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But still.
I’ve had other break-ups. I’ve survived every single one of them; and the fact that this one happens to involve a very famous, very talented, veryhotactor — who is currently standing in front of me with his gorgeous new/old girlfriend hanging off his arm — doesn’t make it any different.
No, it’s the fact that this man is the one I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with that’s making my heart do a plausible impression of a flamenco dancer, isn’t it?
“Lexie?” Jett asks, sounding veryAmerican,somehow,in the confines of the little cafe. “Lexie, what are you doing here?”
There’s a long silence, broken only by the clicking of the camera phones from the small crowd that’s assembled behind Jett and Violet, all chattering excitedly about howuh-may-zingit is to be this close to their idols. I realize my mouth is hanging open unattractively, and snap it closed just as Brenda comes thudding ponderously out of the kitchen to glare at us all.
“Out,” she bellows at the fans, in the way only she can. “All of you.”
The teenagers murmur their dissent, but none of them are quite brave enough to take on Brenda, so they surge back outside in a flurry of cargo pants and expensive trainers, then stand looking through the shop window, as if it’s a giant TV set.
All the world’s a stage, right enough.
“I’m… I’m working,” I say, as brightly as I can manage, when only Jett and Violet are left. “What areyoudoing here?”
“Lexie—” Jett begins, then trails off awkwardly, his dark green eyes, fringed with impossibly dark lashes, still fixed on mine. He’s dressed casually, as always, in a dark sweatshirt and baseball cap, which I know he likes to try to hide behind. It’s not working, though. I don’t think the baseball cap’s been invented that could make Jett Carter look evencloseto ordinary.
Or that could make me feel likeI’meven close to being over him.
Dammit.
He’s gorgeous in a way that makes him seem not quite real: as if his presence alone is filling the entire room, and making it impossible to do anything else but stare at him. But he’s also familiar in a way that makes my arms ache from the effort of keeping them by my sides, rather than reaching out for him.
I can’t believe he’s here.
I can’t believe he’s not mine.
I can’t believe there’s a small army of teenagersandhis rumored new girlfriend witnessing every painfully awkward second of this “reunion”. Seriously, though, how unfair isthat?
“Hello, Lexie,” says Violet coolly, when it becomes obvious that Jett isn’t going to be answering my question any time soon.She, at least, clearly isn’t going to bother pretending we’re all great friends here. I have to respect that about her. It makes it easier to hate her. And Idohate her; Violet with her creamy, flawless skin, her smooth dark hair, and those huge eyes of hers that aren’tquitethe color her name suggests (I’m 92% sure she changed her name at some point before she got famous, and has lied about it ever since), but close enough for me to have always suspected she wears colored contact lenses to help them along.
No one has eyes that color, surely?
Or a waist that small?
Or a nose that turns up so perfectly at the end that it looks like it’s designed to be kissed?
I really,reallyhate her. I will hate her until I die. Maybe even longer, if the afterlife turns out to be real. (Which I’m secretly hoping it won’t; I have a feeling I won’t be destined for The Good Place if it is.)
Jett’s eyes flick back to mine just in time to see this thought cross my face. For a second, his beautiful mouth turns up at the edges, as if he’s about to laugh. Then Violet ostentatiously clears her throat to get his attention, and instantly the mask comes down. I see it happen; Jett-the-man becoming Jett-the-actor again; emotions hidden, everything tightly controlled. I recognize it because I’ve seen him do it so many times before: just… never tome, is all.
“Jett wanted to show me this place,” says Violet, looking around as if she’s scared she might catch something from her surroundings. (Which is really unfair: The Wildcat’s only been closed down once for hygiene reasons, and that wasyearsago now.) “He said it wascute. I’m not sure I agree, though. Are youreallyworking here?”
Her eyes seem to get even wider, if that’s possible, and she gives the word “working” an inflection that makes it sound like she’s accusing me of doing something too unsavory to mention.
“Working?” I reply vaguely, as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, and didn’t just utter the word myself a few short minutes ago. “God, no, I’m just… I’m just helping out. Brenda and Ronnie are old friends of mine.”
I look at Brenda imploringly, willing her not to contradict me on this, even though it’s blatantly untrue. She stares back, unmoved. She has a large blob of grease clinging to her bosom, and she smells like fried fish. From the way Violet’s wrinkling her perfect little nose in my direction, I suspect she’s not the only one.
I really wish I’d washed my hair this morning. And that I wasn’t wearing a nauseatingly frilly pink apron over the leggings and t-shirt I also wore for my shift at The Crown yesterday.
Jett still hasn’t spoken again since he asked me what I was doing here. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking. I used to know just by looking at him. He was the same with me. It was as if we shared a brain at times, only in a way that was much less creepy than I’ve made that sound. Iknowhim, is what I’m trying to say. Or, at least, Idid.
But I don’t know him any more. That much is apparent from the carefully neutral expression on his face; the one he uses when he doesn’t want you to know how hereallyfeels.
I didn’t ever think I’d be put in that category. I suppose it’s what I deserve after everything that happened back in L.A.
