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Jett clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he fought to contain the rage simmering within him. He could almost taste the bitterness as it coated his tongue.
But then a small hand slid onto his forearm, and he felt himself fall back into reality. Everyone was staring at him, but he turned his gaze down to his pretty girl, finding her watching him with wide eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down enough to get through this dinner. Maybe he’d get lucky and this man wouldn’t even remember him. And afterward, he’d take Abbie home, and before he bathed and fucked her, he’d sit her down and tell her the truth. He’d tell her everything about his past and who he was before.
He’d tell her about the man she’d fallen in love with.
thirty-two
The knife easily slid through the perfectly cooked chicken breast, the juices flowing out onto the plate as Abbie stabbed her fork into it. Bringing it to her lips, her gaze slid back to Jett.
He sat rigidly, his steak barely touched, his fingers clutching the water glass in front of him. Her mother prattled on about everything and nothing, but Abbie knew she was hyper-aware of Jett and the way his eyes kept snapping to her father. She knew she’d hear about it later, knew her mother would have nothing but terrible things to say about her boyfriend.
“So, Jett,” Chris said, interrupting her before she could really get into her next story. “Abbie says you’re a mechanic?”
“What a...special little job,” her mother cooed. Abbie swallowed the words she wanted to scream. She knew what her mother meant, and judging by the way Jett shifted in his seat, she could tell he caught on, too. She hated that her mother was making him feel small. His job was important, and he worked hard—harder than anyone else she knew.
"That's right," he said tightly, barely dipping his chin in a nod. "It's not much, but I love my job. It's incredibly rewarding."
Her mother scoffed dismissively, her polished facade crumbling for a moment. "Rewarding? Fixing cars? Please, I'm sure there are far more prestigious careers you could pursue." Her gaze flitted over him and her lip curled back. "Or perhaps not."
Jett's fingers tightened around the water glass until they turned white. Abbie slid her hand onto his thigh under the table, hoping to calm him. His muscles were more rigid than she'd ever felt, like he was ready to pounce across the table.
And she didn't blame him.
He took a deep breath, his jaw clenched tightly as he fought to maintain his composure. She knew her mother was trying to provoke him to see him crumble under her scrutiny, to see what kind of man he truly was. Would he put up with her antics? Or would he retaliate? Would he prove to be as lowly as her mother believed all working-class people to be?
Abbie opened her mouth to change the subject, to soothe the rising tension at the table, but Jett cut her off before she could get a word out. Leaning forward, he met her mother's gaze head-on, and she held her breath.
"You know, I've come to realize the importance of a job doesn't lie solely in its prestige or societal status. What truly matters is the impact we make on people's lives."
His eyes slid to her father and held. She glanced at Chris, finding him watching Jett closely as her father stared back calmly as he brought his wine glass to his lips. She waited for her mother to say something, for someone to say something, but everyone stayed silent.
Tension grew thicker, and panic clawed at her chest. She needed to calm down. Her mother hated when she had panic attacks, but she especially hated when she had them in public where people could see. She took a deep breath, rubbing the center of her chest, trying to breathe through it.
Usually, Jett would’ve turned toward her to check on her by now, but he just continued glaring at her father, and she didn’t understand why. There was more hatred in his gaze than she thought possible, but it was never her father that was the problem, always her mother.
“Have you lived here your whole life, Jett?” her father asked, leaning forward to set the wine glass on the table. She glanced at Jett, finding him swallowing thickly.
“No, sir. I’m originally from New York.”
“Oh, yeah? We are, too,” Chris said, trying to calm everyone down. “When did you move here?”
“I’d say, what? About ten years ago?” Her father’s gaze was steady and unwavering as he stared back at Jett. Abbie’s head snapped to him. How did he know that?
“Ten years and three months,” Jett gritted out. Chris forced out a laugh, his eyes finding hers in a look that said, “What the fuck?”
“That’s pretty specific.” He looked between Jett and their father, his throat bobbing. “We’ve been here for?—”
“Twelve years,” Jett interrupted. “Abbie told me.”
“And did you tell Abbie where you lived before you moved here?” her father said casually. Her eyes narrowed as she looked from him to Jett.
“New York,” she said slowly.
“So, you do recognize me?” Jett leaned back in his chair, his fists tightly clenched in his fists.
“What?” She looked back at her father. “You know him?”
