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“For fuck’s sake,” goes on Justin Duval, emerging as if from nowhere. “What’s this girl doing here? How did she get here? Where’s the security?”
In spite of his obvious outrage, his accent makes all of this sound more humorous than threatening. I barely even hear him, though, because as soon as I saw Jett and Violet all tangled up together like that, a little voice in my head started screaming in pain, and I’m not sure it’s ever going to stop.
My eyes blur with unshed tears as I turn and stumble blindly away from the scene — not that it matters, because it’s going to be burned into my retinas for the rest of my life now. Every time I close my eyes to sleep — orblink, even — I’m going to see Jett kissing Violet. I’m never going tonotbe seeing it, or thinking about it. This will be my life now, and all I can think about as I barge through the trees is that it’s going to be a very long, very lonely one, and that I’m never going to be able to watch a movie— or even use the internet — again for fear of seeing Jett and Violet locked at the lips.
I’m so busy thinking these painfully bleak thoughts that I don’t see the tree root in my path until I’m falling over it, my ankle twisting painfully as I pitch forward onto the pine needles which coat the ground.
It happens so fast I don’t even scream. One minute I’m on my feet, picturing all the ways Violet King could die a horrible death; the next I’m flat on my face in the dirt.
Which is a particularly apt metaphor for my life, actually.
Then, just as suddenly, I’mnotflat on my face anymore.
No, I’m being rolled onto my back, and there are arms around me; strong, familiar arms, which are attached to an equally familiar, muscular chest. I look up to see a pair of sea-green eyes looking into mine, and that’s when I realize I’ve died.
Who knew tree roots could be so lethal?
“Lexie,” says Jett frantically. “Lexie, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I want to tell him that yes,of courseI’m hurt. That him kissing Violet is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and that it’s so painful I can hardly breathe. But I have a feeling we’re probably not alone, so I scramble silently into a sitting position — nottooquickly, though: I don’t want him to think I don’t need those arms of his around me — and gesture weakly to my ankle, which is still throbbing.
At least that’s one thing I’m not going to have to lie about, then.
“Can we get a doctor here?” snaps Jett, confirming my suspicion that it’s not just me and him in these woods. “I think she’s hurt.”
“I’m a first aider,” replies another voice, from somewhere behind me. “Here, let me take a look.”
Jett continues holding me as the woman who spoke crouches down beside us and gently eases my trainer off to look at my ankle.
Please God, let me be wearing the socks that don’t have holes in them today. I promise I’ll be good from now on, if you do this one thing for me. I’ll start believing in you and everything.
There’s a tense silence (At least it feels tense to me) as the first-aider turns my foot this way and that, asking me to tell her when it hurts. I allow myself to lean into Jett’s embrace, relishing the familiar scent of his aftershave. I can feel his lips brushing against my hair as he asks the woman for her verdict, and it reminds me of the way he used to kiss me on the top of the head while we were watching TV together, or cooking, or doing just aboutanything, really.
But now we’re sitting on the damp ground in a forest, and he’s just been kissing his ex-girlfriend, so it’s notreallylike that at all, is it?
It’s never going to be like that again; and that fact is way more painful than any ankle could ever be.
“It’s definitely not broken,” says the first-aid woman at last, getting to her feet. “I think it’s just sprained. If you put an ice-pack on it and make sure you keep it elevated for a few hours, it should start to feel better soon.”
I’m oddly disappointed by this. In the short time we’ve been sitting here, I’d been starting to imagine Jett rushing me to hospital, then bringing me home to nurse me back to health himself. Sticking a packet of frozen peas on my ankle while sitting at home alone doesn’t seem nearly as romantic, somehow.
I wish I could have fallen harder.
“See, she’s fine,” says a female voice from above me. “Can we get back to filming this scene now? Didn’t you say we’d start losing the light soon, Justin?”
The first-aider steps aside and I see Violet standing opposite me and Jett, at the center of a small crowd of onlookers, which includes Justin Duval, and at least one of the three witches. Either that or it’s just someone having a really bad hair day. Violet’s wearing a long black puffer coat over her pink dress now, and her red lips look slightly swollen: probably from all the kissing she’s been doing with my boyfriend.
Myex-boyfriend.
Oh, hell to the no.
Nobody puts Lexie in the corner.
“Jett, I don’t feel very well,” I say suddenly, adding a delicate little wobble to my voice. “I think I’m going to faint.”
Jett leans over me, his eyes filled with concern. I have to resist the urge to smile up at him. I don’t think a dying — or fainting, even — woman wouldsmile, would she?
“Her lipsdolook purple,” says someone else, doubtfully. “That’s not a good sign, is it?”
