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“Dream sequence,” says Jett, shrugging. “I think Duval saw the setting, with the ruined castle and all, and he got a bit carried away. The rest of it’ll be modern, though. I hope so, anyway; this thing’s a complete pain in the butt.”
I smile. We’re almost at my house already — perils of a small town — and I know I only have a few more minutes before he’s going to drop me off and drive away again. I feel like he’s always driving away from me now. And every single time I see him, I have this horrible feeling that it’s going to be the last time.
Which, of course, at some point it will be.
“Well, here we are.”
In the time it took me to start preemptively missing him, Jett’s pulled up outside the cottage, the driveway of which is unusually crowded. Mum’s beat-up little car is at the front, with two unfamiliar vehicles parked in a row behind it. I sit there in the passenger seat, looking at them both, my stomach somersaulting as I wonder which car belongs to which father, and how much I can tell about each of them from what they drive.
“Are you coming in?”
Jett’s unbuckled his seat belt, and is about to open the driver’s side door.
“Areyou?” I ask, surprised.
“You can barely walk, Lexie,” he points out. “And anyway; I’m hardly going to let you go through this on your own, am I?”
“You don’t have to, you know,” I tell him, feeling obliged to say this, even though there’s nothing I want more than for him to come with me. “I don’t suppose there’s much you can do.”
“You might be surprised.” He grins wryly. “I’ve had at least four people come forward claiming to be my siblings. I think I can spot a bullshitter when I see one.”
“You have? I didn’t know that?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, as if this happens to everyone. “When your dad is as famous as mine is, people are always coming forward saying they think they’re his secret love child. So far, none of them actually have been, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one out there, obviously.”
His mouth settles into a line, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch his hand.
Jett’s father, Charles Carter, is also an actor, and he wasalsoa renowned playboy back in the day; even more so than Jett himself, actually. The difference is that Jett’s reputation was almost entirely fictional, whereas Charles reallydiddo all the things people think he did. And a lot more than that, into the bargain.
So maybe Jett does know a little bit about what I’m feeling; and, okay, having a parent you can’t trust not to spring a secret family member on you isn’t exactly a normal way to bond with someone, but it’s not like anything else about my relationship with Jett has ever been particularly normal, so I probably shouldn’t complain.
“Okay, well, as long as you’re sure,” I tell him gratefully. “I could really do with the support. Literally, I mean — I really don’t think I can walk on my own.”
We get out of the car, and Jett helps me up the path, his sword clanking dramatically by his side and my lips still purple.
What an entrance.
Thank God the photographers aren’t here this morning. They’d absolutelylovethis little show.
Jett has one arm wrapped tightly around my waist to hold me up, and I’m clinging onto his arm for balance, which means that, when Mum comes rushing to open the door, the first thing she sees is the two of us standing there with our arms around each other, just like old times.
“Jett!” she says, her face lighting up at the sight of him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you! Not after the other night, when you had to carry Lexie into the house for me. Wait, she’s not drunk again, is she?”
She stops and looks at me suspiciously.
“Mum! Of course I’m not drunk,” I hiss indignantly, hoping the two dads are far enough away to not have heard that. “I hurt my ankle. Jett brought me home, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, that’s just lovely of you, Jett,” she coos, standing back to let us hobble inside. “I always said you were a real gentleman.”
“I’m fine, by the way,” I tell her as I pass. “No need to worry about me. No, really, don’t even mention it.”
She’s not listening, though; which is fair enough, because I’m really only talking because it’s preferable to thinking — and thinking doesn’t seem like something that’s going to end well for me at this precise moment.
The door to the living room is closed, and I stand there on the other side of it, almost as if it’s not my own house, and I’ve just been invited here by Mum, who’s still too busy fussing over Jett to take much notice of me.
“Well,” she says, finally focusing on me again. “Are we going in, or are you just going to stand out in the hall all day?”
I don’t really feel like Mum’s in a strong position to be giving out this level of sass, but that’s the very least of my worries.
