by Nina Levine
Jett’s behind me so I can’t see his face, but I can hear the scowl in his voice. “Fuck off, Van. So I had some drinks… my sister died, and I’m gonna deal with this however the fuck I want. And I don’t need you, of all people, in my face trying to tell me how to do it.”
Van’s face grows darker and he leans forward. “Don’t do this, Jett. Don’t become the asshole you hate.”
Jett stays quiet and simply tightens his hold on me. Finally, he says, “Can Presley and I have a minute?”
“Sure,” Van says, and takes a step away. “Just think about what I said, okay?”
I turn in Jett’s embrace to see him watching Van intently. It’s as if some form of silent communication is occurring between the two of them, and I don’t doubt there is. These two have an almost brother-like relationship; they’ve got years of experiences together shaping this conversation, and I can’t even imagine the half of it.
Van leaves, and after watching him for a few moments, Jett gives his attention to me. “Sorry about that,” he apologises.
“You don’t need to apologise, but I do think you two have a lot you need to talk about.”
“Always looking out for Van,” he scoffs, but I can tell he’s joking with me.
I want to ask him how he’s doing but I know that question won’t yield a good response, so I ask him something else to try and lead into what I really want to know. “How are your Mum and Dad doing?”
“Not so good. Dad just gave Mum a sleeping pill. She’s not coping at all, really.” He stops talking and contemplates that for a moment. “It’s hard enough losing a sister; I can’t even imagine the loss of a child.” The way his voice grows shaky causes a new round of sorrow for me. His family has been through so much. And while I feel deeply for his Mum, I am so concerned for the men in her family. While Monica wants to talk about Claudia, Steve and Jett have clammed up, and don’t want to engage in any real conversation about her, whether that is about her death or remembering her life.
“I don’t think your Dad is, either, Jett,” I suggest softly.
“No, he’s okay. He hasn’t broken down or anything, so I think he’s doing okay.”
“Breaking down isn’t a bad thing. It would probably do him good to get it all out.”
He’s looking at me like I have two heads, and my stomach sinks; he’s not getting this. “That’s not the way Dad copes, Presley.”
“Fair enough, you know him better than I do.” I decide that backing off is probably the best thing to do at the moment. Maybe I’ll give Michael’s advice a whirl after all.
“Will you be okay if I do the rounds with the family now?” He’s got a lot of extended family here today, and I know it’s important to him to make the time for them, so I nod.
“Yes, I’m going to go and help in the kitchen. You do what you need to, and I’ll be here when you’re done.”
He smiles, and my heart jumps a little because I haven’t seen a smile on his face for days. “Thank you,” he whispers before brushing a kiss across my lips and leaving.
As my gaze follows him walk away, the sight of Van watching him, too, distracts me. I knew there was more than meets the eye to that man. I just wonder how long it will take for him to show me who he really is.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up early and find Jett still asleep. He drank enough alcohol after the funeral to knock himself out and was fast asleep by seven thirty.
I lie next to him for a long time, just watching him and the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. At least an hour passes and just after nine, his phone rings and wakes him up.
He rolls to his side to reach out and find his phone on the bedside table but he knocks it on to the floor and mutters a swear word. Then as he fumbles around trying to reach it on the floor, he falls out of the bed.
“Fuck!” he roars when he hits his head on the corner of the table. “Motherfucking fuck,” he continues his tirade of obscenities as he tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees while at the same time trying to answer his phone. When it stops ringing, he’s finally on his knees with the phone at his ear but it’s too late. Staring at me through bloodshot eyes that betray the physical pain he is in, he swears again. “Fuck me!” And then he pelts the phone across the room. It hits the wall and smashes on its way down to the floor.
I raise my brows. “Well, that fixes that.”
He swings his gaze back to me. “Yeah, that fucking fixes that,” he mutters as he stands. It takes him some effort and a few more swear words before he’s on his feet, and then he stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Not a good start to the day.
I push the bed covers off and head out to the kitchen to make coffee. Jett’s going to need a lot of it today. And I may, too, just to be able to deal with his mood.
Expecting him to join me in the kitchen, I make two coffees and sit at the kitchen counter waiting for him. However, he doesn’t come. After giving him nearly ten minutes, I go in search of him, and am surprised to hear the sound of the shower when I enter the bedroom. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the capability to stand for any length of time in the shower.
Leaving him be, I grab my phone, make another coffee and sit in the sun on the balcony scrolling through Facebook while sipping my coffee. I’m engrossed in reading through Erin’s posts when Jett startles me.
“I’m going out for awhile. What are you up to today?” he asks as he joins me on the balcony, not taking a seat at the table, but rather standing near me, as if he can’t escape fast enough. He’s holding his keys and shuffling them from one hand to the other, all jittery.
I narrow my gaze and take a good look at his eyes. Still so bloodshot. And he’s in no state to drive. My inner turmoil makes my tummy cramp up. He should not be on the road so I’m going to have to say something, but at the same time, I don’t want him to think I’m constantly nagging him about shit. I am wiped out mentally from all the nagging I feel like I’ve been doing the last few days.
