my own making.
Amanda winces. “You look like your mom?” she asks, looping her arm through mine as we walk down.
I hesitate, surprised by the question. “Yeah. I guess. People used to say that.”
She nods thoughtfully, her cheek rubbing against my sleeve.
“You know, the stupid thing is, I could see my dad hated it, the choices he made,” I say, squeezing the club in my hand so hard I can feel the tattered rubber grip digging into my palm. “He hated being on the ranch, hated that my mom left because she didn’t want to be a rancher’s wife. But he wouldn’t do anything about it, and he wouldn’t let me do anything about it either.”
“What about your grandpa?” she asks, striking with unerring accuracy to the broken heart of the matter.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the growing lump. “He was the only one who supported me. When I was in high school, he told my dad to let me act, to be in the plays.” I smile, remembering him arriving at the auditorium in his sagging bolo tie, program in hand, and bragging on me to anyone sitting near him.
My smile fades, though, as I recall the rest. “To get it out of my system, he told me later.” The betrayal stings as harshly now as it did then. “I didn’t find out about that part until we were all fighting that last night. Then he, uh, died. A few years ago, I guess. Layla sent me his obituary. It was right when everything was going to shit. I was … not good.” I swallow hard. “Aidan was listed as his only grandson.”
Amanda makes a sympathetic noise, pulling my arm tighter against her.
I’m not sure if the decision to leave me out was my grandfather’s decision or my dad’s. Either way, it was a kick when I was already on the ground.
“I didn’t go back for the funeral. I didn’t see him after that last night. He was just so fucking disappointed in me.” The words come out in a mirthless bark of laughter.
It’s hard to think of that moment, of him staring across the battered kitchen table at me. His face wrinkled and weathered from all his years in the sun, distaste and disdain embedded in his expression. I let him down.
I stare into the distance, focusing on the broken-down mountain so the stinging in my eyes doesn’t turn into tears. “I was scared of being trapped, of giving in and getting stuck because that was almost easier than trying. So I stayed away. And now it’s too late. I’ll never know if he forgave me or if he even sort of understood why. I don’t even know if they still have La Estrella.” Generations of work gone because of my selfishness.
“Hey.” Amanda lets go of my arm to stand in front of me on the green, rising on her tiptoes to force me into making eye contact. “Sometimes you have to do what’s right for you, even if no one else agrees.”
I meet her gaze and she nods, giving me a significant look. She understands. Of course she does. She’s here with me, against her family’s wishes and her therapist’s recommendations.
“You weren’t trying to hurt them,” she says softly.
I reach out and touch her cheek, my thumb rough against the smoothness of her skin. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “Just because someone loves you doesn’t mean they own you. That’s something different.” Her expression darkens, with pain and remembrance. And I want to take it away.
Instinctively, I move forward, my hand sliding into her hair, and she tilts her face toward mine, her arms slipping inside my open coat to hold on to me. Her breath is warm against my skin and—
“Um, excuse me?” a voice asks hesitantly.
Amanda jolts back from me, taking a quick half-step away, like she might run with the slightest prompting.
“What?” I ask over my shoulder, more curtly than I intended.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Henry,” the kid who gave us our clubs says. “But you asked me to let you know when your cab was here.” He points to the parking lot, and sure enough, when I lean around the tower, I can see the splash of taxi yellow.
“I did,” I acknowledge gruffly. “Thanks.”
He nods, his head bobbling like it’s on a spring, and leaves at a quick clip. I scared him. I swallow a sigh. Bad enough that being the owner’s grandson means you’re dragged out here literally at the crack of dawn, worse when the guy behind it is an asshole. I make a mental note to tip him extra, from what little I’ve got, anyway.
“Guess our time’s up,” I say to Amanda. And I can feel it: the spell of togetherness in this isolated place in the half-dark before sunrise is broken now.
She nods. “For the moment.”
; “Did you have fun?” I ask, and then make a face. She spent half the time listening to me whine about my family. “Never mind.”
“I did,” she says quickly as we head back toward the first hole and the parking lot. “It’s not every day I get to school someone so badly.” She grins.
