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As my gaze follows him walking away, the sight of Van watching him, too, distracts me. I know there’s more than meets the eye to that man. I just wonder how long it will take for him to show me who he really is.
The next morning, I wake up early and find Jett still asleep. He drank enough alcohol after the funeral to knock himself out and was fast asleep by seven thirty.
I lie next to him for a long time, just watching him and the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. At least an hour passes and just after nine, his phone rings and wakes him up.
He rolls to his side to reach out and find his phone on the bedside table but he knocks it on to the floor and mutters a swear word. Then as he fumbles around trying to reach it on the floor, he falls out of the bed.
“Fuck!” he roars when he hits his head on the corner of the table. “Motherfucking fuck,” he continues his tirade of obscenities as he tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees while at the same time trying to answer his phone. When it stops ringing, he’s finally on his knees with the phone at his ear but it’s too late. Staring at me through bloodshot eyes that betray the physical pain he is in, he swears again. “Fuck me!” And then he pelts the phone across the room. It hits the wall and smashes on its way down to the floor.
I raise my brows. “Well, that fixes that.”
He swings his gaze back to me. “Yeah, that fucking fixes that,” he mutters as he stands. It takes him some effort and a few more swear words before he’s on his feet, and then he stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Not a good start to the day.
I push the bed covers off and head out to the kitchen to make coffee. Jett’s going to need a lot of it today. And I may, too, just to be able to deal with his mood.
Expecting him to join me in the kitchen, I make two coffees and sit at the kitchen counter waiting for him. However, he doesn’t come. After giving him nearly ten minutes, I go in search of him, and am surprised to hear the sound of the shower when I enter the bedroom. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the capability to stand for any length of time in the shower.
Leaving him be, I grab my phone, make another coffee and sit in the sun on the balcony scrolling through Facebook while sipping my coffee. I’m engrossed in reading through Erin’s posts when Jett startles me.
“I’m going out for awhile. What are you up to today?” he asks as he joins me on the balcony
, not taking a seat at the table, but rather standing near me, as if he can’t escape fast enough. He’s holding his keys and shuffling them from one hand to the other, all jittery.
I narrow my gaze and take a good look at his eyes. Still so bloodshot. And he’s in no state to drive. My inner turmoil makes my tummy cramp up. He should not be on the road so I’m going to have to say something, but at the same time, I don’t want him to think I’m constantly nagging him about shit. I am wiped out mentally from all the nagging I feel like I’ve been doing the last few days.
Standing, I try to form the right words. “Jett, you can’t drive. You’d still be over the limit and I hate to think what would happen if you crashed the car.”
His forehead creases into a frown. “I’m fine to drive.”
“No, you’re not. Trust me on this, please.”
We face off, and annoyance flashes in his eyes. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Let me drive you to wherever you want to go,” I suggest. I hold my disappointment with his behaviour in check; keeping in mind this is his grief causing his bad behaviour.
He slams the keys down on the table and glares at me. “Fuck it, I’ll call a taxi.” And with that, he turns and stalks out of his apartment.
I collapse into the chair and squeeze my eyes shut as the tears come.
This isn’t Jett.
This is his grief.
I repeat this over and over in my mind, but I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to put up with being treated this way.
37
Jett
I pace the studio as the words form in my mind. They’re close, but I can’t quite grasp them. Frustration takes over and I slam my hand down on the desk.
“For fuck’s sake, this should not be this fucking hard,” I mutter out loud.
Looking at the lines I already have down, I mentally curse myself. Four hours work for only five lines of a song? I’ve never had this much trouble writing a song.
I’ve never tried to write a song about my dead sister before.
