In the van on the way back here, he kept a very circumspect two feet between us on the bench seat. Emily could have fit in that space. She probably would have liked to.

I'm not sure what to make of it. I keep replaying that moment at dinner over and over in my head, trying to understand it from every angle.

I almost kissed Chase Henry. I know that for sure.

I'm a little less sure if he meant to kiss me.

Leaning my head against his shoulder felt completely natural and the right thing to do. And when he looked down at me, the moment snagged and held. My head moved toward his like it was on a track or a wire, drawn along on a path without conscious thought on my part. I just felt this ... pull toward him. But was it just me? I don't know.

"Amanda?" Chase asks, interrupting my thoughts.

My face flushes hot. "Sorry?"

"I said, I'm going to grab a shower first before I head out so I'll be here for a few more minutes. But after that, I'll have my phone with me at the meeting if you need anything," he says.

I shake my head. "Chase. It's fine. I'm going to find some boring television to watch and hopefully fall asleep at some point. The History Channel is usually pretty good for that." I shrug. "If not, there's always infomercial bingo."

He gives me a strange look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he takes his key card out of his back pocket. "What is infomercial bingo?"

"Based on the name of the infomercial, you pick ten words that you think the host is going to use within the first fifteen minutes. But the name of the product doesn't count," I add sternly.

"Seriously?" he asks, amused.

"I invented it in the hospital when I couldn't sleep," I say. "Sometimes I still have trouble."

Everyone assures me nightmares are completely normal. But the weird part is the worst ones, the ones where I wake up struggling to breathe, take place on the porch, not in the basement. I'm standing just outside the front door, seconds before I make that choice to move my foot forward and change my world forever. Only this time, I know what's going to happen. I try to run away or cry for help. But I can't move and no noise comes out. All I can feel is that same paralyzing pressure in my throat and chest, robbing me of my voice.

I can't scream, even when his fist tangles in my hair and he drags me toward the basement, and in that way, the dreams parallel what actually happened.

I clear my throat. "Trust me when I tell you there's nothing on between three and four in the morning, no matter what cable package you have."

"Yep, been there," Chase says as we reach our rooms. "When I was drinking and even now sometimes." He lifts a shoulder. "I never sleep well in hotels, especially the first few nights."

"Okay, then infomercial bingo might work for you too. If I'm still awake when you get back, I'll teach you the finer arts of the game." I hold my breath, waiting for him to get that polite, panicky look that I'd expect from someone who was almost accidentally kissed the last time we were alone-ish together.

But he just smiles. "Sounds like a plan."

When he meets my gaze, the moment holds a beat too long, and I feel that same pull again. Like I might be able to step closer and wrap my arms around him.

"Chase-" I begin.

The Starlight theme song plays, tinny and violently loud in the hallway, making both of us jump.

I wince. "Sorry, I need to change that." I pull my phone out of my pocket and consult the screen, though I already know who it is. I send it to voicemail for the moment.

"Your therapist," Chase says.

"Yeah. She made 'special arrangements' to speak to me after hours tonight," I say, digging out my key card.

"That'll probably be her chapter heading," he mutters. "'Special Arrangements.'"

I stop, surprised.

He makes an apologetic face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, no," I say. "You've got it all wrong. This?" I wave my key card, indicating the space between us. "Easily sequel material for the Miracle Girl story."

He gapes at me.

"I mean," I shrug, "if she's going to get mileage out of me, it should be at least a two-book deal," I say with mock affront. "I think that's the going rate for Miracle Girlrelated stories these days."

He throws his head back and laughs, and the sound of it warms me.

But it doesn't change reality, which is Dr. Knaussen waiting. So I slide the key card into the lock and push my door open.

"Do you want me to come in?" Chase asks.

I look at him, startled.

"I mean, to check the room before I leave," he adds quickly.

Oh. I glance into the room, confirming that everything is as I left it, with the exception of the bed now being made. "No, I think I'm good but ... thank you."

