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I allow her to pull me away, but not before shooting one last venomous glare over my shoulder. The douchebag is typing furiously on his phone, no doubt getting ready to plaster my outburst all over social media.
Terrific.
The drive is tense and silent. Scarlett keeps darting these loaded glances at me that prickle against my skin. I can sense the question coming even before she finally voices it once we're back in the privacy of our room.
“What the hell was that back there?”
I blow out a harsh breath, raking a hand through my hair as I struggle to find the words. “He was out of line, ambushing me like that.”
“He was just some guy asking for a photo, Jett. Like that kid and his grandmother at the motel, remember?”
The kid at the motel. Right, when she'd praised me for how good I was with kids. My jaw ticks as the hypocrisy of the situation sinks in.
“Yeah? Well this was different.”
“How?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Because this time you didn't get what you wanted?”
Ouch. Her bluntness stings more than I'd care to admit.
“You don't get it,” I mutter, turning away to avoid her accusing stare. “That guy wasn't just some random fan. He was a fucking paparazzi piece of shit, looking for a moment to exploit.”
“And that gives you the right to treat him like trash? To blow up at him like that in public?”
I wince. She's not wrong. My behavior was shitty. Shame washes over me. “You're right.”
Scarlett's posture softens. “Look, I know your life isn't normal. That there's a bunch of craziness you have to deal with every day because you're famous. But that doesn't excuse taking out your frustrations on people.”
Her words hit home, and I feel a surge of shame. She's calling me out, and I hate that she's right. I hate even more that I'm proving to be exactly the kind of asshole she probably thought I was.
“I just... sometimes it gets overwhelming, you know? Everyone wanting a piece of you, all the time.”
Scarlett's expression softens slightly, but her eyes remain stern. “I get that, Jett. But that fan in there? He wasn't asking for a piece of you. He was just excited to meet someone he admires. And you crushed him.”
Her words are like a punch to the gut. I see the fan's hurt expression in my mind, and the guilt washes over me anew. “You're right,” I say, swallowing hard. “I screwed up.”
“Yeah, you did,” Scarlett agrees, but there's no malice in her tone. Just honesty.
We drive in silence for a few more minutes, the weight of our conversation hanging between us. I can feel Scarlett's eyes on me, studying me. It makes me squirm in my seat.
“Why does it bother you so much?” she asks finally, her voice softer now. “The fans, I mean. Isn't that part of the job?”
I let out a long breath, considering her question. “It is,” I admit. “And most of the time, I love it. I love connecting with fans, hearing how my music has affected them. But sometimes...”
I trail off, struggling to find the right words. How do I explain the suffocating pressure, the constant scrutiny, the fear of letting people down?
“Sometimes it feels like I'm not a person anymore,” I finally say. “Like I'm just... Jett Miller, the rock star. A product. And everyone wants something from me, all the time. It gets... exhausting.”
Scarlett nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I can see how that would be tough,” she says. “But Jett, that guy in the store? He wasn't asking for the rock star. He was just hoping to meet the real you.”
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. She's right, of course. Again. I've been so caught up in my own frustrations that I've lost sight of why I started making music in the first place – to connect with people.
“I've been a real jerk, haven't I?” I say, glancing at her.
Scarlett's lips quirk up in a small smile. “A bit, yeah. But at least you're self-aware enough to admit it.”
The miles stretch on, and the silence in the car feels heavier with each passing minute. Scarlett's gaze is fixed out the window, her body angled away from me. I can practically see the wall she's built between us, and it kills me.
I want to say something, to bridge this gap, but every time I open my mouth, the words die on my tongue. What can I say? That I'm sorry for being an ass? That I'm trying to be better? It all sounds hollow, even in my head.
