I don’t say anything about all the stuff from the mystery “source”. That bit about Jett wanting to settle down. I know it’s made up. I suspect Grace is probably the “source” in question, and she’s just done her job and tried to add to the narrative we’ve created about Jett being a family man deep down.
It would be interesting if it was true, though.
“This really sounds like your mom is dying, though,” Jett insists, rubbing nervously at the stubble that’s starting to appear on his chin. “Aren’t you worried? I can’t believe you don’t seem more worried.”
“I’m not,” I sigh, realizing he’s not going to drop this. “She’s fine. I told you. The nurse at the hospital told me she’d be fine.”
“That was the phone call you got earlier?”
I nod.
“So, what’s wrong with her, then?”
Jett looks at me, the gold flecks in his eyes standing out under the artificial light.
“I’ve no idea,” I admit. “The nurse wouldn’t tell me. She said mum had specifically asked her not to, and they have to respect her wishes. Patient confidentiality and all that. She did tell me she’s not dying, though, and I believe her. Look, mum is a drama queen. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she was just pretending to have something wrong with her, for the attention. This stupid article has just confirmed that for me. It’s fake, Jett. Everything she says is fake. So don’t worry about it.”
I pause, tugging again at the fabric of my dress to try to loosen the shape wear underneath. I actuallyamstarting to feel a bit sick now. Is it too early to go home, I wonder? Or do I have to see this stupid Gala out to the bitter end?
“Okay. Well, as long as you’re sure.”
Jett doesn’t sound particularly convinced by my explanation, but from the way his eyes keep flicking to the door, I can tell he’s done thinking about it. He’s been on edge all evening, and even though I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to be here any more than I do, he’s so keen to play the dutiful son that Scarlett Scott’s stupid little article is the very last thing he needs.
Or that I need, for that matter.
“Ready?”
He twists the lock to open the bathroom door, and I nod reluctantly, before a wave of nausea makes panic rise up in my throat.
“Actually, on second thoughts, maybe you should just go on ahead,” I tell him, taking as deep a breath as my tight dress will allow. “I’m still feeling a bit sick. I think I need some air.”
“Wait, you’re actually feeling sick?” Jett replies, his eyes widening in surprise. “I thought you just made that up so you could get out of there and read that story?”
“I did,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “But now I’m feeling sick for real. I guess that’s what I get for lying.”
‘Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works, somehow,” says Jett wryly. “Think of all the things actors would have to go through if it was.”
He looks from me to the door, then back again, clearly caught between the desire to get the hell out of here, and the knowledge that he can’t just leave me here when I’m sick without looking like an asshole.
“Come on,” he says at last, holding out a hand. “I’ll take you outside to get some air, then we really need to get back to my folks, okay?”
The eyes that look into mine are filled with anxiety, and I feel a rush of sympathy for him.
Poor guy. All he wants is to make his dad proud of him, and now here he is, locked in a bathroom with a fake girlfriend about to throw up on him at any second because her underwear’s too tight.
As the absurdity of the situation hits me, I give a snort of laughter, which makes Jett jump in surprise.
“What are we laughing at?” he asks, smiling warily as my shoulders shake uncontrollably.
“This…” I gasp, holding my sides as I try to get a hold of the rapidly mounting hysteria. “Us. This whole situation. It’s… I mean, it’s not even remotely funny…”
“It isn’t,” he agrees.
“But it’s just… it’s just…”
It’s just one of those times when, once you start laughing, you can’t seem to stop yourself, is what I’m trying to say. One of those times when you end up laughingat your own laughterrather than whatever it was that started it in the first place. A kind of hysteria which, once it infects you, is impossible to shake off.
I want to say this, but as I look up at him, my eyes streaming with tears of laughter, I realize I don’t have to. Jett’s mouth curves up in a slow smile, and then, all of a sudden, he’s laughing along with me, both of us bent almost double in the tiny stall as we laugh like two people whoaren’tjust pretending to like each other. Like we’re actually havingfun. We laugh and we laugh, and for just a moment, it feels like we’re a team: like there’s aweinstead of just ameand ahim, and like this feeling could, quite possibly, last forever.