“No, no.” I shake my head. “We didn’t finish. I could have made a comeback.”
She snorts. “No, you couldn’t have.”
At the tiny “clubhouse,” made to look like an ice-covered castle, I’m in the process of handing the kid—Luke, if I remember right—our clubs, balls, and an extra ten, when cameras start flashing from the parking lot.
“Amanda! Chase!”
“Look up!”
“Over here!”
“Is this a date?”
Squinting, I glance over to find a phalanx of photographers surrounding our cab and at the entrance to the course. Behind them in the parking lot, their hastily abandoned SUVs are still running, doors thrown open.
It looks like most of the vultures circling the hotel entrance have flown here instead. But this time, it’s not just paparazzi. Reporters have joined in. I see familiar entertainment-show logos on the side of video cameras.
Son of a bitch. How did they all know? Someone, somewhere is talking.
Automatically, I step back, blocking Amanda from their view. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how they found us.”
Amanda touches my arm, and I glance back at her. “It’s fine,” she says.
“No—” I begin.
“It’s what I’m here for,” she says pointedly, a smile lurking beneath the tension in her expression. “Remember?”
She’s right, except suddenly that idea sends a weird pang through me. That’s not all we are, all this, is it? Maybe once, but not anymore, right? The Amanda Grace I picked up at her house on Sunday is not the same Amanda I know and like now. That Amanda was a name, a symbol, a media magnet and a chance at career salvation.
This girl, the one tucking her arm around my waist in the face of flashing cameras, the one who’s grumpy in the morning, who eats french fries on her burger, who listens without judgment to the worst things I’ve done, she is someone else entirely. A real person who happens to share the same name.
I don’t want to let go of this girl, this Amanda, for the previous incarnation, no matter what the benefits might be.
The realization staggers me, literally.
“You okay?” Amanda asks with a frown as I recover my balance with an extra step.
“Yeah,” I manage. Get over yourself, Mroczek. Now is not the time for any kind of philosophical revelation, not with dozens of cameras present and lots of work to be done this week.
But even that doesn’t stop me from wanting to stand between her and the cameras, wanting to find a way to protect her from something I know she hates.
Amanda takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Let’s do this,” she says, giving me a nod.
We move swiftly, my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, so that the crowding assholes don’t get too pushy.
Once we’re in the cab, it’s a parade back to the hotel with our vehicle in the lead. The driver drops us at the front entrance, because, at this point, there’s no reason to try to hide.
A few of the paparazzi and reporters have raced ahead to beat us back.
They’re shouting again as we get out of the cab.
“Chase, were you out all night together?”
“Is this all just a play for more publicity, Henry?”
“Amanda, is Chase Henry your boyfriend? How do your parents feel about that?”
Amanda winces reflexively, and I take her hand. After a while, it all blends into a dull roar of noises and voices; the words lose their meaning.
But just as we’re at the sliding doors into the hotel, one question breaks through the chaos.
“What do you say about the rumors of security issues?” a female voice rings out shrilly. “The threats against the two of you? Are you scared?”
Amanda stiffens, and even I, far more experienced with this kind of tactic, stumble, catching my foot on the edge of the threshold as I automatically look toward the questioner, who is lost in a sea of faces.
“Chase?” Amanda asks through clenched teeth, bringing me back to myself.
I face forward. “No, come on,” I say in a low voice. “It’s just to get our attention.”
I hope. God. It never occurred to me that the craziness that surrounded my former life might potentially intersect with the nutjobs that Amanda has had to deal with. Threats might be the least of our concerns. People are so weird sometimes. They forget that the tiny dancing characters on their screen are real people.
We make it through the sliding glass doors and into the lobby. Unlike yesterday, where most people didn’t seem to notice or care, it feels like everyone’s staring at us now. But that’s probably because of the madhouse outside rather than anyone recognizing us.
Amanda’s hand is tight in mine, her fingers pressed hard against the bones beneath my skin.
“It’s just them making stuff up,” I say, keeping us moving toward the elevators and the eventual shelter of our rooms.
Amanda nods, her face pale and her dark eyes wide.
