by M. Leighton
Less than an hour later, Jet is pulling up at the curb in front of my tiny house. I don’t know why it feels so depressing when he shifts into park, but it does. It tells me that he’s not planning on staying. Or even coming inside. It tells me that he’s anxious to get away.
I don’t wait for him to come around and open my door. I get out quickly, reaching into the backseat for my overnight bag and my purse. When I straighten, Jet is there beside me, closing the door and taking the bag from my shoulder.
He walks me up the steps and takes my keys from me to unlock my front door. As I turn on the entry light, he leans in to set my bag in the floor by the console table against the wall. When he straightens, he’s still on the outside looking in.
From less than a foot away, I look up at Jet, watching him, trying to figure out what went wrong, and feeling heartbroken over the fact that it did. My chest gets tight and I feel tears threaten as my eyes scan his handsome face and his politely interested expression. Even though I’ve only ever had it happen once, I know when I’m getting ready to be gently dumped.
My smile is tremulous and my voice unsteady when I speak, facts that I wish more than anything that I could take away.
“Thank you for showing me New Orleans,” I say simply.
Jet is silent for well over a minute. Then he surprises me by stepping forward. Cupping my face in his hands, he bends to brush his lips over mine. My heart, my soul, everything that I am melts into a puddle like butter on a hot stove.
When he raises his head to look down at me, I’m certain I’ve never seen something more beautiful—and more gut-wrenching—than his face.
“Thank you for coming with me. I had an amazing time.”
He smiles down at me. In the gesture, I read the words THE END.
I swallow my emotions in one difficult gulp.
“I did, too.”
“I’ll call you,” he says, already backing away.
I nod, unable to force one more syllable past the lump in my throat.
Jet taps the doorjamb, near the dead bolt, as he pulls my door shut. “Lock up.”
Again, I nod, determined to keep my smile in place until he’s out of sight.
Out of sight, out of mind, I think wistfully.
Unfortunately, I know deep down that the age old adage will not apply to me. Jet will never be out of my mind.
Never.
THIRTY-SIX: Jet
As many shitty days as I’ve had, I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt worse. About everything.
Looking back over the last couple of days, I can pinpoint several great things. But now, less than forty-eight hours later, every single one of them has gone to hell.
I got a call from Kick Records on Friday, a call that I knew might change my life. This afternoon, I got another call from them, letting me down easy.
I had just gotten out of the shower with Violet, which was a helluva good thing, when I saw the message light blinking on my phone. It was that asshole Rand telling me that, although I have some talent, I’m just not what they’re looking for.
That started a cascade of other shitty things, the first of which was the realization that I’ll have to either play more gigs with the band until I can get some interest elsewhere, or I’ll have to give up music altogether and finish school. I don’t like either of those options.
But that wasn’t even the worst part of it. As I stared at the closed bathroom door and listened to Violet humming happily in the shower, I thought back to her confession. I wasn’t even mad about it anymore, which is good because I had no right to be. No, I thought about how brave she was for telling me, about what a good person she is. Deep down, she’s a really good person—unlike me. I’ve done some pretty despicable things, and I don’t even have the decency to confess them to her. Because I’m a bastard and I don’t deserve her. I can’t bring one good thing to her life. Not one. I’m a piece of crap for messing around with her to begin with.
But the worst part was how I felt about my decision to go forward. Rather than doing the decent thing and leaving her the hell alone, or doing the conscionable thing and telling her what she deserves to know, I decided I’m going to keep seeing her. I’m going to keep my secrets, because she’d hate me if she knew. And, in the end, I’d rather risk hiding things from her than giving her up. I can’t let her go.
Because I’m a bastard.
Still, it’s a jagged pill, and I found myself choking on it more and more as the day wore on. So here I am, walking away from Violet, yet promising her I’ll call. Which I shouldn’t do. But I know I will.
Because I’m a bastard. And I want her. More than anything, including my soul, which will surely burn for doing this to her.
But will it stop me? No.
Why? Because I’m a bastard.
THIRTY-SEVEN: Violet
“Are you kidding me? What an asshole!” Tia blusters.
“I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, how stupid am I? He’s a twenty-six-year-old playboy. He’s even in a rock band. And he’s a sex addict, for God’s sake!”
“But he seemed like such a nice guy . . .”
“I should’ve known better.”
“Violet, you can’t refuse to take any kind of risk on the off chance you might get hurt. That’s ridiculous! You can’t live like that.”
“Why not? I’ve gotten along just fine for twenty-two years.”
“Oh, yeah right. And what a spectacular life you’ve led.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my life, Tia.”
“Of course there’s not. It’s perfectly normal to have only one friend. It’s perfectly normal to surround yourself with broken people that eat up your time being unfixable. It’s perfectly normal to have zero social life to speak of.”
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve dated. I’ve gone to bars. I’ve done things. But it’s never worth the aggravation. Avoiding it isn’t pathetic, Tia. It’s prudent.”
“I didn’t say you were pathetic, Vi,” she says, her tone rife with regret. “You’re far from pathetic. But I know you well enough to know that you’re miserable.”