Standing, I try to form the right words. “Jett, you can’t drive. You’d still be over the limit and I hate to think what would happen if you crashed the car.”
His forehead creases into a frown. “I’m fine to drive.”
“No, you’re not. Trust me on this, please.”
We face off, and annoyance flashes in his eyes. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Let me drive you to wherever you want to go,” I suggest. I hold my disappointment with his behaviour in check; keeping in mind this is his grief causing his bad behaviour.
He slams the keys down on the table and glares at me. “Fuck it, I’ll call a taxi.” And with that, he turns and stalks out of his apartment.
I collapse into the chair and squeeze my eyes shut as the tears come.
This isn’t Jett.
This is his grief.
I repeat this over and over in my mind, but I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to put up with being treated this way.
29
Jett
I pace the studio as the words form in my mind. They’re close, but I can’t quite grasp them. Frustration takes over and I slam my hand down on the desk.
“For fuck’s sake, this should not be this fucking hard,” I mutter out loud.
Looking at the lines I already have down, I mentally curse myself. Four hours work for only five lines of a song? I’ve never had this much trouble writing a song.
I’ve never tried to write a song about my dead sister before.
Giving up for now, I decide coffee may help, so I close up the studio and head out to the café on the corner of the street to order one. The studio I’ve booked isn’t our usual recording studio, which is a relief. Everyone there and everyone at the café near it would know about Claudia and want to talk to me about her. Here, they may recognise me, but they don’t know me, so I’m hoping they’ll leave me alone.
And they do. Thank fuck.
I
almost inhale the coffee, it’s that damn good, and as I stare out of the café while drinking it, some lines come to me. Of course, I don’t have any paper, or a pen or even my phone to get them down, but I spot that the girl at the table next to me has what I need. She’s studying what looks to be psychology by the textbook she has open in front of her.
Leaning across to get closer to her, I catch her attention and ask, “Could I possibly borrow some paper and a pen?”
She scowls at me. “Dude, seriously… you just interrupted me in the middle of something really fucking important. Thanks very much.”
God. Bitch much? But I do still want a pen and paper so I paste a regretful look on my face and say, “Sorry, babe, but I desperately need pen and paper. I promise not to bug you again if you could help me out.”
“Did you really just call me babe?”
Fuck, she’s a tough one to crack. Usually women are not this hard. I hold my hands up defensively. “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “Why do you look like shit?” she asks, throwing me completely off track.
I stumble over the words. “Ah, it’s called a hangover.”
She shakes her head. “No, it looks like more than a hangover. Spill. If you want my pen and my paper, I wanna know what is wrong with you.” She shrugs. “We can call it research for my next psych assignment.”
Assessing her, I figure she’s not going to budge on this. She seems like that kind of chick – the kind who drives a hard fucking bargain for everything. Kind of like Presley usually is. “Fine, but can I have the pen and paper now before I lose the fucking line in my head?”
“What are you? A poet or something?”
My lips turn up in half a smile and I chuckle. “Something like that.” I hold my hand out and she gives me what I’ve asked for. I quickly scribble the two lines down and then look back up at her and give her what she’s after. “My sister just died and I’ve been a jerk to my girlfriend. You happy now?”
This chick is nothing like most people. Most people would listen to those words, say sorry for your loss, and leave you the fuck alone. This chick doesn’t. “Why are you being a jerk to your girlfriend?”
I stare at her. “Seriously? I tell you my sister died, and you still wanna talk to me, and all you wanna talk about is the fact I’ve been a jerk?”
She shrugs. She’s really into this shrugging. “I figure you’re covered where your sister is concerned, as in I bet everyone keeps asking if you’re okay. But I bet the only person who knows you’re being a jerk to your girlfriend is your girlfriend, so no one’s pulling you into line over that shit. The universe has aligned for you today, my friend, ‘cause I’m here to bust your balls and sort you out.”
Fuck me. Can this day get any worse? I put the pen down and cross my arms over my chest. Nodding at the spare chair at my table, I say, “You wanna settle in for this?”
She picks up her writing pad and pen and moves to my table. “Shoot,” she commands, pen poised.
“What the hell are you writing down?”
Raising her eyes to me, she answers, “I told you, this is research for my assignment.”
“I thought you were shitting me.”
She frowns and cocks her head. “What? You think I just ask random guys about their problems out of the goodness of my heart? Fuck no. I’ve got an assignment on men and I have to research how they deal with their shit. I took a gamble that you had shit going on when I asked you, and, low and behold, you do.”
Jesus, I should just get up and walk out right now.
I should.
But she’s intrigued me, and sucked me right in.
I lean forward. “I tell you what… we get question for question. I answer yours and you answer mine.”
Surprise colours her face. “This sounds interesting. I’m not really sure what you’d want to know about me, but sure.”
I nod. “You go first.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jett. And you?”
“Vivienne. So, why have you been a dick to your girl?”