"Right." But he doesn't move, just stands there watching me with that same intensity I remember from the moment at dinner.

Before I can stop myself, I step toward him, testing him, testing me.

Something that might be desire flickers in his gaze, along with wariness, as I approach, but I keep my hands-and my mouth-to myself.

He lets me enter his personal space, so close I can feel the heat of his body, the brush of his legs against mine. It makes me feel shaky, but not in a bad way.

I lean forward, and his breath catches in his throat. Never would I have thought that to be a sexy sound, but it's such an involuntary desire response, I shiver with a wave of want.

But then I chicken out at the last second, and instead of lifting my chin toward his, I turn my head to the side to rest it against his chest. Which is a smaller victory, but a victory all the same.

"I'm glad you're here," I say. "I'm glad I'm here."

"Me, too," he says softly, and I feel the words vibrate in his chest, next to the too-rapid thumping of his heart.

But then he steps back abruptly and uncertainty rises to swamp me. Am I reading him wrong? Getting this, whatever it is, wrong?

"I should go," he says, turning toward his door.

I open my mouth to say ... something. I don't know what. But my phone starts to ring again then, and my time is up. I have to answer.

When I shut the door to my room, though, I lean against it, taking an extra second or two to gather myself.

Then I answer my phone. "Hi, Dr. Knaussen."

"Amanda? I was worried there might have been a miscommunication," she says with that faint hint of reproof.

"No, sorry; I just couldn't answer quickly enough." Eh, sort of true.

I'm lying to my therapist. This has to be a new low and probably a sign that it's time to move on to number eight.

"That's fine," she says. "I'm just glad we didn't miss one another."

I frown. She sounds almost excited. Which doesn't make any sense. Maybe it's my imagination.

"How are you?" she asks, with even more of that cooing sympathy I've come to expect from her.

"I'm fine." I clutch the phone tighter against my ear, hating the defensive tone in my voice.

"Mmm-hmm."

I know this tactic, a bid to make me fill the silence, and I keep my mouth shut.

"And how is Mr. Henry? Are you finding him to be as you expected?" she continues in a carefully neutral tone.

Oh, come on. Is she really expecting me to swing at that?

"Yes, he's fine, too," I say. He would have to threaten to eat soup out of my rib cage before I'd admit to trouble now. Shouldn't she, as the trained professional, know that?

"I understand that there were some photos taken today," she says.

I tense. I was so focused on the right people in Chase's life seeing them that I forgot that people I knew would see them as well.

I pace at the foot of the bed. How widespread are those images for her to have seen them? Were they on the news or one of those entertainment shows again? I wince, imagining my family subjected once more to endless Miracle Girl coverage and speculation. My dad disconnected our cable at one point as well as our home phone. Are there reporters camped in front of our yard again?

Pausing by the dresser, I run my finger along a scrape in the finish. "The photos weren't a big deal. It was fine." I'm using the word "fine" a lot, and accordingly, I brace myself for a gentle chiding. "Fine," according to Dr. Knaussen, is an empty word. It's the one we use when we can't bring ourselves to say something positive but we know that "okay" often encourages questions we don't want to answer.

Whatever. "Fine" is a perfectly descriptive word in my book. I'm not good, not great-I would never say that. But I'm not falling apart at the moment, either. So how else would you describe that other than fine?

Fortunately, Dr. Knaussen's pursuing a different scent at the moment. "If you don't mind me saying, I've seen the pictures and you didn't seem fine. You seemed frightened." I hear her clicking her pen open and closed, open and closed.

I sigh and decide to give a little. She actually has helped more than any of her predecessors. "Yeah, it was scary," I admit. "It's been a couple years since I've been around cameras like that, and there were more than I expected. More than we expected," I corrected, remember the shock on Chase's face. "But we handled it."

