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He downs his second glass of whiskey and goes in for another refill.
He’s nervous, I suddenly realize. I’m making him nervous. Or is it something else that’s making him look at me like that from over the rim of his glass?
“I was never using you, Jett,” I say, my heart quivering with sadness at the thought of him even thinking that about me.“Never. I swear. And I’ve never lied to you, either, so you can trust me when I say that.”
I lean forward, trying to get him to look at me. It’s very important that I make him believe me on this. It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world.
“I know we’re not together anymore,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster; which isn’t alot, under the circumstances, but still. “But you have to believe that I would never use you for anything. That’s why I gave you back the money after… well, after it ended.”
I grab hold of my wine glass like it’s that door Rose clings to in Titanic. Jett frowns, his dark eyebrows coming together in a way I really shouldn’t be finding sexy right now, but which is, nevertheless, almost unbearably sexy.
“Money?” he says vaguely. “I don’t know what you mean. But I don’t care about money, Lexie. Other people do, though. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This guy on the news… He might be on the level, and he might not. He might be your pop, and he might not. But, even if he is, you shouldn’t discount the possibility that he could be using you to get to me. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to me, you know? And I have to make sure you know that.”
Ah. Right. So that’s why he insisted on driving me here tonight. It wasn’t because he was worried about me, and how I might cope with this emotional landmine that’s just gone off in my life. It’s because he was worried about himself, and whether he might stand to lose something — money — from me and my drama.
Typical Lexie, always giving him some other problem to fix.
My glass has somehow refilled itself without me noticing. I pick it up, telling myself this will definitely be the last one.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit suss that this guy went to the news first, rather than coming straight to you?” Jett persists, refusing to let the subject drop.
I shrug. To be totally honest, I do think that’s a bit strange. I thought it as soon as I saw the news reports. It’s not like I’m hard to find. Thanks to the way my relationship with Jett kept making headlines, all you have to do is Google my name, and you can find out more or less anything you want to know about me. Some of it’s even true, too.
So, yeah, I guess this is all more than a little bit “suss”, as Jett puts it.
I don’t want it to be, though. I want Jett to be wrong for once. I want the kind-faced man on the news to really be my dad; and to really want to meet me — forme, not just because he thinks I might have a hot-line to Jett Carter’s bank account.
None of that seems particularly likely, though, so we fall silent, both of us sipping our drinks, neither of us knowing what to say next. And there’s so much I want to say to Jett. I want to ask him if he’s really seeing Violet now; and, if he is, if it was her all along for him, or if there was ever so much as a chance that it might have been me. I want to tell him that, for me, it was only ever him. That there hasn’t been a single day since I left California when I haven’t thought about him, and wanted to come back. I want to apologize for yesterday — not for upsetting Violet, because I still think she deserved it — but for causing yet another scene to embarrass him.
I’ve always been very, very good at embarrassing him. It’s the closet thing I have to a talent.
(While I’m on the subject, I should probably also apologize for the deep-friend Mars bar I made him take. Thatwaskind of cringe, now I think of it.)
I don’t say any of those things, though. Instead, I just sit there and drink my wine, watching Jett’s face from my seat opposite him.
“So,” he says, topping up our glasses yet again. “You and McTavish, huh? Didn’t see that one coming.”
Of course: Jett knows McTavish. He met him the first time he came to Heather Bay, and McTavish briefly acted as a bodyguard, to try to help us keep the paps at bay — not that it worked.
“It’s not what you think,” I say, alarmed to find that I’m slurring my words slightly. “He’s justhelpingme. He’s fixing my car. And my doorbell. And I think maybe my shower, only I can’t remember if I asked him about that or if I justthoughtabout asking him. This wine is really, really good. Do you want some?”
“He’s a stand-up guy,” says Jett tightly, waving away the bottle of wine which I thrust into his face. “A real prince.”
He says the word “prince” the way… well, the way I once famously said “bawbag.” Not that I want to remind him of that.
“You can’t say that about him,” I start to tell him, before breaking off mid-sentence.
Is hejealous? OfMcTavish? Even after I just told him he’d only been around so much lately because of the car, and… whatever else I said that I’ve already forgotten.
This wine reallyisexcellent.
“Sorry,” mutters Jett, who doesn’t sound even remotely sorry. “I wouldn’t want to insult yourboyfriend.”
This time, there’s absolutely no denying it.
He’s jealous. He’s definitely jealous.
Somewhere deep inside me, a tiny spark of hope lights up, and I do my best to dampen it down before it can take hold.