“Because she’s on my case to talk about my sister.”
“And why does that cause you to be a dick?”
“Wait.” I hold my hand up. “Don’t I get the next question?”
“Nope. You didn’t answer my question fully, so until we get to the bottom of that question, you don’t get anymore.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, quietly impressed at her balls and not so quietly annoyed at her being like a dog with a bone over this. “I might just leave now, I think.” I’ve got pens and paper back at the studio and it’d be a lot easier to go back there than keep putting up with this just so I can use hers here. I unfold my arms and push my chair back so I can stand.
Her hand lands on my wrist as she tries to halt me. When my eyes meet hers, I see genuine concern there and that is the thing that stops me. “Jett, I bet you’re going through a lot right now and I also bet you’re shutting down and trying to deal with it all by yourself. Most of the men I’ve already interviewed admit they hate to talk about their stuff. But you know the thing I’ve discovered throughout this whole research project? There’s a reason why we shut down. And it’s not just men who do it. I also do it, but only when there’s something holding me back, something that scares the absolute shit out of me and makes me not want to admit stuff.” She pauses for a moment, her hand still on my wrist, and my attention remains completely on her. “What is your greatest fear here? What is keeping you from letting your girlfriend in?”
My heart beats faster in my chest, my head buzzes with confusion, and all I can do is stare at her while her words sink in. Suddenly, it’s stiflingly hot in here and I rub my forehead with the back of my arm. I have to get out of here so I stand. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go,” I mutter as I grab the paper with my two lines on it. I leave in such a blur that I don’t even know if she says anything as I leave.
What is your greatest fear?
Her words echo in my mind as I stride back to the studio.
I don’t even want to think about my greatest fear, let alone say it out loud.
* * *
Shit.
I double-check my watch to make sure I read it right, and, unfortunately, I did. It’s after seven at night, and I should have been home hours ago. I hadn’t made any promises but I can guess that Presley will be wondering where I am if she’s still at my place.
After my conversation with Vivienne, I spent a lot of the afternoon overthinking and overanalysing every damn thought in my head. I’m about ready to go insane. It completely threw me off track and as a result, I haven’t finished writing one song. Hell, I haven’t even finished half of it.
The taxi ride home takes less than twenty minutes, and as I ride the elevator up to my apartment, I briefly wonder if I want Presley to be there or not. On the one hand, I’m desperate to see her and touch her, but on the other hand, I’m not sure I can last through her questions much longer. I’m concerned I’m going to snap at her and that’s the last thing I want to do.
I unlock my door and step inside to find the apartment alive with light.
She’s here.
Closing the door softly, I hesitantly walk towards the kitchen, but when I get there, she’s nowhere to be seen. I search some more and find her reading on my bed. When she hears me approach, she lays her book on her chest and looks at me.
“Hi.” Her voice is soft, and I’m relieved not to hear any accusation or anger in it.
I give her a smile. “Hi, baby,” I say as I sit on the end of the bed and take my shoes off.
She doesn’t say anything else and I begin to feel sick to my stomach. She’s pissed at me. And rightly so. I was an asshole to her this morning. But fuck, to bring it up so I can apologise means opening a can of worms. And I don’t want to open that can of worms right now.
Instead, I turn to look at her and as my gaze skims her body, the need to be in her consumes me. I move up the bed so I�
�m over her. My breathing picks up as the anticipation of having her builds in me. Even the fucking t-shirt of mine she’s wearing turns me on. Seeing my woman in my shirt is one of the hottest things ever.
I run my finger over the exposed skin of her stomach where the shirt ends, and ask, “Have you got any idea how turned on I am right now?” My eyes are focused on hers and I fight the desire to rip the shirt and her panties off and thrust straight into her.
A look clouds her face, and I struggle to read it. Disappointment maybe. Or even annoyance. Her hands come to my chest and she pushes me off her and swiftly moves off the bed. Staring down at me, she says, “I may have fallen in love with you but I’m not loving the way you blow me off and then come home just to fuck me. God knows I’m all down for sex, but at the moment it’s beginning to feel like I only exist to you for that.”
Her words crawl all over me. Hurt, anger and disappointment prod at me and beg me to listen to what she’s saying, and I try, but my own anger and grief rear their heads and cause me to retaliate with awful words. Scooting off the bed, I stand in front of her and reply, “I think I deserve a little understanding this week, Presley. For fuck’s sake, my sister just died, and I’m trying to figure out how the hell to deal with that. You want to do all this talking about it, but did you ever stop and think about what I might want or need?”
This only serves to fire her up. “Don’t you realise that all I have been thinking about is what you want and need? I’m trying to be here for you, Jett, however you need me, but I think you’re avoiding me, and I’m not sure why.” Her eyes fill with a depth of hurt that whooshes through my stomach and makes me feel like the biggest bastard on Earth. Her voice cracks a little as she hugs herself and adds, “I don’t even care if you don’t talk to me about it, I just don’t want you to avoid me anymore. It makes me feel like shit.”