There's a long silence on the other end, then: "I'm interested to hear you describing you and Mr. Henry as a 'we.'"

It's the deliberate casualness in her tone that tips me off. This is what she was after.

I exhale loudly. "Yes, 'we.' We're..." What are we? I have no idea. That moment at dinner and the echo of it in the hallway a few minutes ago didn't feel like something that happened between random strangers. But I'm not 100 percent sure I trust my instincts on this matter. Chase certainly moved away from me fast enough.

"... friends," I finish lamely. I make a face at myself in the mirror over the dresser. After months of suggesting, unsuccessfully, that I expand my "comfort zone and social circle," she's going to have a field day with me labeling a guy I've known for barely twenty-four hours as a "friend." Especially when that guy is Chase Henry, the face of my pretend savior.

But I know I like him. And I think he likes me. What other word for that is there? "Happy allies"? "Pleasant acquaintances" doesn't seem to quite cover it. And neither of those terms even takes into account my other feelings for him-toward him?-which I am not going to bring up right now.

I close my eyes and wait for Dr. Knaussen's response.

She takes a deep breath.

Here we go.

"Amanda, at this point, I'd like to let you know that your parents are here with me, and after today, they have some additional concerns they'd like to share with you on this matter," Dr. Knaussen says.

My eyes snap open. That's why she was okay with rescheduling. That also explains the overly solicitous tone and hidden excitement in her voice. Family "conversations" are her groove. She's convinced I can't be completely healed without everyone on board. She's met with my mom and Mia, and Liza, even. My dad was the lone holdout. Apparently not anymore.

I hear some quiet murmuring in the background. Then my mom says, "Amanda?" Her voice sounds small, worried.

My free hand immediately flies to the scar on my wrist, tracing the line with my index finger. "I'm here," I say.

"Amanda, we're worried about you. I know you're an adult, and your decisions are your own," she says with a care that suggests she fears I might hang up at any second. "But those photos today-"

"You don't know what it looks like," my dad bursts in.

I jolt. It's one thing for my dad to be in the room but to jump in on the conversation? I picture him standing over Dr. Knaussen's desk, glowering. "Am I on speakerphone?" I demand.

"He's taking advantage," my dad continues as if I haven't spoken. "He sees that you're not well enough to make smart decisions about your-"

"Mark, shhh," my mom says. "We just don't want you getting hurt again. We saw the photos. You were wearing his shirt, and he was touching you-"

"It's not the same thing," I snap. "Not even close. It's okay when he touches me." Actually, if I'm being honest, it's more than okay. I like it.

That revelation stops me in my tracks for a moment. Somehow, somewhere, I crossed the line from tolerating to enjoying being touched. Granted, it's a phenomenon limited strictly to Chase Henry at the moment, but still.

My mouth is open in shock. I've managed to surprise myself.

How? When? Walking out to the van this morning, when he made me feel safe in spite of the cameras? When we were pressed together in that seat on the way to the set? Clearly, it was probably before I nearly kissed him at dinner.

I scramble to remember the exact moment it happened, this huge, monumental step for me, but I can't pin it down. It apparently wasn't a big Hollywood moment with trumpets blaring, but a smaller, more subtle transition.

"Amanda? Are you there?" My mother's voice breaks into my thoughts and I remember I'm supposed to be paying attention.

"Yes, sorry," I say quickly.

"I said, we're just concerned to see such a dramatic change in you so suddenly. You've been so resistant to anyone ... and I understand that victims ... of what happened to you sometimes-"

An old frustration rapidly overtakes my newfound astonishment. "Rape, Mom," I say. "Rape survivors."

"Everyone has your best interests in mind, Amanda," Liza says, barging into the conversation. "There's no need to be harsh."

My head jerks up. She's there, too?

"Who else is listening?" I demand. "Mia?"

"Don't drag me into this," Mia protests. "It wasn't my idea."

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, rubbing my forehead where a headache is developing.