Jett snuck upstairs at one point during the evening to move his stuff out of the spare room and into mine, but I can’t stop worrying in case he’s left something behind that will tell Mum that’s where he’s been sleeping — and don’t even get me started about how I feel about having to sleep next to him all night.
After our conversation earlier, though, I can see there’s no other option, so once Mum’s finally retired for the night, I quickly tidy up downstairs while Jett uses the only bathroom in the house. By the time I emerge from it myself, wearing an over-sized t-shirt with ‘My Friend Went to Heather Bay And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt’ on the front (Mum’s idea of a joke, a few Christmases ago) and an anxious expression that I can’t seem to wipe off my face, he’s already tucked up in my double bed, with a pillow placed in the middle of it, to form a barrier between us.
“I know you’re not exactly keen on the idea of bed sharing,” he says, grinning up at me from the book he’s picked up from my bedside table. “So I thought this might reassure you that I’m not going to try to jump you during the night.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I tell him, standing awkwardly by the bed. “You’re a true gentleman. You’re on the wrong side of the bed, though. That’s my side. I always sleep on the right.”
“Well, whaddya know,Ialways sleep on the right too,” says Jett, feigning astonishment. “What are the odds? I guess we have something in common after all.”
I pick up the pillow and throw it at him.
“It’s a good job we’re not a real couple,” I tell him primly. “We’d never get any sleep if we were.”
“There definitely wouldn’t be much sleep going on,” he says suggestively, looking me up and down. “Nice… gown. Is that what that is?”
“It’s a t-shirt,” I point out. “And I wish you’d stop doing that, by the way.”
“Doing what?”
“Theflirting. It’s… it’s inappropriate.”
Jett’s brow creases.
“Sorry,” he says, giving me his puppy-dog eyed look. “I don’t think I even know I’m doing it.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
I sigh dramatically, to hide my disappointment. I wanted him to say he was flirting because he meant it. Because he wanted to. But he doesn’t, and I watch as he gets out of bed and shuffles around to the other side, carefully replacing the pillow barrier first.
“The least I can do,” he says, getting back in and pulling the duvet up to his chin. It’s too late, though. I’ve already seen the plain boxers he’s wearing with his t-shirt (Which is a much better fit on him than mine is on me), and it’s not exactly an image that’s going to make it any easier for me to get to sleep. Again, though, it’s not like I have a choice here, so I switch off the light and get into bed, settling gratefully into the warm patch he’s left behind.
“Tell me a story about Lexie,” Jett says, rolling onto his side once I’m lying down. “One that doesn’t involve burning things down, maybe.”
“Nuh-uh,” I tell him firmly. “I’ve told you plenty about me. It’s your turn now. Tell me a story about Jett. One no one else knows.”
“I can’t tell you that,” he replies, his tone teasing. “Then you’d know all my secrets.”
“You can trust me with them,” I say into the darkness. “And anyway, the secrets you tell late at night don’t count; just like the calories you eat standing up, or the glass of wine you drink on Christmas morning. They’re allowed.”
There’s a silence so long I wonder if he’s fallen asleep.
“All of those things count, Lexie,” he says at last. “You can’t make something not count just because you don’t want to think about it.”
He sounds sad. I didn’t want to make him sad.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, suppressing the urge to reach out and comfort him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
“There is something I want to tell you,” he says, his voice low. It’s so dark in the little room that I can only see the outline of his profile as he stares up at the ceiling. I have a feeling that if I say anything at all right now, it’ll ruin the moment, and make him withdraw back into himself, so instead I say nothing, and just lie there on my side, watching him in the darkness, my body tense with the anticipation of what he’s about to tell me.
“All the girls you’ve seen me with,” he says. “The ones I date.”
I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. I’m aware of his lengthy dating history. Everyone is. It’s the reason we got into this fake-dating arrangement in the first place; to convince people that he doesn’t see women as disposable. That not all of them are just one-night stands to him.
“They’re not really… I’m not really…”
“They’re not real?” I hazard a guess, forgetting my resolution not to interrupt him. “They were all just fake relationships, too?”
“No,” he says, annoyed. “Believe it or not, you’re my first ever fake girlfriend, Lexie. This is as weird to me as it is to you.”