“It’s okay,” I promise. A promise I probably have no business making. Damnit, this is when having the resources of being an actual celebrity—rather than one who has fallen from the top rung to that of a Mental Floss trivia item—would come in handy.
“I know,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
“I’ll talk to the manager here and our security on location. But I’m sure it’s just bullshit. I haven’t heard anything about it,” I say. Except who would tell me now that Elise isn’t speaking to me?
Elise. Fuck.
This has her written all over it. She did warn me that she had a backup plan, one I wouldn’t like. And she has the contacts to do it: plant a few unsubstantiated stories with the right people and off it goes. It keeps the Chase/Amanda story going, which benefits her, and it doesn’t destroy her rep. Just makes our lives more difficult. Amanda’s, in particular. She lived with violence for so long, I can’t imagine what the potential threat of its return is doing to her.
A shudder runs through her, one I feel through our joined hands.
I’ve got to talk to Elise, get her to call this off. Amanda is too—
Amanda stops dead in the middle of the lobby, her breath catching in her throat.
I move to stand in front of her, so she’ll see me, see the truth in what I’m saying. “They create rumors to get reaction photos from us, to keep people clicking through to their websites—that’s all this is.”
But she’s not listening, her alarmed gaze zeroing in on something over my shoulder.
Confused, I turn to see what’s caught her attention.
“Oh, crap.”
21
Amanda
I drop Chase’s hand and make a beeline for the overstuffed chairs in front of the lobby’s stone fireplace.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
Mia looks up from the open snack-sized bag of chips in her lap. “Finally.” She stretches her arms over her head and then flips her bright red hair over the back of the chair. “I’ve been here, like, half the night,” she says through an exaggerated yawn.
I spin away from her, my gaze bouncing past the cautiously approaching Chase, to search the lobby for the rest of my family. My mother racing toward me, Liza’s folded-arms avoidance, my dad hovering in the distance like a storm cloud on an already overcast day.
But …
“They’re not here,” Mia says. “Just me.” She points a chip at Chase, who’s keeping a few feet back, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You’re welcome for that, b-t-dubs.” She pops the chip in her mouth.
I glance at him, and Chase, eyes wide with surprise, holds up his hands in an “I’m innocent” gesture.
As she crunches away,
Mia wrinkles her nose and tilts her head toward the ceiling in consideration. “‘BTW’? I feel like maybe ‘b-t-dubs’ has become one of those, like, cliché things to—”
“Mia!” I say through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?” By yourself, in a lobby surrounded by strangers, in an unfamiliar town?
It’s hard to explain, but when she was at home, theoretically under the watchful eyes of my parents, I could relax a little. I couldn’t control anything that happened there, so I couldn’t make a mistake or miss something that might come to harm her.
But with Mia here, suddenly everything’s a threat that requires vigilant attention on my part. Otherwise, if I mess up, she might be hurt or taken. Because that’s how the universe works, or something.
It’s ridiculous, I know, but that’s the way it feels. And maybe it’s not so ridiculous if there are actual threats against us.
The pinch of worry in my stomach grips harder.
Mia heaves a sigh, as if my question is such an imposition, or perhaps I’m an idiot to be asking it.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” she says flatly, squishing the chip bag into a crinkly ball.
It doesn’t take me long to connect the pieces: the disastrous phone call last night, my parents’ fears about Chase, their knowledge of my compulsive need to protect Mia.
“Did they send you here?” I ask in disbelief. Surely even my parents wouldn’t go that far. My younger sister as babysitter and bait? It made a terrible kind of sense: her very presence—and my worries for her safety—would keep me preoccupied and therefore less involved with Chase.
Mia gives me a look that is much wearier and older than it should be. I can see the dark circles under her eyes, the downward turn of her mouth, the tangles in her normally smooth hair, the wrinkles in her sweater, and the baggy knees in her leggings.
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there,” she says, examining the edge of her thumbnail, where the cuticle has given way to blood.
By calling them, she means. Which, if I do, just gives them another opportunity to work on me, to make me feel bad, to tell me not just that I should come home, but that I should bring Mia with me.