I feel my chin tremble. “I didn’t used to be.”
“Maybe you think you weren’t, but you were. Violet, you watched everyone else live and you stood on the sidelines, waiting for your chance to pick up the pieces when things fell apart for them. Myself included. But that’s no way to live. You have to have something for yourself. You have to have something else to live for.”
“And risk feeling like this?” I murmur woefully. “No thank you.”
“What I don’t understand is why you’re just letting it end this way. Why don’t you confront him? Ask him what the hell?”
“Now that would be pathetic!”
“That’s not pathetic. That’s strong. That would be you taking charge and letting him know you’re not some piece of garbage that he can so blithely toss aside. Because you’re not, Vi! You’re the best thing that has ever happened to him, and if he can’t see that, he’s not just an asshole. He’s a frickin’ stupid asshole.”
“No, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.”
“Don’t look at it that way. Look at it as you taking charge, growing a pair, taking life by the horns.”
“I already do that.”
“No, you don’t. You hide.”
“I don’t hide.”
“Yes, you do. Can’t you just trust me on this?”
“Ummm, no. I don’t need to feel any worse than I do right now.”
“I bet you a Sherpa that you’d feel better afterward, regardless of what he says.”
“Tia, you don’t have a Sherpa.”
“But if I did, I’d bet that woolly, mountain bastard that you’d thank me later.”
I shake my head, even though Tia can’t see it over the phone.
“I think you’re nuts.”
“So what’s new?” Tia sighs. “At least tell me you’ll think about it.”
&n
bsp; “Fine,” I say, giving in just to shut her up. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good God, Vi, for once in your life, don’t think so much.”
“You just told me to think about it.”
“But what I meant was for you to just do it. Can’t you just ‘do’? Just this once?”
“It’s not that easy, Tia.”
“It’s exactly that easy, Violet.”
I sigh again. I foresee this conversation being repeated again and again until I give up or stick hot pokers into my eardrums.
“Just go by one night before he has a gig or something. You know where he’ll be. You’ll surprise the shit out of him. And maybe you’ll even get an answer. But if not, you’ll walk away, and he’ll be thinking, ‘Damn! That bitch has some balls!’ And he’ll respect you for it. Any wuss can let herself be treated this way and say nothing about it. Only a woman with a strong sense of self-worth will call a guy on his crap. To his face. Don’t be the wuss, Vi!”
I say nothing for a few seconds. For once, I can actually kinda see her point.
* * *
As I sit in the quickly filling parking lot of a club in Summerton, the only one across from Brass that boasts a sign saying that Saltwater Creek is playing tonight, I replay the conversation with Tia in my head. She had me feeling convinced she was right at the time. But now, now that I’m staring at the place where this showdown will actually occur, I’m wondering how in the world I ever saw wisdom in Tia’s advice.
But I know I did. And that my reluctance now is probably just nerves.
I haven’t heard a word from Jet since he dropped me off on Sunday night. It’s Wednesday, which is only a few days later, but when our last run-in involved a weekend of sex followed by his quick emotional withdrawal, it might as well have been a month. To my heart, it feels like it. And I need to know why. I need this for myself. So I can get over it and move on.
Even though I know that will likely be a process that could take months or maybe years, if it ever even happens.
Minutes tick by until they become an hour. Then two. I know my window of opportunity is closing quickly. I missed my chance to talk to him before the show. Now my only option is to wait until after. Or don’t do it at all. This is the only place I know of that I can ambush him, because I’m sure as heck not going back to a meeting!
Taking a deep breath, I get out of my car and close and lock the door. Boldly, I walk into the club, paying the cover charge to hear only a couple of songs. I know the set will soon be over since I waited so long.
I go to the bar and order myself a Coke, finding a nice dark corner to stand in and watch Jet perform. He’s amazing, as usual. Something about watching him, watching him work the crowd, and listening to him, listening to the rough rasp of his voice, is mesmerizing. I can completely understand why the women in the crowd want to touch him, to get close to him, why they’d risk getting thrown out just for a moment onstage with him.
But how many of them get thrown out? How many of them just end up backstage, as toys for the band?
My stomach roils and I close my eyes against the ache in my chest, against the knowledge that maybe I was just one of these girls. Maybe I was just one of many who couldn’t stay away from the flame. And got burned. And now he’s up there, wings spread, shining brightly, while I’m down here, hurt and alone.
Determination wells inside me. I’m not just like them. And I’m not going to let him treat me as if I am. I won’t let him just discard me without so much as a by-your-leave. It’s with that in mind that, when Jet finishes the last song, I skirt the crowd and make my way to the door that leads backstage.
Thankfully Trent is there, guarding the entrance. Thankfully, Trent remembers me. He smiles and opens the door to let me go back.
The hall is empty but for a few random people. I smile, holding my head high like I’m supposed to be here, and I aim for the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. This one isn’t guarded, so I turn the knob and slip through. There’s a small anteroom, furnished with a thin couch and coffee table. Both are empty. Beyond the tiny room, I can see light, and I can hear the rowdy voices of the band.
