“You really don’t like the pier much, do you?” I ask awkwardly as we make our way through the crowds on the boardwalk, walking close enough to touch, but notactuallytouching. Because that would be too much, apparently.
“I like the pier fine,” he replies through gritted teeth. “It’s all the people I don’t like.”
He has a point. Santa Monica Pier is crowded even at the best of times, but today it feels like half of the city has decided to come here, and now that Jett’s revealed himself to be evenlessof a people person than I am, I suspect that’s going to be a problem. Especially when the people in question are all gaping openly at us and jostling for space around us until I feel like I’m going to scream.
“Maybe we could go on the Ferris wheel?” I suggest timidly. “At least it would get us out of this crowd?”
“Fine,” Jett says tersely, after a short pause, during which he looks like he’s thinking about just jumping into the water and escaping that way. “Let’s get it over with.”
Then he turns on his heel and marches off in the direction of the Ferris wheel, not bothering to wait and see if I’m following.
As romantic moments go, this is right up there with the time I went to get braces on my teeth and threw up all over Mike-the-dentist. At least Mike wasniceabout that, though. Jett, on the other hand, is acting like he’s been forced here at gunpoint, and the awkwardness only intensifies as we climb aboard one of the little brightly colored carriages that will take us soaring above Santa Monica. It gets worse still as we begin our ascent.
Who would’ve thought things could getworse?
The view is glorious, even from a short way up. The boardwalk recedes below us, making the people on the beach below it look like they’re in a Gray Malin photo. The coast stretches out on both sides, and I feel like a little kid again, watching the landscape unfurl below us as the ride lifts us higher into the cloudless blue sky.
God, I love funfairs.
Jett, on the other hand… well, not so much, it would appear.
My fake boyfriend sits opposite me, his arms crossed and his body rigid. I can’t see his eyes behind the dark glasses he’s wearing, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’re closed.
Is he actuallysleepingon our date?
Ourfakedate, I mean?
Even so. I know it’s not a real date, but I’m still a realperson— despite what I know McTavish back home says about me — and the very least he could do would be to have the courtesy to stay awake and talk to me.
Leaning forward, I prod him sharply in the stomach, making the little carriage rock gently in the air.
“What the fuck?”
Jett jumps as if he’s been punched, but instead of anger, it’s fear I detect in his voice. And also in the way he immediately leans forward, his body huddled over, and his hands gripping the plastic seat until his knuckles turn white.
“Hey,” I say, leaning forward myself, until my head is level with his. “Are you okay? It’s just—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, not sounding remotely fine. “Just… just don’t move, okay? Like,at all.”
“Are you scared of heights?” I ask as realization dawns. “Seriously?”
I’m about to laugh, then I see the outline of The Crab Shack appear at the end of the pier, and clamp my mouth quickly shut again.
“You were the only one who didn’t share your deepest fear,” I say, remembering. “Is this it, then? You’re scared of heights?”
“It’s not mydeepestfear,” Jett says, turning his head cautiously to look up at me. “But yeah. I don’t like heights. Especially not really wobbly ones, where you’re suspended in a plasticbucket. I don’t understand why anyone does.”
“Because it’s fun,” I insist, risking a glance above the door of the carriage. “And the views are amazing.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
His skin is slightly green now, and he’s still clutching his seat like a lifeline. It makes him seem a bit morereal, actually. Less Jett Carter, movie star, and more… well, justJett, really. An actual human being, who just so happens to be famous.
This just in: celebrities are people too. Who knew?
Not me, anyway. So far, I’ve been so in awe of Celebrity Jett that I’ve almost been afraid to speak to him, knowing we could have absolutely nothing in common. This guy, though — the one with the white knuckles and the ‘get me out of here’ expression? This guy I can get along with.
“Here,” I say, holding out both hands. “I’ve got you.”
