Chapter 9
nine
. . .
hadley
I didn’t mean to touch him. It just happened—instinct, maybe. His dad passed away, and suddenly, my hand was on his, offering something like comfort. “Oh, Jett, I’m so sorry. He was such a nice man.”
My thumb automatically rubs over his finger, and he winces, like he’s been shocked. “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
It’s been fifteen years, but I know Jett. “Don’t lie to me.”
He blinks. “Right.” For some reason, that word is covering more than just what’s going on with his hand. His jaw flexes. “I got a splinter when I opened the gate.”
I stand. “I’ve got some tweezers in my bathroom. Let me take it out.”
“Nah, I’ll get it later.” He waves me off. The big baby.
“Jett Monroe, come on. Do you want it to get infected?”
His lips form a pout that is so cute, I want to just cross the distance, take his face in my hands, and kiss him. The image plays in full color, right down to the part where I pass out from the awesomeness of the kiss.
I hold in a foot stomp and refocus. He’s got a splinter, and I need to keep my imagination and my lips to myself.
He groans and stands, shuffling his feet as he follows me through the house to my bathroom. As I dig out the tweezers, he leans his hip against the counter and looks at his finger.
“How could something so small hurt so bad?” He hisses and shakes out his hand.
With tweezers in hand, I wave for him to give me his hand. After just a little work, I grab the end of the splinter with the tweezers and slide it out. It’s almost like one of those videos on MugBook where they pull out a splinter, and it’s the size of a house.
“Geesh,” he says. “No wonder it felt huge.”
I hold it up.
“No kidding.” I look at him, and it’s like the world dims. “Guess I need to sand the gate some more.” Each word gets softer until the last word is nearly inaudible.
Those blue eyes always got me. I could swim in them in the summer and skate on them in the winter. His boyish charm and the way his shaggy hair slightly covers his eyebrows.
My heart is beating so hard, if I weren’t staring at the boy—man—I’ve loved since I was fourteen, I’d swear I was having a heart attack. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. It doesn’t even seem to matter that he broke my heart.
I step back.
Because he did.
There is a jagged, San Andreas fault-like tear in my heart that still aches like it was yesterday. There’s no guarantee he won’t do it again.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and his eyebrows furrow like he’s got a war going on inside his head too. “Friday at seven, right?”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can say without choking.
“Okay. I’ll see you Friday.” He practically sprints out of my bathroom.
I’m too stunned to run after him. Too uncertain what I’d do if I caught him. So, I just drop that nasty splinter in the trash can, shuffle to my bed, and curl up with my pillow.
Every interaction with Jett is confusing, painful, and layered with so many emotions, I can’t name them all. I just need this whole fake-dating thing to be over.