I make my way slowly forward, listening.
“Hell yeah it was! And dude, you were definitely on with your vocals tonight. We might just have to kick Jet to the curb and put you up front instead.”
There is laughter.
“God no! We can’t get rid of him. Nobody brings the women like him, man.”
More laughter and agreement.
“At least he could. He’s off his game since he started attending those bullshit meetings.”
“I am not,” I hear Jet’s familiar voice say.
“Actually, bro, you are. Who would’ve thought one simple bet could bring a bucking bronco like you down?”
“Nothing has—”
“Look,” the strange voice continues, “you made your point. We thought even you weren’t that bad. None of us thought you’d actually go to one of those meetings and pick up a sex addict. I mean, shit, dude! That’s cold! But damn if you didn’t prove us wrong. You won the bet. You bedded a damn nympho. You’re the king of all players, the big dick around here. We bow down to you and shit. Blah, blah, blah. Now stop pretending you’re pussy-whipped and get back to bringing the strange.”
My feet weigh a million pounds as I drag them around the corner to look at the band members sprawled about the room. They’re all here—laughing at my expense—but for Jet, who must be in the bathroom.
You won the bet.
I see them with perfect clarity, but I no longer hear them. I hear only the words they’ve already said, ringing through my head, an unstoppable noise. An earsplitting scream.
You bedded a damn nympho.
Stop pretending.
I hear only the beating of my heart and the tearing of my soul. I’m in a daze of pure agony as I look from one laughing man to another. No one notices I’m here. No one bothers to look around, until the drummer throws his head back to laugh at something and happens to glance in my direction. His expression falls and he whips his head around, surprised and sheepish.
I stare blankly at him. I feel nothing. Not even humiliation. I’m numb. Completely and utterly numb.
I watch him throw whatever is in his hand at the guy in front of me. He’s sitting with his back to me, but I recognize him when he turns. It’s Sam, the bass player. Both of them just watch me, like they’re watching a car accident unfold right before their eyes.
And I feel like that car accident. I feel the metal of my world caving in around me. I sense the devastating injuries. But I don’t feel their pain. I’m still in shock. The hurt will come later.
I see their mouths moving, but I don’t hear anything more than the gush of blood as it pulses through my veins. The whole scene is surreal. And devastating.
On stiff legs, I pivot to walk back the way I came. Just before I round to the anteroom, from the corner of my eye I see Jet step back into the room.
Quickly, I turn away, holding tight to the fragile pieces bound by nothing more than a delicate thread, and I run. I run as fast as I can.
THIRTY-EIGHT: Jet
Holy mother of shit!
“Was that . . . ?” I ask Sam as I catch a glimpse of dark hair and see a familiar profile disappear around the corner. I’d recognize that beautiful face anywhere, but I’m hoping for all I’m worth that it didn’t belong to who I think it did.
Sam is grinning and nodding. “Sure was.”
“Why the hell are you laughing?”
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. It just seems funny that you got busted. What difference does it make?”
“Are you kidding me? She’s gonna hate me, damn you!”
“So? Like you care.” He laughs again.
“Sam, I’d shut that hole right now before I come over there and beat your ass.”
Sam holds up his hands in surrender, but I can still see that shitty smirk around his mouth.
As I s
tand in the doorway, astounded, looking around at the other members of the band, I realize something that’s pretty damn sad. They’re all good guys, deep down. They like their fun and they like their women, but basically they’re all decent people. They would never have done what I did. Not one of them would ever have dreamed of attending a sex addicts meeting to prove a point, or to tap some nympho ass just to win some stupid, thoughtless bet. None of them believed that even I could be that cold. Because it’s the shittiest thing in the world to do.
And I did it.
Because, in a room full of decent people, I’m the only real asshole here.
I take off after Violet. For a million reasons, the first of which being that I can’t picture my life without her in it. And I have no desire to try.
THIRTY-NINE: Violet
I keep my head down and move as quickly as I can back through the crowd and out the front doors. When the night air slaps me in the face, the dam bursts and I feel the tears come. And in the quiet privacy of the deserted parking lot, I let them fall.
I thought I’d been hurt when Jet had cooled so much on the trip back from New Orleans, but that is nothing compared to this. These feelings of betrayal and humiliation and devastating heartbreak are enough to steal my breath. It’s because I’m gasping and trying to choke back sobs that I don’t hear my name at first.
I don’t know how many times he calls before I hear him, but finally, I do. And I recognize the voice. Sometimes I think I’ll never be able to forget it.
“Violet! Violet, wait!”
My heart lurches in my chest. I don’t want to talk to Jet right now. Maybe not ever again. I feel so stupid and so embarrassed and so deceived that I want to crawl in a hole and die.
I pick up the pace and run for my car.
His voice gets louder and louder, closer and closer, his longer legs eating up the distance between us.
“Violet, stop! Wait.”
When I reach my car, I pause, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I tug them out and notice that my hand is shaking as I depress the remote unlock button. But I’m not fast enough. Before I can wrench open the car door, Jet is grabbing my arm.